Those of you who follow such things will be glad to know that I will soon be able to resume my life of adventuring. My rafting trip up the river Amazon to train piranhas in dental hygiene techniques will proceed as planned now that my back is so much better. Dr Toosy popped in to check it wasn't osteoporosis and that it is actually getting better. (It wasn't and it is.) I have been been able to cut back on the pain-killers and have started teaching our goldfish to brush regularly.
Rations on my anticipated adventure have been sorted. My team will be eating the tins of baked beans that had previously served as table leg extenders. There may be some argument over who gets the tin of curry flavoured beans. We have been able to free up these valuable resources because Polly has found some wooden blocks that are designed for the purpose of extending furniture legs. They lack the je ne sais quoi of the Heinz tins but are less likely to collapse and squirt tomato juice all over our living room.
Today the man from Serco came and took my old wheelchair away. This was good for two reasons. Firstly it means I feel I can trust my new super-duper wheelchair. There has been no repeat of the breakdown I suffered just days after I first received it. And secondly, we don't have space to store a spare electric wheelchair. The old one has stood in our living room like a particularly unattractive decorative feature. Polly had taken to looking at it gloomily and wondering if she would be able to stand the Christmas tree on it. I had pointed out that the old chair did have a tilt mechanism so that would have helped with the age old problem of getting the tree to stand up straight.
Right, enough for now. I still have to organise with social services for carers to come with me on my Amazonian adventure. There may be a few health and safety issues.
Friday, 6 November 2009
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
A Pain In The Back
This is my first post for a week. There is a reason. I've hurt my back.
My expedition to climb K2 in a wheelchair was going well until I had to traverse a ledge that required swinging on a rope some 30 feet across a vertical drop of 400 feet. Suddenly the 3 year old son of one of the Sherpas kicked his red ball over the edge and ran to follow it. As the child began to tumble I had a spilt second to adjust the settings on my whiz-bang new wheelchair to rescue mode and change the direction of my swing. I plucked the child out of mid-air and kicked the ball back to safety. But as I handed the boy back to his grateful father the wheels on my wheelchair lost their grip on the ice and I felt myself slipping over the ledge and beginning to fall. Instinctively, I reached for the safety rope but it was too late and I fell the 400 feet towards the rocky terrain below. Fortunately my time in the Parachute Regiment had taught me how to roll with the fall and absorb the impact. Even so, I suffered a back strain.
That is what should have happened to be commensurate with the degree of pain I have suffered. The truth however is somewhat more mundane. Polly was helping me adjust my position so I could go to the loo. Suddenly the headrest on my chair gave way and I slipped back and sideways. I didn't slip far and although I was surprised and a little shaken no harm was done. Or so I thought. We fixed the headrest and I forgot about the incident. Until a few hours later.
In recent weeks I have been able to cut down on my pain relief medication by at least 80%. All that was undone by the time I whimpered my way to bed. The next few days were excruciatingly painful. I was unable to even lean forward enough to sip coffee through a straw. Being hoisted here, there and everywhere several times a day wasn't helping.
Being male I gritted my teeth and manfully bore the pain uncomplainingly until Polly had had enough and rang the doctor. He wanted to check it wasn't kidney stones or something more exotic than a strained back and then prescribed Diclofenac Sodium 50mg, an anti-inflammatory pain killer. Today I feel marginally better. At least I can drink coffee without nearly passing out. And I can wield a stylus once more.
My expedition to climb K2 in a wheelchair was going well until I had to traverse a ledge that required swinging on a rope some 30 feet across a vertical drop of 400 feet. Suddenly the 3 year old son of one of the Sherpas kicked his red ball over the edge and ran to follow it. As the child began to tumble I had a spilt second to adjust the settings on my whiz-bang new wheelchair to rescue mode and change the direction of my swing. I plucked the child out of mid-air and kicked the ball back to safety. But as I handed the boy back to his grateful father the wheels on my wheelchair lost their grip on the ice and I felt myself slipping over the ledge and beginning to fall. Instinctively, I reached for the safety rope but it was too late and I fell the 400 feet towards the rocky terrain below. Fortunately my time in the Parachute Regiment had taught me how to roll with the fall and absorb the impact. Even so, I suffered a back strain.
