Oh the excitement...

We went to a meeting tonight about the vehicle show we are going to at the end of next week. Everyone seems to have something to do: Himself will be gleefully manning the off-road course, other people will be marshalling it with him, others will be doing the field marshalling, or be up on the gate keeping an eye on the comings and goings...

I'm the tea lady.

I don't mind cooking, washing up, preparing food, making sure everyone gets fed and watered, but it is a bit of a kick to the old feeling of usefulness that all I'm really fit for is sitting in my kitchen waiting for people to need fed and watered. I know I won't be called on very often to do anything. I know fine well that my offer to cook up anything people throw at me to save them doing it will be ignored. I know that I will end up pottering about on my own for the most part with the occasional house guest dropping by to make sure I'm alright and to ease a few consciences because I've been left on my own.

It wouldn't be so bad if I actually liked my own company, but frankly, I don't like myself. This other me that's in my place is a moany old bird, and has long periods of self-doubt and self-pity which frankly grates on my nerves.

I was thinking of keeping a daily diary of the things that happen, what I do and get up to, but I doubt it will really be worth doing if all I'm doing is swapping the four walls of my house for the boundaries of the camp. I might surprise myself and actually be doing things though, but right here and now, in this dip of depression, it's very hard to look over the hill to see if there's anything nice on the other side.

I've been looking forward to this fortnight for a while, but I have also had deep misgivings about it...

I'm a hinderance. I'm slow and need help with stuff. I need ferried about if there's distances involved, and you can bet quite a reasonable sum that himself will be busy a lot and not able to take me places most of the time. I can sit and watch people have fun, but I can't really join in properly. I can watch people working, setting out the field and getting things ready, but I can't help out in any great way.

I can be the tea lady. I can boil the kettle and make tea, but when the temperature is reaching 40 degrees celcius, as it usually does for the show every year, who is going to want hot tea? I can offer to cook for people, but I know I will just end up cooking for the usual crowd, twice a day, breakfast and evening meal. Everything in between will be... lonely.

Ho hum. I'll take a book to read...

I should have kept my mouth shut...

4 hours in casualty last night after taking a nasty tumble head first into the sofa... More x-rays to find out if I'd done any real damage, but fortunately it's just all muscular. It hurts a lot, but I'm on painkillers, so I'll survive.

I shouldn't have said anything about being accident-free really...

Accident prone? Me?

My dad tells me that statistically, in this country anyway, redheads are more prone to accidents. Comforting news eh? Mind you, if you take my sister and I as examples, he's actually proved right.

She had her share of trips, falls, sticky plasters when she grazed herself and all the usual injuries kids are apt to pick up. I had permanently scabby knees when I was younger. I fell out of trees. A lot. I used to play on the beach and get stung by jellyfish, or wander about in bare feet and rip my feet open on the barnacles as I looked for evil-looking fish to catch in jars and take home to mum. When I was 17 years old however, I moved onto bigger things...

I made the mistake of saying once that I had never spent a night in hospital... After that, it was inevitable really that something bad was going to happen.

The first stay wasn't really bad. It felt it though. I had to have two teeth taken out under general anaesthetic because they were growing sideways instead of up and down like they should be. That was my first general, and it was yuk. I was supposed to just have the one taken out at the dental hospital, but when they x-rayed my mouth, they found another doing the same thing, so I was packed off to a proper hospital to get it done. When they take teeth out like that, you end up swallowing blood, and when you wake up from any anaesthetic, you should avoid milk because it sometimes reacts and makes you sick. I didn't know this and had a cup of tea with milk as soon as I was awake enough...

You can see this coming...

I predictably enough threw up. It was nasty. I felt better afterwards though, so it wasn't too bad really. It just felt it at the time.

So that was my first taste of hospitals. I still wasn't keen on them, but it wasn't anything bad. I knew I would have to do it again at some point as well, because they told me at the time that my mouth was too small (stop laughing! It's true!) and I'd need to have my wisdom teeth removed because there was no space for them, but they would do that when they really started moving. Something to look forward to when I hit my twenties. At least the two were on the same side and I could still eat on the other...

I tore the ligaments in my ankle falling out of a tree a couple of months later... More x-rays and I was on crutches for a couple of weeks...

After that I did something very silly indeed. I was playing darts with some friends in a pub owned by the parents of one of them. As I was 17 at the time, I was on soft drinks (because I'm a good girl... honest...) but they were all of an age that they could drink. One of them was fairly well gone and was making comments about my rubbish dart playing and decided to give me a hand... Well, a foot... Placed neatly on my behind, and a swift shove as I was about to throw a dart. I went down like a sack of whatever, and apparently, according to one of my friends, there was a very loud *CRACK* as I hit the floor. I think I was too busy being in pain to notice. One of them rang my mum who came to get me, and she decided that I needed to go to hospital. An ambulance was fetched and I got bundled off for more x-rays (I'm really surprised I don't glow in the dark now).

The result of the x-ray was that I had dislocated my fibula, the bone that runs from your outside ankle to the outside of your knee on my right leg. I'd popped the top out and it was bulging nicely out the side of my leg. "But you can't do that... You're supposed to break it before the top will pop out..."

Comforting words... really... But at least it wasn't broken. They decided to keep me in and send me to the hospital on the mainland to get it put back again the next day (did I mention I used to live on a Scottish island? It's a great place to grow up as a kid. So safe...). Everyone was still puzzled as to how I could have done it without breaking it, and lots of people did the double-take when I said I'd done it playing darts. It's a dangerous sport you know, darts... It should have a warning attached: "Danger: You can dislocate things you can't dislocate if you play darts with drunk people".

So there's me, stuck in hospital again, my leg all bandaged to stop me moving it about, waiting to go over to Inverclyde hospital and dying to go to the loo. I was supposed to ring for a nurse to take me, but I was damned if I was having someone watching me as I went for a wee. I could still put a little weight on my right toe, despite the achy-pain that the painkillers had dulled it to, so I hop/limped to the toilet and did what I had to. The pain was very dull when I was sat down, and I kind of forgot about it when I stood up, pulled my knickers up and twisted round to flush the toilet...

*CRACK* OWWWWWWWWW *pull cord to fetch nurse* (stop laughing!)

I'd only gone and twisted the bloody thing back into place... Nearly... But we didn't know that at the time. They sent me up to Inverclyde the next day anyway, and they x-rayed me and said there was nothing wrong with my leg. They had the old x-rays to compare it with anyway, and there was at least some proof that I'd done it, so they shoved my leg in a fibreglass cast. Lovely. It went all the way from ankle to the top of my thigh and it was the middle of Summer. Worse still, I was due to go on a school exchange trip to Germany with the school band. I went anyway and quietly ignored the fact that I was supposed to be using crutches. They just slowed me down...

