What a difference six years (and a different city) makes.
Six years ago I had to beg, plead and fight for every scrap of treatment and help I needed, and even then it was a struggle.
Six weeks ago I was waiting to see my GP, psyching myself up for a similar fight.
Six weeks on, I'm very glad that I haven't had to fight that particular fight, but I'm still a bit thrown by that fact.
I've spent so much of my life fighting for things...
Fighting to be allowed to sit certain exams because lost paperwork was going to put me at a disadvantage due to the streaming system... fighting (against my own body) to be able to go to school at all... fighting for explanations and diagnosis... fighting against accusations of hypochondria... fighting to be taken seriously (whether by doctors because of my condition or by people I was working with and for because of my age)... fighting against ageism for equal pay (and I quote "you might be doing the same job, but you're still young[er than my colleagues] and you've got time to earn more money" as an excuse for paying me 8% less for the same job)... fighting for a few simple things that at the time would have dramatically increased my quality of life... fighting to make sure that stuff gets done right, beause there's no excuse not to...
Fight. Fight. Fight.
I fight because, overwhelmingly, my experience has taught me that nothing in this life is handed to you on a plate, and because if it looks like it's being handed to you on a plate, there's often something very wrong with it.
So it was with absolute amazement (and some trepidation), that saw me leaving my GP's surgery a week after it all started to go wrong, with a prescription in hand for desperately needed pain medication and an immediate referral to a walk-in Physiotherapy Clinic only a short distance away. All without having to beg, plead, or fight.
To be able to walk in there, explain the situation (genetic condition, bit random, having a really bad patch, need some help to get out the other side) and have the GP immediately understand my anxiety and frustration at the situation and simply ask what help I thought I needed, listen when I explained why I need that particular drug and suggest immediate referral (as in, go there right now) to the Physiotherapy clinic was, to be honest, nothing short of miraculous... and the miracle didn't stop there.
I went to the clinic, was seen within half an hour, and was given some very useful information on ways I could help manage the pain in the short term, and some gentle exercises, intended to help get my hands (being the most urgent bit of what was wrong) moving again. Simple, practical advice. Nothing complex. No rubbishing of my condition and what I was going through, just exactly what I needed, when I needed it - no begging, pleading or fighting.
In the intervening time, I've been seeing a physiotherapist on a weekly basis, and things are improving overall. I'm not even close to being 100%, but things are better than they were, and what's even better is that rather than treatment being called off when the immediate crisis seems to be averted, they've put in place a plan that will allow me to work (safely, and with the right guidance) to get myself to a state where I'm a lot fitter than I was, and have a lot more in reserve, so that the potential for future wobbles (and their resultant severity) is reduced.
The first part of that plan started today - the first session of an eight week course on managing pain. It's designed to give attendees the tools and techniques to be able to manage their own pain, whatever form it takes. Part of it involves learning about the central nervous system and how it interprets pain and the various factors that have an impact on that. Part of it involves gentle (!) exercise, which will be built up over the duration of the course and beyond, and part of it involves relaxation.
The first bit I have pretty much covered. We got a booklet to read before being confirmed on the course, and it pretty much confirmed what I'd figured out for myself about how pain works.
The second bit, well, I know it was the first day and it was designed to be a benchmark, but I was disappointed in how difficult and painful I found a lot of it. I knew it was going to be difficult. I knew it was going to hurt a bit. I knew I was going to be sore tonight (and tomorrow will be a laugh too...), but I was a bit surprised by just how much.
The third bit?
Well, I was glad that somene didn't pay attention to the signs telling us to switch off our mobiles before entering the gym - otherwise I may have embarrassed myself by snoring and drooling during the relaxation part of the class.
Yup, that's right. Guided relaxation and I fell asleep. Oh the shame.
In my defence, I was absolutely shattered - and it's nowhere near as embarrassing as the guy who let out the biggest fart I've heard in my life during a Pilates class I attended a few years ago.
So, one class down, seven to go...
... I really hope that they start to get easier as promised by the physio leading the class, because this kind of pain has got to come with a reasonable gain, otherwise there's no point in putting myself through this.
Not, I think.
It's for the best.
Really.
There was wine, and lots of it.
In the shower this morning, getting ready for work, I got shampoo in my left eye (possibly because I wasn't actually awake while showering).
It stung.
Lots.
It's still stinging.
I'd forgotten how nasty it is to get shampoo in your eye.
