A Series Of Unfortunate Events

I enjoy writing this blog, it keeps me entertained and apparently one or two of you as well. It does, however, present me with a problem. How much detail should I go into when discussing the ups and downs of my disability? Of the hundreds of you who will read this I only know in the real world a handful of you. The vast majority of you will only ever know me through this blog and the miracle of cyberspace and the picture I paint of myself is the one you are stuck with. My sunny nature, sweet disposition and fabulous good looks are something you have to take on trust. Unfortunately (for me) some of you really do know me. You may be one of my family, taking the occasional peek to check I'm not libelling you, or may be an ancient and decrepit friend from childhood who with rhumy eyes seek desperately for glimpses of lost youth and the hope of an immortality of sorts by mention on these electronic pages. (See you soon guys.) Equally you may be someone from my youth, with hopefully fond memories of teenage dalliance or sweet college days who read this blog out of affection and to provoke remembrance of when we were young, carefree and with the future laid out before us with it's tangle of paths not taken. Or you are someone I meet at the school gate, drink coffee with and go out with to the cinema or the occasional quiz night. The question is: how much do I want you to know? And equally importantly: how much do you want to know?

As the more astute among you will have realised I've been going through a difficult time recently. One of the reasons I started this blogging business was because back in April I realised that the FSH Muscular Dystrophy that affects me was starting one of its periodic stages of decline. Slings and hoists have been introduced into my life, afternoon sessions on the BiPap are now necessary, uninterrupted nights sleep are a thing of the past. But these things, though wearing, are bareable and in some ways even improve the quality of life. There are other aspects that are just plain miserable though, with no redeeming properties whatsoever.

Yesterday was the straw that broke the dromedaries spine. I'll keep the details vague, but it involved bathrooms and no time for hoists, humiliation and misery. It was the culmination of a series of horrible occurrences that pushed both Polly and me to the brink. At 3.15pm we called the doctor and at 6.10pm Dr Toosy arrived for a house call. There is no magic bullet but I have the feeling that a ball has started rolling down a hill of badly mixed metaphors and I have no idea where it will come to rest. Something needs to happen because if it doesn't I don't where I'll end up. In some ways it's a relief that things have come to a head. There is a kind of peace that comes with admitting you can't carry on as before, even though you have no clear idea what you can do about it. All I can suggest is that you keep reading and I keep writing. Wish me luck.

Phone Home

Just a very quick post today. We have had to buy a new phone because the old one had become so faint sounding you had to shout very very loudly to be heard; so much so that you may as well have leaned out the window and bellowed in the general direction of the person you were calling. The new phone comes with a manual the size of the local telephone directory and has more computing power than my first PC. I've spent the day programming in numbers and choosing which of the 20 different ring tones to use. More importantly I've had to allocate different screen colours to each category of caller. Plus I've had to work out how to work the integrated answerphone and charge the thing. Polly is complaining that you need a degree in IT to use it. She has, however, chosen the screen saver: a Basset Hound with it's ears flapping. I despair. The phone is a sleek, black technological marvel but is sitting on its sleek, black elegant stand with a dopey long-eared dog glowing on its brightly lit LCD screen. It's a travesty.