Just after I had that, I noticed a mole on my left leg (not the one I'd had a cast on) was bleeding a bit. Bearing in mind that this was before it hit the headlines, I thought nothing of it. Mum kept puting plasters on it, something she and I are both horrified at now, knowing what we do after the fact. Eventually it got so bad that a trouser leg brushing over it would make it bleed and I was sent to the doctor. He said "Oh, yes. Its' nothing to worry about, but if it's bothering you, I'll get our surgeon to remove it."

So I was duly sent to see Mr Kapoor, the surgeon at the little cottage hospital on the island. He removed the mole under a local anaesthetic while I lay on my front and chatted away to him, peering over my shoulder so I could see what he was doing. The mole was on the back of my left calf, so with a bit of ingenious twisting, I could watch. Yes, I was a gory child.

Anyway. the stitches were to come out the following Monday, and by then, he would have the results of the biopsy. He showed me it in it's wee specimine jar and it looked so innocuous there, about the size of a garden pea, but very red and angry looking. I wasn't worried. I'd been told that it was nothing to worry about. Why should I worry? So I went back to doing all the normal things we used to do back then, although a little restricted because of the stitches in my leg. We went to Grandmas for a few days and came back on the Sunday to find that Mr Kapoor had been trying to get in touch with us. Since I was due in the next day to get the stitches out, we saw him then.

Result of the biopsy: Skin tumour. I was to go to Canniesburn hospital in Glasgow (leading centre for plastic surgery in Scotland) the following day and have my op on the Wednesday. A bit quick, don't you think? I still thought nothing of it, and went home to pack a few essentials to go into hospital with. We went in on the Tuesday and I got settled in. I made friends with a few people by the end of that day: Myrna, who was in getting her face rebuilt, another girl who was in getting breast reduction because they were damaging her back (I kid you not... she was only a tiny wee thing and had to have bras specially made at a size 32 Double I) and Sharon, who was in a wheelchair and in getting some sores looked at. Sharon was a great laugh and we used to mosey about together, following the surgeon's registrar, Phil Griffin, Tall, tanned, fit and Australian...Drool...

So... The day of my op turns up and I'm sat there on my bed on my own, in my wee backless number with paper knickers (how elegant), and the anaethsatist turns up and tells me I might not be getting my op, but that he's going through all the stuff anyway. We do that, he slopes off and about half an hour later the surgeon turns up with a wee nurse in tow.

He sat down and told me that I wasn't getting my op. They didn't have the right equipment at the hospital, but I was going to be sent to another hospital where they did have the right stuff. It wasn't very far and I was going the next Tuesday, so I could either stay or go home. I elected to stay, because it seemed silly to go all the way home then come back again in a couple of days when I could just go straight from the hospital. Bed space wasn't a problem, so it would be fine. He then went on to tell me that I would be having my op the following Thursday but there were tests and things to do first, which is why I was going in a couple of days early. I had skin cancer.

...

That's how he ended his spiel. "You've got skin cancer." Just like that. Dead pan, no fancy words round it, just that. I didn't know quite how to react to that. I'd probably have been fine if it wasn't for that wee nurse. I don't know here name, and I can't remember her face, but her words are something I will never forget as long as I live.

"Oh, that's such a shame. Someone of your age having cancer. You're so young. It's such a shame..."

If I hadn't been in shock, I'd probably have punched her at that point. I didn't. I sat on my bed in my gown and paper knickers and didn't know what to think. They left me on my own, and I sat there, my head empty of thought, just her words going round and round in my head. Sharon eventually came to find out what was going on, and I snapped out of it. There she was in a wheelchair, and I was fretting about... about what? Skin cancer? I'd never heard of it. I'd heard of cancer, right enough, but at that point, I had someone in front of me that couldn't do half the things I could. There was nothing wrong with me, except for that thing in my leg, and there she was stuck in a chair for the rest of her life. What was I thinking about? Sheesh... I got dressed and went back out into the ward and spent the next week having a laugh with Sharon and the rest of them, celebrating when the girl got her breast op done ("you should see them! They're ace! They took them down to a C! I love them! You should see them!... Perhaps not!" all said with her head stuffed inside the neck of her nightie so she could look at her new, smaller breasts.) and Myrna came out from her first reconstructive op that week too, with a nose! It was a good week, and taught me a lot about life.

I've since learned that a lot of Cancer patients go through the same thing: They look around and see others that are worse off, wondering why they are getting the pity for having cancer when there are others who have had legs removed, are stuck in wheelchairs, have faces that have collapsed when surgery robbed them of the soft pallete in the roof of their mouths that holds everything in shape... I was still in one piece. Why was I getting sympathy? Cancer? It's just a word. My doctor told me it was nothing to worry about.

By the time I went to Gartnaval hospital in Glasgow on the Tuesday, I'd already worked out that one of three things was going to happen: 1. I was going to lose a bit of my leg; 2. I was going to lose my leg; 3. I was going to be pushing up daisies. That gave me a 66% chance of success in my books. Good odds really.

I was taken by hospital car after a very emotional farewell to all my new friends with all my belongings, get well cards and my big, white teddy that my aunt sent in for me. (I still have him and he still has the tag the nurses put on him that matched my own hospital tag) I was settled into my own room on the ward in Gartnaval. 5th floor, ward C, a side room on my own. By the time I'd been in there an hour, I'd already made some new friends. People came to say hi to the new arrival, and one of them was Jack. He was lovely. He'd been in to get his lower right leg amputated, and he came along with Eddie, another amputee, both in wheelchairs, and both as nutty as each other. We got on very well right from day one.

Day two I had tests done. All the usual stuff of blood pressure, temperature, pulse, then they started the other mesaurements. Dominic was my surgeon's registrar for the day, another rather good-looking young man, and very personable. We had a good laugh as he got me to shove my leg into a bucket of water up to a line he had drawn on my thigh. The Archimedes principle: They wanted to know the volume of my leg to calculate drug amounts.

I was in the right place at the right time to have a malignant melinoma on my leg. My surgeon, Mr MacKay, had pioneered a new technique called Isolated Limb Perfusion. People still don't really know what it is when I tell them if they ask, even if they are medically trained. I'll explain it when I get to that bit of the story...