That is what should have happened to be commensurate with the degree of pain I have suffered. The truth however is somewhat more mundane. Polly was helping me adjust my position so I could go to the loo. Suddenly the headrest on my chair gave way and I slipped back and sideways. I didn't slip far and although I was surprised and a little shaken no harm was done. Or so I thought. We fixed the headrest and I forgot about the incident. Until a few hours later.
In recent weeks I have been able to cut down on my pain relief medication by at least 80%. All that was undone by the time I whimpered my way to bed. The next few days were excruciatingly painful. I was unable to even lean forward enough to sip coffee through a straw. Being hoisted here, there and everywhere several times a day wasn't helping.
Being male I gritted my teeth and manfully bore the pain uncomplainingly until Polly had had enough and rang the doctor. He wanted to check it wasn't kidney stones or something more exotic than a strained back and then prescribed Diclofenac Sodium 50mg, an anti-inflammatory pain killer. Today I feel marginally better. At least I can drink coffee without nearly passing out. And I can wield a stylus once more.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Not Just Any Cake
During our foray to the pub on Friday (see last post), Bob and I made a tentative arrangement to go to the cinema this Monday. I remembered this on Monday morning and checked with Polly that this would okay and that she hadn't organized anything exciting, like the weekly food shop, and would need the car. Rather to my surprise she was delighted that I was going out and assured me she could manage, briefly, in my absence. Just as I was checking the listings and choosing between Saw VI and Zombieland she added that the boys would enjoy a trip out with their dad as well. I tried to explain that I thought Sam was a little young for the fiendish puzzles of Jigsaw, but if she was sure. . .
Which is how I ended up seeing Up in 3d with Bob, his wife Antoinette and Matty and Sam. Despite a severe lack of the undead and a complete absence of grotesque killer puzzles Up is a brilliant film and neither Matty or Sam bemoaned the shortage of blood. Instead we all sat entranced, enjoying a rare thing in the two a penny world of CGI animated output, a good story, well drawn characters who ooze humour, charm and warmth, and a whole series of comic set pieces that are both funny and visually pleasing, especially in 3d. I defy anybody not to love Dug, the Golden Retriever.
When I got home with two burger-stuffed boys, way past their bedtime, I found a sightly fractious wife. Polly had been baking a cake. Now it must be said that Polly is an excellent cook and has baked countless cakes over the years. This cake, however, is a cake with baggage, a cake with history. This is the Deal family Christmas cake, a recipe handed down the generations. This is the cake that until this year my mother has made every year for as many Christmases as I can remember. A cake that is so complicated and takes so long to prepare that my mother can no longer stand to bake it. I mean that literally, mum has arthritis. The mantle has now passed to Polly. It had taken her over three and a half hours to mix and prepare. Muttering grimly about 'your family' she told me she would have to set the alarm to go off at 1:30am to take it out of the oven after its five and a half hour baking time. She swears that next year she will make a chocolate log but I'm sure she will have calmed down by next October.
At 1:30am the alarm went off and Polly staggered into the kitchen. I was asleep before she crawled back to bed. I learned in the morning that the cake needed to cool a further 40 minutes before it could be removed from the tin.
All I can say is that it is a VERY nice cake. It has to be decorated in a certain way too, but I'll mention that next time I go to the cinema.
Until next time...
Which is how I ended up seeing Up in 3d with Bob, his wife Antoinette and Matty and Sam. Despite a severe lack of the undead and a complete absence of grotesque killer puzzles Up is a brilliant film and neither Matty or Sam bemoaned the shortage of blood. Instead we all sat entranced, enjoying a rare thing in the two a penny world of CGI animated output, a good story, well drawn characters who ooze humour, charm and warmth, and a whole series of comic set pieces that are both funny and visually pleasing, especially in 3d. I defy anybody not to love Dug, the Golden Retriever.