I haven't forgotten any more.
Ow.
She's a little shy...
but sociable all the same...
Looks like I'm not going to be an uncle after all.
Folks, meet my niece to be.
... by Pix, aged 29 and 8.5 12ths
Part I - Up North
Monday
Woke up, packed, went to work, went to Euston, bought lunch, got on a train, sat for six hours, knitted, read, looked out of the window, fell asleep somewhere past Carlisle, woke up just outside Glasgow Central feeling very discombobulated, got off the train, got confused because they'd moved the toilets in Glasgow Central, found my way in finally, found my way back out too, met Alan, went for dinner at Arisaig, ate haggis (twice - once in the starter, once in the main course) and really enjoyed it, got lost getting back to my mum's house, got covered in cat hair, went to bed in what used to be my gran's bedroom, finally got to sleep.
Tuesday
Got woken at 5am by the wind and rain lashing against the window, fell back asleep, got woken up again by the wind and rain, fell back asleep, got woken up by Fred doing something stupid at the end of the bed, sat up, gave in to his attention grabbing tactics when he jumped back onto the bed and eventually fell back asleep again. Woke up again when the door buzzed to let my mum's carer in. Got up, fed Fred, pottered around, almost mugged postman for parcel of sock yarn from Get Knitted (managed to restrain myself and only yank the door open as he retreated down the garden path), got changed for the funeral at the last possible minute to try and avoid immediate transfer of all cat hair in the entire house to my outfit, amused Kath (who'd kindly gone out of her way to come and pick me up and take me to the funeral) by exclaiming at all the changes en-route to the funeral, attended funeral (managed not to fall apart), was hugely impressed by how composed Donna was and that she was able to do the two readings she did (I know I'd have been in pieces), attended wake, felt immediately homesick (despite being home) at the sight of a plate of proper baker's cakes (including pineapple cakes which I can't find a picture of but appear to only be sold in the West of Scotland), chatted to various member's of Donna's family (including one lady who looked uncannily like my granny (dad's mum)), came home, made the first of two visits to continental palace-of-cheap Lidl, had some dinner (regretted it), watched telly and finished my first pair of handknitted socks, which were immediately handed over to the intended recipient (my mum), started new socks, watched some more telly, restarted new socks, went to bed.
Wednesday
Got woken up by door buzzer again, met yet another of my mum's carers, pottered around a bit, made second trip to aforementioned palace-of-cheap, bought random but inexpensive items, went back to the house, did some more sock, had a nap, woke up feeling discombobulated, did some more sock, wrote entirely new pattern for socks (with absolutely no idea if it'll work), did some more sock, ate dinner (lovely stew made by carer from earlier), watched telly while mum went to Confession (and marvelled at over 1000 people expected to turn up and the foresight of laying on 5 priests to cope with demand...), shouted at The Apprentice, did some more sock, messed up sock and ripped it back a bit, did some more sock, went to bed.
Thursday
Got woken up by door buzzer again, got up, got ready, went into Glasgow (via large puddle at local station while attempting to buy a ticket from a machine that wasn't working), had really lovely lunch with Gordon (who it was great to finally meet after reading his blog and vice versa for so many years), wandered down Hope Street in the rain, sheltered under the Heilanman's Umbrella, marvelled that it smells no different from how I remember it and that most of the shops still seem to be there, except Tower Records, wandered along Argyle Street and up Buchanan Street (via far too many shoe shops - although I didn't buy anything), took a trip on the clockwork orange to check out K1 Yarns, bought the latest Interweave knits, some 5" long 2.5mm Brittany double pointed needles and some Orkney Angora yarn, went back to Buchanan Street, wandered through Buchanan Galleries, bought some face stuff, thought about getting a manicure but changed my mind, bought a couple of nice cardigans in the H&M sale, wandered down to Princes Square where I grabbed a drink and a much needed sit down at Starbucks while waiting to meet R&G, had dinner in Darcy's (and had a very strange moment where I forgot I was in Glasgow and thought I was in London), left when the live music got a little too lounge for our tastes, made the obligatory visit to the Borders Magazine Department, shocked G by telling him I'd taken up knitting, got the train home, went to bed.