Anyway, after all the tests I was sent back to the ward, and I immediately went to find my friends. We had the usual chat and stuff, dinner trolleys came and went with the usual hospital fare, tea trolley came round and we all managed to get a cup, although the wee lady was reluctant to give me a tea, because she thought I was a visitor till I showed her my wrist tag. I was told no eating after midnight because my op was the next day...

I forgot to tell you... Jack's wife is Italian, and the best cook this side of anywhere. She broght things in for Jack, and there was always enough so he could share. A second portion was always broguht in for the nurses as well.

... So there we were, Jack, Eddie and I sitting at about eleven at night, stuffing pizza that Jack's wife had brought in. It was absolutely delicious, and a good thing it was as well. It was the last thing I actually ate for about two and a half weeks...

Thursday came round. Nill by mouth. I had to get washed and showered, shaved down there, because they needed to operate (The nurse came and did it... How embarrassing. At that point, I wasn't too worried, because she'd already done the suppositories...) I had the thing stuck in my hand so they could put a drip in or give me meds intravenously, and had a student doctor round to take some blood. My first time of having bloods done, and surprisingly, it didn't hurt at all. I had a pre-med, and went to sleep. I came round as they were taking me down to theatre, but I was still very groggy.

I don't remember being put under. I don't remember waking up in the middle of the night after my op and asking the nurse what was cooking. I don't remember jokingly telling Jack off the next day when he came to see me, because his wife had brought in Lasagne and he hadn't saved me any. I don't remember my friend's auntie, who worked in the WRVS shop coming to see how I was getting on. I don't remember my parents visiting me either, or their friend Ian Laing, one of the ministers from the island dropping by while they were there and having quite a conversation with him...

... I remember waking up on the Saturday, drip in hand, drain in groin, aching a bit, leg all bandaged but no real pain, desperate for a wee, in a different room, with a bright yellow chrysanthemum in a pot in my sink and a wicker parrot hanging in a hoop from my drip stand. I rang for the nurse, who got me a commode so I could wee, and afterwards, when she put me back to bed, she filled me in on the bits I missed. I had been moved to an IC ward (Intensive care), and was in my own room again right opposite the nurses station. The plant and parrot had been brought in by my parents. My dad having a warped sense of humour (I got it from him) decided a piratical parrot was what was needed since I'd had my leg done (Arr, Jimlad!).

I was bored. Very bored. In a room, on my own, not allowed to get out of bed on my own because I still had my drip and drain. The Surgeon came to see me and told me what they'd done. He'd explained it before, but they were a little hazy on the details. So I asked a lot of questions. Here's what they did (look away now if you're squeamish):

First off, once I was under anaesthetic, they had me on my back and made a nice slice in my groin area, at the top of my right leg. They took the glands out and sent them off for testing to see if the cancer had spread, and while they were there, they plumbed in chemotherapy drugs, circulating them round the veins in my leg instead of a blood flow using the main arteries as an in and out. They did that for an hour, then stitched and stapled me back together, flipped me over and began work on my leg. They sliced out an area approximately 3 inches in diameter round and right down to the muscle and stripped it out, sending that off for testing as well. They then shaved some skin off my right thigh/buttock area to use as a skin graft and stitched it into the hole then packed it out so that when it was bandaged, it would have pressure on it. I was in theatre for about three hours all told, but I was out cold for a lot longer. Pumping the drugs round my leg like that saved me from having the protracted, full body chemo that usually happens with cancer. For the record, I lost all my leg hair for months, and all the checks came back clear from the biopsies.

Having the whole leg done like that meant I had to have a transfusion as well, because they'd had a legfull of blood to get the drugs in. It swelled up like a balloon as well because of the chemo and I couldn't bend my toes. Also, because they obviously couldn't get every single bit of the drug out my system, I still had some of the side-effects. I felt a bit sick, and couldn't eat. Just the thought of food made me feel squeamish. I could still drink tea fine though, and never missed the tea trolley when it came round. Once they knew I was drinking fine, they took the drip out, and because it seemed to be healing fine at the top of my leg without too much bruise blood, they took my drain out as well. I wasn't allowed to put weight on my leg, so they gave me a wheelchair. Worst move they could have made really in hindsight... I was given a chair with a board that I could have my leg resting on so it was raised to help it come down from the swelling. That meant a lot of my weight was transferred to the right side... right on the scraped bit where they took the skin from. I also had staples in the top of my left leg... It hurt to cough, hurt to sneeze, and hurt like hell if I laughed, which just made everything funnier. I didn't care about the sore bits. I was Free!

After that, the only time they would find me in my room was when the tea trolley came round, or at lights out at bedtime. The rest of the time I was off in Jack's room, Eddie's ward, having a joke with Charlie, a double amputee who drank too much, up seeing Christine who had leg braces... I was surrounded by people who I percieved to be worse off than me. I'd just lost a bit of my leg, and here was a whole group of people who couldn't walk properly without artificial aid.

The nurses eventually decided I was more trouble than I was worth and had way too much energy, so they packed me off to Occupational Therapy. Once a day I had to go down there and do something, anything, to get me out of their hair. At least then they knew where I was. I had John as my OT guy. He must have been in his early fifties, had a wooden leg and was absolutely hilarious. We had such a laugh in his woodworking shop. I made a duck. I still have it. I used to beat his wooden leg with a grabby stick when he used to drag my chair around the shop. We were terrible together, and I had the best time.

While I was there, I was thinking about what I wanted to do when I left school, and being in hospital made me think about a career, perhaps doing Physiotherapy. I got a tour of the physo gym, and that's where I met Peter. He was learning to walk again, just older than me, and had been dragged into hospital a few months before with Meningococcal Septicemia. He had died three times before his 21st birthday and it had left him paralised from the waist down. He was learning to use his dead muscles again, although he wasn't very good when I first saw him. He was on the paralel bars and when he went to wave to say Hi, he nearly fell over. Silly sod. Anyway, so that was me had another one to visit.

Mum and dad came to visit one day. I wasn't in my room (no big surprise there really). The nurses said to them "Well, she might be up visiting Jack up the corridor. She could be in Christine's at the end of the ward. She might even be down with John in OT or up on ward 8 with Peter... You may as well wait here. The tea trolley is due in ten minutes. She'll be back for that." I was too. I was always back for the tea trolley.

I never let anything get in the way back then. My wheelchair was just an inconvenience really, although I did get stuck in a toilet once because it wasn't big enough. I also knew it was only temporary, but it gave me an insight into the life of the wheelchair-bound, and it's one I will never forget. My aunt took me out for lunch (after I started eating again of course) and I was in my chair. The place we went was just on the edge of the hospital grounds, but the waiter still looked over my head and asked my aunt what I wanted to eat, as if I couldn't think for myself. My leg isn't working and I have to use a wheelchair, so obviously I can't think either. Someone said you should walk a mile in someone's shoes before you make any judgement on who they are. I would like to add to that: Spend a day in a wheelchair. It's a real eye-opener.