When I got home with two burger-stuffed boys, way past their bedtime, I found a sightly fractious wife. Polly had been baking a cake. Now it must be said that Polly is an excellent cook and has baked countless cakes over the years. This cake, however, is a cake with baggage, a cake with history. This is the Deal family Christmas cake, a recipe handed down the generations. This is the cake that until this year my mother has made every year for as many Christmases as I can remember. A cake that is so complicated and takes so long to prepare that my mother can no longer stand to bake it. I mean that literally, mum has arthritis. The mantle has now passed to Polly. It had taken her over three and a half hours to mix and prepare. Muttering grimly about 'your family' she told me she would have to set the alarm to go off at 1:30am to take it out of the oven after its five and a half hour baking time. She swears that next year she will make a chocolate log but I'm sure she will have calmed down by next October.
At 1:30am the alarm went off and Polly staggered into the kitchen. I was asleep before she crawled back to bed. I learned in the morning that the cake needed to cool a further 40 minutes before it could be removed from the tin.
All I can say is that it is a VERY nice cake. It has to be decorated in a certain way too, but I'll mention that next time I go to the cinema.
Until next time...
Saturday, 24 October 2009
In A Glass Box
Last night Polly, the light of my life, had been invited to perform a couple of pieces at a local arts centre as part of an evening of monologues called A Moment To Mutter. Being a thoroughly supportive husband, and appreciative of the high quality of cake served at this establishment, I agreed to accompany my beloved to the show. And since we hadn't organised a babysitter we gave the boys a late pass and took them with us. We even remembered, at the last minute, to cancel the carers.
The Lantern Arts Centre is located within part of the building that is the monolithic Raynes Park Methodist Church in south London. Over the years it has evolved from an enthusiastically amateur underfunded enterprise into a slickly professional underfunded enterprise. On Friday nights they put on, or invite artists to perform, shows in their Café Studio, a smallish theatre on the 3rd floor. After much fund-raising and lobbying for grants, a few years ago they installed a lift (elevator) which finally made the centre fully accessible to all. The management at the Lantern Arts Centre are committed to inclusivity as is testified to by the huge range of shows and services they put on and provide in and around the local community.
I have ridden the lift to the Café Studio many times in the past, both as a performer and as a member of the audience, I don't have a particular fear of lifts, and this one is essentially a glass box with minimal claustrophobic potential, but even so, my heart rate goes up a little as the surprisingly fragile seeming glass door closes behind me and an electric motor starts to whine. We had sent the boys haring up the flights of stairs that created the stairwell through which the lift rose and Polly and I had entered the lift and closed the glass door behind us. Polly pushed down on the large UP button and held it down and the electric motor engaged. The tone of the electric motor was not that of a contented piece of machinery going about it's business of perpendicularly raising passengers forty or more feet into the air in a safe, reliable manner, but was rather that of a straining put-upon cantankerous piece of groaning mechanical misery. Some eighteen inches into our alarmingly juddery assent Polly removed her hand from the aforementioned UP button and we came to a halt.
People peered over banisters at the new exhibits and I wondered if they were expecting some kind of show. Then it came to me, I could be a mime trapped in a glass box! Polly pushed hopefully at the UP and DOWN buttons but to no avail. Matty and Sam looked down from on high and asked if we were stuck. We assured them it was only for a minute and their angelic little faces turned from mild anxiety to one of sensing an opportunity of freedom, so they headed for the cakes to bat their eyelashes at whoever had the misfortune to be in charge.
Meanwhile the inestimable Georgie Talbot and her husband John, joint artistic directors of the arts centre, leapt into action. John opened a panel high above us and he and colleagues turned some ratchety thing that very slowly lowered us back down to the ground floor.
Various people fiddled with the lift mechanism, trying to reset the wretched thing, but to no avail. Much to Georgie's consternation nothing worked and defeat was admitted. Her fury was heightened by the fact that the centre spends a fortune maintaining the thing and that it had been inspected only days previously. The show, however, had to go on. Fortunately, at that moment, my friend Bob arrived, and within seconds had come up with an action plan. He and I would retire to a local tavern for the duration.
By now the audience was arriving so Bob and I hung around to chat with those we knew, many of whom nodded sagely at the lift and regaled me with stories of the times it had broken down with them in it. Bob, who hates lifts and only ever goes in one with me when we go to the cinema because I can't reach buttons (and even then sort of clings spread to the wall with apparent nonchalance in case the floor drops away) swore he'd never set foot in the thing.