Friday
Woke up before the bloody door buzzer, couldn't get out of bed, realised I didn't have much time left, rushed around trying to fit all the stuff I wanted to bring back with me into the available baggage, mostly managed but had to leave hte instruments behind again, tried to get some disk space cleared for my mum (ran out of time), made it to the station in plenty of time (because my mum is more of a panic merchant about being late than I am), got into Glasgow Central 40 minutes before the train was due to leave, got slightly confused because my ticket said Euston and the only train leaving at that time was going to Kings Cross, checked and found that was the right train, decided to spoil myself and bought lunch and munchies for the train journey from Marks & Spencer Simply Food shop in station (which used to be Peckham & Rye delicatessen, a shop which I still miss), got on the train, grinned with geek joy when I found out I'd be travelling on the Flying Scotsman, found my seat (with a slight delay as my many bags got stuck between seats), sat down, ate lunch and prepared to return to London.
(to be continued)
I walked past three places where I used to work on the way to dinner on Monday night, to a restaurant that was something else last time I visited.
I got lost trying to find the house because they built a massive new road and the route home as I knew it has changed.
There's a LIDL where there used to be a copse of trees, a housing development where the station car park used to be, a school has disappeared entirely, and they're building flats with a view over one of the most hideous roundabouts in Scotland (for reasons why pass understanding).
This used to be my room, but it's now my mum's computer room.
This used to be my home, but my "home" is several hundred miles away, and I'm not even sure if it is actually home yet.
I hear words coming out of my mouth, and know that this used to be my accent, and it feels strange, but not, all at the same time.
I think I'm doing ok this time, and then I see my dad's wallet, sitting, as if he'd just put it down a few minutes ago, and a lump appears in my throat.
I still can't open the door to that room.
Fred knows the instant you're about the open the can - before you've even opened it - all you have to do it pick it up with the intent to open it, and he's there, as if by magic.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The sun shines in my eyes, making me blink and squint. In the laptop screen I can see my reflection - my hands, face and cleavage glow white in the light, standing out against the black of my clothes. The countryside outside the window speeds past - all hills and streams and gambolling lambs. I'd forgotten what scenery like this looked like. Buildings and buses, chimneys and concrete are my daily view.
I don't know where I am. I think I might be somewhere in the Lake District, but there aren't any recognisable landmarks or signs to give me a clue.
A new development scars the landscape and jolts me out of my bucolic reverie.
I check my phone - there's a signal again, so I hit refresh on the browser and through the magic of technology, my emails appear.
Ah, an announcement. We're in Penrith.
Four years ago, on the last Thursday in March, I got a phone call I'd been dreading.
Four years ago, on the last Friday in March, I travelled to Scotland, hoping that I'd arrive at my destination before it was too late.
Four years ago, on the first Tuesday in April, my dad died.
Four years ago, on the second Tuesday in April, I attended his funeral.
Last week, on the last Thursday in March, my colleague, mentor and friend Donna got a phone call she'd been dreading.
On Friday, she travelled to Scotland and around midnight on Monday night, her mother, Joyce, sadly died.
On Monday I will travel to Scotland and on Tuesday I will attend Joyce's funeral.
It's going to be a tough trip. Going home is always hard for me - the memory of that weekend four years ago is so intense that it overwhelms the lifetime of other memories and not enough time has passed to lessen that impact. But for all that it's going to be emotional and difficult it can't be avoided forever. So while I'm there, I'm going to do some stuff I should have done long before now.
It's not going to be all sturm und drang though. I'll be spending time with my mum and sorting out her latest computer woes, getting some quality Fredcat love and catching up with as many friends as I can before making my way back down south on Friday.
Curiously enough, it'll also be the first time I've done the journey between London and Glasgow by train, which will give me a good five or six hours of knitting time in both directions and should get me a reasonable way through the production of my sockapaloooza (606 people worldwide knitting socks for someone else) pal's socks, just as soon as I sort out my guage and figure out which pattern I'm going to use.
So long as I get a seat facing the direction of travel on the train I'll be fine - tilting while going backwards just makes me want to barf, and barf and knitting fundamentally do not mix.
... I want to get off.
Or at least go back and start it all over again, cos this one's rubbish and I'm fed up of it.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for optimism, but sometimes being an optimist feels a bit like Einstein's definition of insanity*.
Fear not, I will survive, and your regularly scheduled diet of nonsense will return as soon as I find a level of equilibrium that's above being a miserable sod.
In the meantime - kittens!
*The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
Allan James McMeekin
25/12/1937 - 02/04/2002
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
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