The first thing I ate after my op was a slice of toast. My surgeon was up on the ward doing his rounds late one afternoon. He stopped on our ward and went into the wee nurse's kitchen that they have on each floor and made some toast. I wheeled myself over to talk to him, because by then, we had some good banter going on and asked what was cooking. He showed me the toast and asked if I wanted any. For the first time in ages, I was hungry and nodded. He gave me his slice and did some more for himself, and sat there and talked to me while I ate the toast and had a cup of tea. They all knew I wasn't eating, so he was probably making sure that I was OK after not having anything to eat for so long. I was fine, and started taking food again after that. Just a little bit at first, but it was a start. I lost three stone in weight in my three weeks in Gartnavel hospital. Forty two pounds in weight, gone, and I'd only been eight and a half stone when I went in. One hundred and nineteen pounds. I came out at Seventy Seven. I put it all back on again once I got back to normal though...

Anyway, that was my major time in hospial. Four weeks in all.

I had a couple of overnighters with concussion, one where I slipped on some ice and ended up getting scraped off the pavement by the ambulance guys. I think I was in for two days with that one, but it was a bit of a blur, so I couldn't say for sure. I got dragged into casualty once when I lived in Glasgow for a bit after fracturing my ankle at the ice rink too.

I had a few years where I was fairly accident free: just the usual cuts and scrapes, and then I had my wisdom teeth removed. They decided that the 20th December was a good day to do it. I was in overnight and came out looking like a hamster because it all swelled up. It took me an hour to eat my christmas dinner, but I was determined to do it. I nearly asked my mother-in-law to liquidise it for me so I could drink it with a straw, but I persevered.

A few years later, I had a kidney infection. They thought at first it was a UTI, gave me pain kllers and told me to drink lots. I ended up in casualty after nearly collapsing in town. Acute pyelonephritis (sp?). In for a week, on pethidine and major antibiotics on a drip, and they wanted to keep me longer. In hindsight I probably should have stayed in a bit longer. I still get twinges now and again, but apparently it scars your kidneys, and that's what I feel pulling every now and again.

I've twisted things, pulled things, put my back out and all sorts over the years, torn ligaments, pulled muscles, cut and briused myself by doing silly things like falling off stuff or tripping over things. I had my tonsils taken out when I was in my twenties too. Last year I made a neat slice accross my left index finger with a serrated knife, trying to cut butter, and now I have my balance problems. I bruse myself a fair bit by bumping into things, but I've managed to avoid any serious injuries so far. Give me time though. I'm sure I have something else coming soon enough.

At least I can say I've had an eventful life... right?

A year to the day...

It's been a year. Exactly a year. I'm still here, and still frustrated.

I don't know what to do with myself these days. I want to do something productive, but I'm not really sure what. I can please myself for the most part, but there are days where I would like someone telling me to do things, and I'm not just talking housework or garden things.

I don't know what I will be like if I become my own boss running my own small business, but I'm prepared to give it a go. I am probably procrastinating, but I have decided that I am doing nothing about advertising or things till I am back from my two weeks away at the military vehicle show next month. There's no point really, since I'll be away for a fortnight, and it would be silly to start something, set it all up, get the advertising sorted and then not being able to respond to any queries because I'm not here.

All that is all well and good, but we don't go till the 8th or 9th of July and I'm feeling at a bit of a loose end. I could do all the packing for going away, but then we would have bags of stuff kicking about and getting in the way. I could get on with another christening gown, but I've not finalised the skirt pattern in my head yet and I need to know how it all works before I do that bit too... The one I'm working on/designing at the moment is a little more complicated than my usual.

I'm mostly wanting to look forward to something, and I don't know what. I'm looking forward to two weeks away, but I know there will be frustrations and annoyances with himself as he disappears for hours on end. I'm looking forward to doing the Christening Gown business, but I'm very wary of biting off more than I can chew. I would like to be looking forward to something that's consequence-free, something good, something nice, something that I can really pour my energy into, but I don't know what it is yet.

Perhaps it's the very factt hat I have to do most things with only half the energy I used to that makes me feel like this, but I feel like I've been waiting for something... I don't know what... for a year now.

I will wait, and I will be as patient as possible, but the patience is wearing a little thin. It was a year ago to the day that I first had the problems I'm facing now, and I'm still no nearer a conclusion. Only another couple of weeks and I'll know for certain whether I will be stuck like this or not.... Now that's something I'm not looking forward to...

Slacking...

Well, here I am again. I feel slightly guilty today as I have been slacking off my excersises for two days now. I've had a good excuse though: Yesterday I answered the door to my neighbour who I do excersise with every weekday now, asking if himself could take his wife into casualty. He had to stay with the children, and knowing how himself is with hospitals, I volunteered to go along to keep her company. I know from experience just how boring hospital casualty departments can be as you wait here, wait there, wait some more, wait again, and generally get rather bored with the whole process, so off we went with her.

She's fine for the record, and got home today, starving and gasping for a cup of tea, because they'd had her on nil by mouth in case she had appendicitis and needed surgery. She didn't, a blessing really.

Today I had an old friend over. She stayed last night and we mooched around today, generally talking, having a laugh, catching up on the gossip, and because the neighbour's wife was being released, I thought it best not to be over there anyway.

Good excuses? I thought so, but I still feel guilty for not keeping up my regime. Back to the grind tomorrow.

Ho hum. Back to the drawing board.

Well, I'm tired and cranky. I think I slept badly last night, and I know for certain that I didn't get enough sleep anyway. The cranky bit isn't an automatic thing that goes along with my tiredness though. That's been caused by something else.

So, here I am, sat here quietly annoyed at someone. I have no idea who they are, just that they annoyed me. eBay. I hate it. Actually, it's not the eBay part I hate, because there's lots of people happy with it. It's some of the people on eBay that get me right in the throat. Well, one person.

Himself knows I was looking for a radio mast to go with my workshop/comms trailer. Yes, I own a piece of military equipment that comes with two wheels, box body with apex and flap roof and contains my kitchen equipment for when we go away to shows, taking my little baby (the trailer) and his ex-military vehicle along to a field where thousands (and no I'm not exaggerating here) of other complete loons like us go along to show off our respective money pits.