It was also a chance to catch up briefly with Susie, who among her many responsibilities at LAC was tonight manning the box office. Susie, a talented writer, who co-ordinates the centre's children's and youth Theatre Clubs, endures the agonizing condition Lupus, and we have worked together occasionally over the last decade or so, with Susie in particular refusing to compromise because of disability. She had written and was performing two monologues and so, eventually, left Bob and me in charge of the box office while she went to prepare. I later learned that Matty thought her 'growing up' monologue was wonderful.
Once Bob and I had escaped box office duty we made off around the corner for a drink and chat. It occurred to me Polly might want to escape during the interval and get the boys home and to bed so we didn't stay long. As it turned out her second piece was still to come so Bob nipped upstairs to video her performance for me.
Not exactly the evening I was anticipating, but not bad.
Until next time...
The Lantern Arts Centre is located within part of the building that is the monolithic Raynes Park Methodist Church in south London. Over the years it has evolved from an enthusiastically amateur underfunded enterprise into a slickly professional underfunded enterprise. On Friday nights they put on, or invite artists to perform, shows in their Café Studio, a smallish theatre on the 3rd floor. After much fund-raising and lobbying for grants, a few years ago they installed a lift (elevator) which finally made the centre fully accessible to all. The management at the Lantern Arts Centre are committed to inclusivity as is testified to by the huge range of shows and services they put on and provide in and around the local community.
I have ridden the lift to the Café Studio many times in the past, both as a performer and as a member of the audience, I don't have a particular fear of lifts, and this one is essentially a glass box with minimal claustrophobic potential, but even so, my heart rate goes up a little as the surprisingly fragile seeming glass door closes behind me and an electric motor starts to whine. We had sent the boys haring up the flights of stairs that created the stairwell through which the lift rose and Polly and I had entered the lift and closed the glass door behind us. Polly pushed down on the large UP button and held it down and the electric motor engaged. The tone of the electric motor was not that of a contented piece of machinery going about it's business of perpendicularly raising passengers forty or more feet into the air in a safe, reliable manner, but was rather that of a straining put-upon cantankerous piece of groaning mechanical misery. Some eighteen inches into our alarmingly juddery assent Polly removed her hand from the aforementioned UP button and we came to a halt.
People peered over banisters at the new exhibits and I wondered if they were expecting some kind of show. Then it came to me, I could be a mime trapped in a glass box! Polly pushed hopefully at the UP and DOWN buttons but to no avail. Matty and Sam looked down from on high and asked if we were stuck. We assured them it was only for a minute and their angelic little faces turned from mild anxiety to one of sensing an opportunity of freedom, so they headed for the cakes to bat their eyelashes at whoever had the misfortune to be in charge.
Meanwhile the inestimable Georgie Talbot and her husband John, joint artistic directors of the arts centre, leapt into action. John opened a panel high above us and he and colleagues turned some ratchety thing that very slowly lowered us back down to the ground floor.
Various people fiddled with the lift mechanism, trying to reset the wretched thing, but to no avail. Much to Georgie's consternation nothing worked and defeat was admitted. Her fury was heightened by the fact that the centre spends a fortune maintaining the thing and that it had been inspected only days previously. The show, however, had to go on. Fortunately, at that moment, my friend Bob arrived, and within seconds had come up with an action plan. He and I would retire to a local tavern for the duration.
By now the audience was arriving so Bob and I hung around to chat with those we knew, many of whom nodded sagely at the lift and regaled me with stories of the times it had broken down with them in it. Bob, who hates lifts and only ever goes in one with me when we go to the cinema because I can't reach buttons (and even then sort of clings spread to the wall with apparent nonchalance in case the floor drops away) swore he'd never set foot in the thing.
It was also a chance to catch up briefly with Susie, who among her many responsibilities at LAC was tonight manning the box office. Susie, a talented writer, who co-ordinates the centre's children's and youth Theatre Clubs, endures the agonizing condition Lupus, and we have worked together occasionally over the last decade or so, with Susie in particular refusing to compromise because of disability. She had written and was performing two monologues and so, eventually, left Bob and me in charge of the box office while she went to prepare. I later learned that Matty thought her 'growing up' monologue was wonderful.