Anyway, my trailer was once used to house equipment for Aircraft Battle Damage Recovery. Similar trailers were used by the Royal Signals, a regiment my Gramdad was in back in World War II, but they used them to carry radio equipment. I would really like to get a load of radio stuff for the exterior of my trailer and do it all up. The inside will still be all my kitchen, but outside I would like it to look like a proper comms trailer. So there was me wanting a radio mast. I was going to use it as a flagpole, as most people do with them since they can't be used (well, not legally anyway) and I have a few flags to go on it courtesy of himself.

So himself was on eBay and spots the mast. 8 metres tall and up for £150. Excellent. He put a bid in yesterday when the auction still had about 20 hours to go. I watched it all day today on and off: no more bids. It was going to be mine! I was really excited. An hour to go. Still no more bids. Half an hour, someone ups it by £5. I phoned himself who said to log in on our account and put in a bid. I did. The other person had an automatic bid that took it over mine. I thought about it... time was ticking past. The automatic bid was only just over my last one by nearly two pounds. Was that their maximum? Would I be thrown off by another automatic bid if I raised it by the required five pounds? I raised it. 12 minutes to go and it was in my corner again. Ten minutes, still mine. Five minutes... Yep, still mine. Three... two... one minute... thirty seconds... still mine...

Ten seconds to go, and the other person goes over my bid, too late for me to do anything about it. Gutted.

I checked the other person's profile. Over 400 sales in the last 12 months. A dealer most likely. The mast I was bidding for will probably be back up there next week for over £200. I'm not buying it. Himself is going to speak to one of our friends in the trade and see what the best price is that I can get one for.

This is what annoys me. Greed. The person who bought the mast is most likely going to sell it on again for more than he paid. He wants a quick profit, a swift turnaround on something he doesn't want while I'm sat here feeling like I've been slapped in the face. It was something I really wanted and someone else has it and they don't want it.

There's too much of that in this world. The "I want" attitude. The "I need money" or "I need to be richer than you" people. The "I want designer labels" and "I want a fast car with a badge". What happened to being happy, comfortable, accepting what you have? What happened to the simple life where it wasn't always a competition to have more than the other person? Where did all the selfishness come from?

I'm not after my trailer being the best in the show. I would like it to be my trailer and for it to look good for me. Not for anyone else. I just would have liked that mast to add to it, but I suppose these things happen now. I shall wait and get the bits I would like another time from another place where someone can't come along and snatch it from me. I don't like fighting over things.

Oh well... "The meek shall inherit the earth"... But only if that's OK with the rest of you...

Celebrations...

Another day, another year older. I don't feel any different for being another year older mind you. To be honest, the only difference between today and any other day has been the cards, presents and phone calls wishing me a happy birthday.

Don't get me wrong, I'm very grateful for the thoughts and wishes of others. I just wish that it really was a happy birthday and not just another day of the same stuff, just with a special occasion tagged on as if to mock me. The slight difference to normal has been the consumption of alcohol, which isn't normal for me. When the room spins naturally, it doesn't need some odd hydrocarbon to assist it, so I tend to stick to tea. Tonight I pushed the boat out, and probably rowed it quite far from shore, but what the hell, it's only once a year you get to be another year older.

We celebrate each milestone in our lives: Our first word is celebrated by our parents, our first steps, our first day at school, our last day at school, the last day of an old job as you move onto something else. We celebrate birth and death with equal gusto, celebrating a new life or seeing off a loved one or friend with a laugh over old memories and a twinge of pain that these days will never happen again.

We all celebrate each passing year with a rousing toast when midnight strikes on the last day of the old year and we move into a new one, as our lives pass in more and more of a blur as age takes us further into maturity and into a world where being 40 becomes a distinct possibility rather than something only really old people are aged.

When I was small (OK, smaller than I am now) Christmases and birthdays inched round, and now it doesn't seem so long since I was eating Christmas dinner with the in-laws. Time is relative though, and when you're young, you have nothing to fill your life with but the things you choose to do, other than School of course. As you get older, you get more and more responsibility with a job, spouse, children too if that's your thing. It's not mine. I borrow other people's because you can give them back and don't have to deal with things like sleepless nights, dirty nappies, the trauma of the first day at school...

I wasn't always like that though. I wanted children of my own once upon a time, and I was desperate to have them, but nothing happened. I went and got it checked out, had all the tests, had the ignominity of having cameras shoved places you shouldn't have cameras (fortunately they anaethsatised me for that one) and had the stuffing kicked out of me when I was told that there was no earthly way I could have kids without some serious help and a lot of money. It broke my heart to hear that and I ended up with some severe depression for a while, but I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started thinking what having children really meant.

I got a real taste of what my parents have gone through with me not so long ago when a friend of mine was very seriously ill. So seriously, we weren't sure if she would survive. I fretted. I paced. I drank gallons of tea. I hardly slept. Each little setback was hell, but a gang of us got together and we supported each other. We talked into the wee hours of the morning. We shared silly stories of our friend, made each other laugh and we were there for each other and for her every hour of every day. She is still with us, and I am forever grateful for that. She brought a small few people closer together in a way that only things like that can. You know who you are and I know you read this, and I will always hold you to be one of my dearest friends. You showed me so much of the things I had taken for granted and made me realise a few truths.

The truth is that when I was seventeen, I was diagnosed with skin cancer in my leg. Malignant Melinoma to be exact. Sure, everyone knows what it is now, but it was relatively unknown back then. It hit the headlines about 6 months after I'd been diagnosed and treated for it. I was a blasee teen and didn't understand till later how serious the condition was. At that time about 75% of people who were diagnosed with malignant melinoma didn't survive. I was one of the lucky few, diagnosed early, treated quickly and by one of the brightest and best. Mr MacKay, my surgeon, was a pioneer in the disease. I believe I was the 123rd person to ever get the new technique he came up with which cut out weeks and months of chemo and other treatments. I'll describe it in more detail another time.

I wasn't worried. I'd already worked out that I had three chances: One, they would take part of my leg. Two, I would lose my leg. Three, I was pushing up daisies. I was on a ward with a load of amputees. I could see them being cheerful about their lives, the fact that they had survived, and frankly, at that point, I could still walk around on my own, and I felt that I could shrug my shoulders and say that my skin cancer was no big deal. I knew my mum was worried. I joked that I let everyone else do all the worrying for me, and I just carried on as normal.

As it was, I went down to theatre at about half two in the afternoon and my mum phoned around five that evening to see how I was to be told I was still in. I laughed when she told me later that her day was spent going up and down the garden drinking countless cups of coffee and doing nothing really because she couldn't concentrate on anything because of the worry. I didn't get it. I didn't get what she had gone through till I did the same thing with my friend. It has made me appreciate the burdens of parenthood in a way I could never understand before.

Everyone calls me Mum or Mother, and as I have grown older, I have become a "parent" to so many people both older and younget than myself. I offer advice, I love unconditionally, I scold when it's needed, and I am there for each and every one of my "children" when they want me. I had never had the nail-biting worry of parenthood before, so I never appreciated what real parents go through until my eyes were opened by one person, someone I have never met except via a computer, but someone who has influenced me in ways I suspect even she doesn't know.

I now see children differently. I wonder what it would be like to actually have some of my own, and know that I will never have the opportunity. I don't envy those with children or covet their lifestyle. I dread to think what life would be like for any children I might have had with me being the way I am now, but being able to understand how my mother felt on that day of my life has made a big difference to the way I view others with their sons and daughters.

Every day we are alive should be a celebration, but for so many of us, every day is a struggle, a fight against the odds, a race to survive yet another day of whatever is dragging us down. I feel that I have to be cheerful so much, to at least look like I am celebrating each day, each little thing that I can do one day but not the next. It is draining to paste on a smile, share a joke, make people laugh when all I want to do is run and hide, hide from another birthday, another year older, another day the same as the ones before, another celebration, but a celebration of what?

I'm still alive. I'm still here. Is that enough to celebrate over? Will it ever be enough to just exist if this is me for life?

Oh why the hell not? Pour me another drink!

Comments

First off, I would like to say thank you to those who have posted a comment so far. It's heartening to see that people are reading this and feel strongly enough to say something, although I never know whether to reply as a comment or what, but I always want to say something to the people that have taken time out to read through all this. All I can say is "Thank you", and I mean it. For those of you who know me, and I know, it's especially nice to be able to sit here and just write this and for you to be able to understand all the things I don't tell you.

There's a big difference between being able to write all this down in a blog and actually telling people about all this in a conversation. I generally don't tell too much because it seems self-pitying. There are others out there who have gone through worse, and I'm just sat here feeling sorry for myself really. It's cathartic though, and while I still dislike this other me who lives in my place, there now seems to be a little light at the end of the tunnel. No, it's not a diagnosis just yet, and knowing my luck, it's probably just a train heading in my direction or some bugger with a torch bringing me more of the same stuff to deal with.

Very few people up till now have known the real truth of what's been going on with me. Even fewer have seen the frustrations of my days. I tend to hide it behind jokes, laugh off everything and hope no one notices. Himself gets the brunt of it mostly, but that's because he's here, well, sometimes. I don't even like talking to him too much about it either, because there's nothing he can do about the condition itself, and let's be honest, there's not a lot he does about the mental state of me either. I don't think he really knows how to deal with me, whether to treat me like fragile china (Oh, I hate that anyway and he knows it), or what to do, so to be honest, he does what I do, and ignores it as much as he can, or at least seems to on the surface.

Anyway, this was just supposed to be a short thing to say a big thank you to the people who have commented, because I never know what to do about comments. Do I reply in the comments? Do I not reply? Do I message them individually to say thanks? I decided to say a very public thanks for reading, and for the support.

Forgive me if I don't post a reply to any of your own blogs though. I never know what to say....

Himself Part II

Well, that was this morning. This is... well, technically tomorrow morning since it's 2am here. Himself found out tonight that I have a blog, and as I predicted, not interested.

So, I challenged him on the never being interested in my stuff, because I was in a laughy, jokey mood. He took it all too seriously and complained about me criticising him. It all went pear shaped from there really and he sulked off to bed to read his book. He doesn't get it that part of my frustration is having to deal with it all on my own while he does his own thing. He says he worries, but is he just saying that to placate me? A bit like the "I love you"s.

I told him to watch Shirley Valentine. I could put good money on him not watching it though.

Himself.

Another day, another "why did I bother to get out of bed?" moment.

I know why I get out of bed though. I get bored if I don't, and there's more things to do out of bed. If I had a computer and television in the bedroom, there would be no need to move, except for the necessities of food and the loo. That's why there are neither in my bedroom.

Mind you, staying in bed means that I can quietly avoid himself in the mornings. He's on lates this week, so he will probably get home somewhere round half ten tonight and he left a couple of hours ago.

(Note to readers: I live in GMT and I'm not sure what timezone this thing works on, and as a noob, I have no clue how to change it. I'll investigate another time. Suffice to say, it's just gone midday here *edited in note: I finished writing at just gone 2PM*)

I've been very kind about himself up till now. I suppose that's because I understand some of his frustrations with me being just a little bit useless sometimes, and forgetting that he's asked me to do stuff like feed his fish at night. He asks me just as I'm getting out of bed, all bleary-eyed and whatnot, and then gets frustrated when my memory does a big "yeah right, like I'm going to remember to do that for you" later in the day. I feed mine as I wander past them, and there isn't a specific time to feed them. They just know that when I come near the tank, food is liable to get thrown at them. They're so well trained. His are an entirely different matter however. They have to be fed in the evenings, no exceptions. They're not even specialist fish either. I wanted phirranas (sp?) but he got an eclectic mix of now spoiled fish. They get nice food. Mine get whatever's thrown in the tank that they will eat. His get frozen live food. I daren't touch it for my fish, because he complains that it's his fish food. If I ask him to feed my fish while he's down doing his, I get the rolled eyes, and the "Why cant you feed your fish? They're your fish after all. You should feed them." Pfft... men...

Anyway, the fish are just one of my niggles with himself. I'm having a very "miffed with himself" day, so I thought I'd share. It might help me not be so niggled at the end, but we shall see...

He has this problem that the vast majority of men do: Laundry-basket blindness. He can't see or find one, so his laundry goes on the floor. He only mentions his lack of clean when he's just about to run out of socks, or when he comes home in his last pair of work trousers asking if any are clean, because he needs a clean pair for the next day. Admittedly he did the last load of washing, but only because he was running out of things to wear, nothing having made it to the laundry basket. So he does a load, asks me to take it all out the washing machine and hang it up, because he will be at work. I dutifully do so. His trousers, his work shirts, his socks, his underwear, a few more of his t-shirts.... and one sock of mine. This is the other form of laundry blindness: Washing needs done because he's running out of things, so only his things make it to the machine. Admittedly he came unglued with this type of washing recently. I had organised the laundry to be done into piles before heading off to see a couple of friends for a weekend. I come back to find that he's done a load. His washing of course. He washed his nice wool jumper too...