Once Bob and I had escaped box office duty we made off around the corner for a drink and chat. It occurred to me Polly might want to escape during the interval and get the boys home and to bed so we didn't stay long. As it turned out her second piece was still to come so Bob nipped upstairs to video her performance for me.
Not exactly the evening I was anticipating, but not bad.
Until next time...
Thursday, 22 October 2009
A Matter Of Faith
As a consequence of going Israeli dancing last weekend Polly and I found ourselves addressing the congregation of Holy Trinity, Wallington, this Sunday. We had been chatting to Stephen, the vicar, between expositions on dance in Leviticus, and had inadvertently reminded him of our existence. He asked us if we would be prepared to be interviewed during the service about our faith. Polly said yes, totally ignoring the little strangling noises issuing from me and the frantic shaking of my head that was going on behind the vicar's back. With malicious glee she committed us. Only later did she realise that she too would have to speak.
Sunday arrived and we arrived at the church as a family only a few minutes late. Before I had even had time to warm myself next to one of the iron radiators we were being invited to the front to address the congregation.
I have been in this situation many times in the past but not for a few years. A hundred or more faces watched me expectantly. I flicked the controller on my wheelchair and levitated into the air. That was better, I could now see and be seen. It also killed a few seconds. Polly took the microphone and spoke with her usual wit and assurance about her faith and how it enabled her to cope with some of the extremely harrowing situations she faces with her work as a clown doctor. All well and good but it was upping the bar and I was acutely aware that anything I said was going to sound trite or glib or worse, hypocritical.
All to soon Polly finished her bit and Stephen turned his vicarly attention to me. After giving the congregation a brief run down on my writing and theatre background and doing a great job plugging this blog he asked me what my faith meant to me. Good question. It was one of those situations when you open your mouth to talk and haven't got a clue what's going to come out.
If you've been reading this blog for any length of time you will be aware that if Jesus wants me for a sunbeam then he has grossly misjudged the weather. I admitted that I had 'issues' with God, which seemed to strike a chord with a significant number of those listening judging from the wry chuckle that followed. I went on to talk a little about the many good things in my life and left it to them to decide whether I attributed those to my faith or not. I did say that my faith has formed the backdrop to my life for the last 35 years or so, which however I feel about that sometimes, is absolutely true.
As ever when I raise matters of faith on this blog I am acutely aware that I am disappointing or disillusioning many of my readers, especially my many Christian friends who would, no doubt, prefer something more unequivocal from me. Equally I know for a fact that a huge number of my readers are atheist and hold no truck whatsoever with anything pertaining to faith. They say you can't please all of the people all of the time, but it would be nice to please a few people some of the time. So, for the tiny number of readers who lack certainty in matters of personal faith, this post is for you. As you dangle over the precipice of uncertainty you can at least be comforted by the knowledge that somewhere nearby I am hanging on grimly with you. Not a great deal of comfort, I realise, but at least we're not alone.
Until next time.
Sunday arrived and we arrived at the church as a family only a few minutes late. Before I had even had time to warm myself next to one of the iron radiators we were being invited to the front to address the congregation.
I have been in this situation many times in the past but not for a few years. A hundred or more faces watched me expectantly. I flicked the controller on my wheelchair and levitated into the air. That was better, I could now see and be seen. It also killed a few seconds. Polly took the microphone and spoke with her usual wit and assurance about her faith and how it enabled her to cope with some of the extremely harrowing situations she faces with her work as a clown doctor. All well and good but it was upping the bar and I was acutely aware that anything I said was going to sound trite or glib or worse, hypocritical.
All to soon Polly finished her bit and Stephen turned his vicarly attention to me. After giving the congregation a brief run down on my writing and theatre background and doing a great job plugging this blog he asked me what my faith meant to me. Good question. It was one of those situations when you open your mouth to talk and haven't got a clue what's going to come out.
If you've been reading this blog for any length of time you will be aware that if Jesus wants me for a sunbeam then he has grossly misjudged the weather. I admitted that I had 'issues' with God, which seemed to strike a chord with a significant number of those listening judging from the wry chuckle that followed. I went on to talk a little about the many good things in my life and left it to them to decide whether I attributed those to my faith or not. I did say that my faith has formed the backdrop to my life for the last 35 years or so, which however I feel about that sometimes, is absolutely true.
As ever when I raise matters of faith on this blog I am acutely aware that I am disappointing or disillusioning many of my readers, especially my many Christian friends who would, no doubt, prefer something more unequivocal from me. Equally I know for a fact that a huge number of my readers are atheist and hold no truck whatsoever with anything pertaining to faith. They say you can't please all of the people all of the time, but it would be nice to please a few people some of the time. So, for the tiny number of readers who lack certainty in matters of personal faith, this post is for you. As you dangle over the precipice of uncertainty you can at least be comforted by the knowledge that somewhere nearby I am hanging on grimly with you. Not a great deal of comfort, I realise, but at least we're not alone.
Until next time.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Dancing And Dimensions
On Sunday it was Polly's birthday. For some reason she decided to spend it at an Israeli dance afternoon, held in the church hall. As it turned out, the session was led by a group of messianic Jews called the New Jerusalem Dancers, and although there were quite a lot of dances there was also an awful lot of exposition of “the bible says this and so it must be true” kind. Leviticus seemed to feature prominently. The dances were fun and there were lots of opportunities for audience participation and even a buffet of typical Israeli food. I do feel I now know everything I will ever need to know about the festival of Simchat Torah though.
At one point a demonstration of the blowing of a Shofar (a rams horn) brought about my favourite comment of the afternoon. “Bring me the anti-bacterial wipes!“ Such is a time of the times.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, the boys and I gave Polly perfume (Flower by Kenzo), some books, including a replacement copy of Delia's Complete Cooking Course, a pair of boots (not wellies), and a set of allen keys.
This morning we had a visit from a number of people from the housing department who came to look at our flat with a view to extending it. It took them less than thirty seconds to conclude that unless we open a portal to another dimension our home is as big as it will ever be. They've all gone away now to see if they can think of anything else.
Interestingly, on the corner of our street a new housing development is to be built. To mollify the local planning department the developers promised to build a disabled accessible house on the site. Perfect! But then, you will be astonished to hear, they had to make some changes to the plans and the house morphed into a small flat once the contract was signed and sealed. Almost like magic.
And finally, Matty was regaling Polly at breakfast with details of a dream he had had about slipping into another dimension and having to live dressed as a teddy bear. Sam, not to be out done, announced that he too had dreamed. He had been stung by a bumble bee and slipped into another Dalmatian.
Until next time. . .
At one point a demonstration of the blowing of a Shofar (a rams horn) brought about my favourite comment of the afternoon. “Bring me the anti-bacterial wipes!“ Such is a time of the times.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, the boys and I gave Polly perfume (Flower by Kenzo), some books, including a replacement copy of Delia's Complete Cooking Course, a pair of boots (not wellies), and a set of allen keys.
This morning we had a visit from a number of people from the housing department who came to look at our flat with a view to extending it. It took them less than thirty seconds to conclude that unless we open a portal to another dimension our home is as big as it will ever be. They've all gone away now to see if they can think of anything else.
Interestingly, on the corner of our street a new housing development is to be built. To mollify the local planning department the developers promised to build a disabled accessible house on the site. Perfect! But then, you will be astonished to hear, they had to make some changes to the plans and the house morphed into a small flat once the contract was signed and sealed. Almost like magic.
And finally, Matty was regaling Polly at breakfast with details of a dream he had had about slipping into another dimension and having to live dressed as a teddy bear. Sam, not to be out done, announced that he too had dreamed. He had been stung by a bumble bee and slipped into another Dalmatian.
Until next time. . .