You can see this coming, can't you?

It came out the washing machine along with his t-shirts, socks and so on... and it was probably the size of jumper he was wearing when he was 3. I laughed. Lots. I tried to resurect it, but it was a lost cause. His favourite jumper's next trip was to the bin. I even phoned my mum to tell her so she could laugh lots too. She did.

OK, I know I'm stuck home all day and should be turning into a Stepford Wife by now, but it's just sometimes too hard to do all the housework. My house could be a lot cleaner, I know that for a fact, but it comes down to the fact that I end up doing it all the time and only when I can. Dishes pile up in the kitchen sometimes. Laundry lurks and makes me feel guilty for not doing it. I sit watching television, or sit in front of the computer feeling like a fraud, because I feel fine... Then I stand up and the world goes sideways.

It's not till you can't do something that you break down the simple tasks into what you actually have to do. Lets take the washing for a good example. You fetch it, stuff it in the machine, take it out, hang it up, fold it when it's dry and put it away. All good till you break it down even further. To fetch it, you have to bend into the laundry basket, or to pick it up off the floor, and you maybe bend a few times to do that. I have to go downstairs at that point with an armful of laundry and no hand for the banister or wall to balance, so I go down with my shoulder on the wall, or bounce off the wall all the way down. Then you have to put it in the machine: More bending as you stuff it all in there. Straighten up, shut the door of the machine. Bend to get the washing tablets from under the sink, put them in, turn the machine on. When it's done, you go to the machine, and put the basket in front of it, open machine, bend to get all the washing out, pick up the loaded basket, then go to wherever you have your airer, line, dryer, whatever. (I had a washing line till we redid the garden and he accidentally leaned some slabs against my line which was propped against the shed and bent it, so no more washing line...) So... you bend to the basket, straighten the clothing, hang it up, bend for the next bit... repeat till you have an empty basket, then when it's dry, repeat in reverse, folding the stuff as you go, then it has to go back upstairs and into the cupboards and drawers.

All of that is a lot of bending, turning, moving about with no free hand to steady myself, and frankly is a lot more of a chore than normal. I don't mind doing it on good days. On bad days, all the movement makes me want to throw up. On really bad days, the washing can go do itself for all I care.

I honestly have no idea how much of this himself actually understands. Sure, he's patient sometimes, but if I get frustrated, he has a nasty habit of snapping and getting arguentative instead of trying to diffuse the situation, or understanding where I'm coming from. I get the feeling that sometimes he doesn't even want to try understanding. He seems to be very busy getting sympathy because his wife is unwell, unable to do things, but not a lot of that sympathy actually comes my way.

OK, I said I don't want pity, but there's a difference. Sometimes I just want a hug and to be told it will be OK. He's not a huggy person. He used to be, but now he isn't. That fizzled out some years ago, but I suppose I thought the occasional hug while I'm quietly going nuts here would help things for both of us. Is a hug too much to ask for? It's as much as he can do sometimes to remember to give me a kiss on his way out the house.

I'm a very tactile person. I like the hugs and touches, the gestures, the hand-holding. I get to hold his hand in town, but only if my balance is really playing up, or it's not too hot/cold/rainy/whatever. We sit on opposite ends of the sofa, or worse, on different ones. In bed, there's enough space for the cat to curl up between us, which he does quite happily and purrs at me as I pet him while himself lies with his back to me and the cat. His bed habits do have one advantage though: I know for a fact that if I go to bed after him (normal) and he's hogging the bed, I just slide in my side, and he automatically turns over to face the wall, leaving me enough room to sleep. Sometimes he will even scooch over so far to his side that he's damn near falling out of bed. He blames me for this, but I blame the cat, because there's usually that space between us when he does it.

I've got so many complaints about himself, most of which I've already aired with him, sometimes quite loudly when the frustration takes over. He's just as loud though, and half the time, he shouts first, but in usual female style, I drag up all the issues while we are shouting anyway. Might as well get it all over with at the same time.

He's unlikely to read this, even if I do get round to giving him the link. I sometimes feel that whatever I do isn't important or woth his attention. I make christening gowns for fun, but I'm going to try to go into the business of making them for people and selling them. I tried discussing it with himself. "Have you thought this through properly?" was the only response I got out of him. Of course I have. I've been contemplating it for months. It was the family friend who finally gave me the push to do it. He's never seen any of my work, but he still has the faith in me that I will be able to do it. I've asked himself what he thought of the gowns. "It's a dress" was the best I got out of him.

I, on the other hand, have to be interested when he taks bout his work, what he does, who he's seen, spoken to, what he's been doing to his car... Foolishly perhaps, I decided to get my revenge one day. "What do you think?" he asked as he finished poking about at something in his car. "It's an engine" I replied. Ooooh, I should have taken a picture of the look on his face! You could see it written all over there "But you're not supposed to say that. You're supposed to be interested in what I've done! Look, I've done a good job. Tell me I've done a good job!" I didn't. I wandered off and giggled in private.

I would also like to mention the "Three special words" himself uses a lot. I ask a question, and now I'm just waiting for the reply. I told a friend about it, and she didn't believe me, so I proved it. She came over for dinner. I made something really nice, probably a roast or something with all the trimmings. I asked the obvious question: "How's your dinner?" Right on cue came the response from himself: "Very nice dear". Well, I tell you. My friend nearly spat her dinner across the table as she dissolved into a fit of the giggles. I just smiled and carried on eating as himself sat there with a bemused look on his face wondering what our friend was not very quietly dissolving into hysterics over.

It's the same all the time. "How's your dinner?"... "Very nice dear." What do you think of my new blouse? "Very nice dear." What do you think of the garden? "Very nice dear."

I watched Shirley Valentine the other night on my own and I thought "That's me". It was depressing. If you don't know what I'm on about, get the film and watch it. In one part, she talks about her husband saying "I love you" and how she sees it now as not being anything more than a quick fix solution from him. There's a problem, so saying "I love you" fixes it. It's just words with no meaning. That's how I feel. I know he loves me in his own little way, but he doesn't show it. Not very often anyway. He says "I love you" but it feels more like just something he says now, like a catchphrase or something. What happened? When did it all change from the cuddles and kisses, handholding and affection to the two individuals who now live in this house?