Friday, 9 October 2009
Polly Ate The Table Leg
As this blog cruises past entry number 200 (at How To Be An Inspiration anyway) I have news. My new rinky-dink, super-duper wheelchair is back and working. What's more, they have removed the inhibitor that stopped me going fast when the chair is tilted back. This means I can whiz a long at speed and in comfort, which is exactly what I did last night when I careened down to the village to buy some chips for supper. There was a small sensation in the chip shop when I raised the chair up and up to the high counter and handed over the money.
Having my chair back is a relief in many ways. Almost instantly several areas of pain that I'm so used to are gone with such suddenness I am caught by surprise. Simply being able to adjust my position in a near infinite number of ways keeps me both comfortable and entertained.
Of course, life being life, and my life in particular, not everything goes completely smoothly. For example, Polly ate the table leg. (I'm so tempted to leave that sentence hanging.)
The new wheelchair, what with all its multi-function bits and bobs, is a little higher than the old one. This is not a problem, except that it wouldn't fit under our dining table. This meant that the already difficult task of having a meal was further complicated by me not being able to get close enough to the table to eat. The solution? Raise the table. You can buy 'table-risers' from various disability inclined outlets but we were uncertain exactly how high the table needed to go so decided to experiment using household objects. Eventually we discovered the ideal height the table needed to go up was that of a 220g tin of Heinz baked beans. Fortunately we had a 4 pack of these little tins and the table problem was sorted.
Until, that is, the wheelchair was taken away for repair and we had to lower the table once more because now it was too high.
The new wheelchair, now repaired and restored to us, means we needed to re-raise the table. “Fetch the baked beans,” I cried. 3 tins of beans were produced. “Er. . . Where's tin number four?" Polly looked me straight in the eye, daring me to complain. “I ate them for my supper last night when I got in from work. I hadn't eaten since 7:30 that morning and it was gone 9: 00 at night and I was too tired to knock up a non-baked bean orientated meal. Any problem with that?” None whatsoever. You soon learn not to argue with a tired, hungry clown. The table, even on 3 legs, is more stable.
Until next time.
Having my chair back is a relief in many ways. Almost instantly several areas of pain that I'm so used to are gone with such suddenness I am caught by surprise. Simply being able to adjust my position in a near infinite number of ways keeps me both comfortable and entertained.
Of course, life being life, and my life in particular, not everything goes completely smoothly. For example, Polly ate the table leg. (I'm so tempted to leave that sentence hanging.)
The new wheelchair, what with all its multi-function bits and bobs, is a little higher than the old one. This is not a problem, except that it wouldn't fit under our dining table. This meant that the already difficult task of having a meal was further complicated by me not being able to get close enough to the table to eat. The solution? Raise the table. You can buy 'table-risers' from various disability inclined outlets but we were uncertain exactly how high the table needed to go so decided to experiment using household objects. Eventually we discovered the ideal height the table needed to go up was that of a 220g tin of Heinz baked beans. Fortunately we had a 4 pack of these little tins and the table problem was sorted.
Until, that is, the wheelchair was taken away for repair and we had to lower the table once more because now it was too high.
The new wheelchair, now repaired and restored to us, means we needed to re-raise the table. “Fetch the baked beans,” I cried. 3 tins of beans were produced. “Er. . . Where's tin number four?" Polly looked me straight in the eye, daring me to complain. “I ate them for my supper last night when I got in from work. I hadn't eaten since 7:30 that morning and it was gone 9: 00 at night and I was too tired to knock up a non-baked bean orientated meal. Any problem with that?” None whatsoever. You soon learn not to argue with a tired, hungry clown. The table, even on 3 legs, is more stable.
Until next time.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
Still No Wheelchair
Okay, where were we? My super-duper new wheelchair is still AWOL. Obviously it was never going to be simple to fix what with it literally having more computing power than the Apollo 11 moon landing mission. Apparently the controller has a fault. I'm told it should be sorted sometime next week. If I had any breath I'd hold it.
Talking of breath – neat segue, hey? - I'm making progress with the lung infection again. I was doing very well but on Thursday took a few steps backward when my temperature went up again. Dr Toosy has switched me to Ciprofloxacin and given me some Budesonide nebulisers. The main problem is that the whole process is so exhausting. It's not been helped by having my comfy wheelchair whipped away. My posture is not so good in the old one and the base of my right lung gets compressed. On Friday the community physiotherapist came to beat me and shake me. If she wasn't so nice I could really go off her.
That's all for now. Until next time.
Talking of breath – neat segue, hey? - I'm making progress with the lung infection again. I was doing very well but on Thursday took a few steps backward when my temperature went up again. Dr Toosy has switched me to Ciprofloxacin and given me some Budesonide nebulisers. The main problem is that the whole process is so exhausting. It's not been helped by having my comfy wheelchair whipped away. My posture is not so good in the old one and the base of my right lung gets compressed. On Friday the community physiotherapist came to beat me and shake me. If she wasn't so nice I could really go off her.
That's all for now. Until next time.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Wheelchair Woe
A man came to collect my ten day-old, whiz-bang, high-tech, rinky-dink, brand new, multi-thousand pound wheelchair yesterday. Apparently it's broken. It may be a programming problem or it might be a stuck micro-switch. Either way I'm not sat in it now, which is a pity because I really like it. Hopefully it will be returned to me tomorrow in fully functioning order.
I'll let you know what happens.
I'll let you know what happens.
Monday, 28 September 2009
The Blue Box
I am feeling so much better that I am beginning to wonder what all all the fuss was about. My temperature is down to normal and the infection seems to have gone. There is some residual gunk and coughing but it is as nothing compared to last week. It will take another week or so before I'm back to what passes as normal for me but I can live with that.
I would certainly have ended up on a respiratory ward at St Helier or the Brompton Hospital had it not been for one particular piece of kit. At times of crisis our home can resemble a reasonably equipped emergency facility what a BiPap ventilator, a nebuliser, ceiling hoists, profiling bed, air mattress, Oxygen, a drugs cabinet with a significant street value, and a blue box the size of a large bread-bin, known in our home as 'the cough machine', but more technically, by my consultant at least, as a Cough Assist Mechanical Insufflator-Exsufflator.
The Cough Assist Mechanical Insufflator-Exsufflator is a genuinely life saving bit of tech. Without it I would either be dead or on permanent ventilation. The machine works by clearing secretions by gradually applying a positive pressure to the airways and then rapidly switching to negative pressure. Apparently the rapid shift in pressure produces a high expiratory flow, simulating a natural cough. The reality is more akin to having someone Dyson your lungs on full power. The effect is unsettling and uncomfortable but infinitely preferable to hours of ineffectual hacking coughs that simply exhaust you, or, sessions of chest pounding physiotherapy that induce near psychopathic hatred of the person pummelling you.
Way back in 2000 I was very ill with Pneumonia resulting as a complication from Pancreatitis. I was in intensive care and high dependency wards for months and for most of the time had a tracheotomy. A tracheotomy, for those unfamiliar with the procedure, is where someone, preferably a doctor, makes a hole in your neck and feeds a tube into your lungs for air to be drawn through, or, as in my case, for someone to stick a suction tube in and vacuum your lungs for gunk. Having a nervous F2 wielding a scalpel at your throat while you are passing out from lack of Oxygen rates pretty low on my list of things to do again. The advantage of the cough machine is that it is totally non-invasive. It removes secretions without the need for someone sticking a plastic straw through an unnatural orifice in your neck. I'm not sure how much such machines cost but they must be cheaper than spending days, weeks or months in hospital.
Even today, when I am feeling so much better, I have already used the blue machine twice. Once again I am grateful to be living in a country with a national health service that provides such equipment free at the point of need.
In the light of all above, it might seem churlish to moan about another freely provided piece of absolutely necessary kit, but this morning, just at a critical juncture in the preparation for a shower, my new multi-thousand pound, state-of-the-art, rinky-dink wheelchair stopped working. The control panel LCD screen simply states there is a system error and the thing refuses to budge. Fortunately, the ever unreliable Serco, have failed to collect my old wheelchair and so I am back in that until an engineer with a degree in computer science can get here tomorrow. I have had the new chair ten days, most of those I've been too ill to do anything other than sit, so I doubt the problem is overuse. Mind you, I wouldn't put it past Matty to have reprogrammed it to play Marvel Ultimate Alliance 2.
Until next time.
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