OK, so I'm not well, but does that mean he has to avoid me? Stay away in case... in case of what? I don't know. It's not infectious. I'm not a leper. I don't have the plague. OK, so I'm a little overweight, but to be honest, he doesn't encourage me to do anything about it. My neighbour has been the one to give me the boot in the arse to get going and get motivated. Himself wouldn't come swimming or to the gym with me before I was unwell. I used to play squash with a mate who would drive 50 miles to come over for a visit, play squash, have dinner, stay the night and go home the next day. The same friend who used to take me out to the beach or off to go see the ducks at some village about ten miles away. Himself and I barely make it into town together about once a month.

I go to see friends in Wales too occasionally (I'm overdue a visit) and I have fun playing with the kids or just talking to them and their friends who come round, who are now my friends too. I do that on my own. He's too "busy" or he says he's going to do something round the house while I'm not there. Sometimes he's working, so he definitely couldn't come anyway, but I can forgive him those times. One time I went off to Wales, he was off (but refused to go to Wales untill England beat them at Rugby) and he said he was going to do some housework and some tidying while I was away. I came back a couple of days later to find one load of washing done, and that was it.

So what's the answer? I do love him a lot, and I know somewhere inside him there's someone who loves me back, but I'm lost for answers on how to get him to understand that just because he works, doesn't mean I do everything in the house. I physically can't sometimes. I look at my parents for inspiration in my life. Dad worked, mum was a housewife bringing up two daughters. Even after we left school, she didn't go back to work. She continued to be the same housewife she always had been. Despite that, dad still did housework. He'd do the dinner dishes or the lunch dishes. At weekends, he'd happily push the hoover round occasionally. I never saw him do the washing though, but then again, with the example of earlier, that's probably a good thing. He did his own ironing though sometimes. If he had a wedding to do (he was a registrar) he would come home, iron his suit and shirt and polish his shoes so he was always smart. Himself tried ironing once. After about five minutes on one shirt, I couldn't stand it any more and took over.

We are off to a military vehicle show next month, himself and I. It's a big event and we go as part of a group who do some of the marshalling on the site and run the off-road course. This means that I won't see himself except at meal times and at night. The rest of the time he will be off doing other things. No change there I feel. I will pootle about, do some marshalling when it's my turn on the rota, cook for whoever turns up to eat, and wander round the stalls looking at bits and pieces with whomever I can get to go with me. He will then complain that he's not been round the stalls or done anything, or seen any of the show. If he stopped trying to be the dependable, always there, helpful, indispensable person and actually took the time out, maybe said "Oh, can someone else do the marshalling for a bit while I go look at the stalls?" once in a while, he wouldn't have to complain that I've been out doing things and he hasn't. Mind you, last year he went to the stalls. I found out about it after he came back. I'm too slow for him or something. I don't know.

Ah well, while in on a roll, I'll explain why this particular topic today. This morning he was up and about before me, but only just. I made a pot of tea when he got in the other night when he asked for one. Last night I was in bed by the time he got home for a change, so no tea. This morning, I asked him to go make a pot of tea. It felt like I was dealing with a teenager. We had all the dramatics of him shoving his chair back and sighing loudly before he took his elephants downstairs to clatter round the kitchen (Invisible elephants. Teenagers have them when they stamp round the house. My sister and I had a herd each when we lived at home with our poor, long-suffering parents) and he eventually returned with a pot of tea which was very noisilly deposited on my desk. When I make it (and sometimes, very rarely when he makes it) I have to pour his tea, put the milk in, sugar it... I sometimes feel like doing the "Yeth Marthter" bit with the Igor inflection... I once asked if he wanted me to drink it for him too, and got such a look, I didn't bother asking again.

I wonder: Am I hs wife or his Mother? I cook and clean for him when I can, make his tea, make the bed, fold his clothes, usually end up puting them away for him too, feed his precious fish (His die, it's a tragedy. Mine die and it's just another dead fish. They're getting old some of them. Death is natural) and generally be a good little mother to my husband.

Woman! Know thy place!

It's getting a little old...

It's good to talk...

It's good to talk to people. I enjoy it. It keeps me in touch with reality, and lets me know that I'm still alive. However, this is the "good" me talking, not the recluse that I've found I become sometimes. Because I spend a lot of time on my own now, I've found myself to be more introspective, not liking large numbers of people around me. I don't really care what people think of me most of the time, what I wear is none of their concern, and how I dress is how I want to, not dictated by fashion. The same goes for my hair, although that's more dictated by the fact that I'm lazy. I can't be bothered going to get it styled and cut every how many weeks, so I let it grow, brush it and plait it, and that's it for the most part.

These days though it's not my clothes or my hair that makes me self-conscious. It's not the weight I gained from having the dodgy thyroid, or being inactive for the last year either. It's my stick. That's what makes me very self-conscious. I'm young, I used to be fit, I used to go to the gym, cycle, swim. I was never any good at running except when I was in school doing cross country, but I never really saw the point in going out for a run anyway, especially when I was cycling every day.

Now I have a stick and no balance. I can't cycle. I can't go to the gym, mostly because it's too far for me now and I have no one to go with to keep an eye on me in case my balance suddenly decides to depart completely as it has an annoying habit of doing every so often. I'm now one of those people that get commented on in low voices in shopping centres and supermarkets. I wouldn't care if it was about my clothes or my hair, but it's about my stick. A short piece of wood and metal that I have to take with me everywhere outdoors, and indoors if it's larger than the average room size. I can potter in my garden, but I can't do anything really major in it. I try, and then spend the next day paying for the stuff I do.

I recently went to visit my sister with my mum and dad and a family friend. She's just managed to get herself a very nice job working on one of the cruise liners, so we went and did the tour of the ship. I admit, I'm jealous. She has a stunning job, but she's earned it. Anyway, we spent the day wandering about and I was fine, just a little slower than everyone, but we were in no rush really. It was a beautiful day and we sat and sunned ourselves with a drink in the late afternoon, then pootled off home before getting thrown off for trying to stow away on board. I paid for that with a day and a half on the sofa, not really able to go very far or concentrate on things. My attention span seems to nick off when I'm having days like that, and my memory goes along for the ride. Himself can ask me something, and five minutes later, I've forgotten what he asked. It's very frustrating to say the least.

Well, today I am going to start trying to fight my limitations. One of my neighbours is coming to get me soon to get me out the house and round to his to use his excersise stuff. He does a couple of hours every day, so I figure that might be the motivation I need, plus I don't have to go far, and he will come crowbar me out the house to do it too. A bonus on all fronts. My aim is to fit into my long shorts before we go away in July. I don't wear short shorts... As yet I don't have the legs for it. Even when I do, I won't wear them. I'm a redhead, and I know all about sunburn.

So, I'll be getting some excersise, I'll have someone to talk to, and I won't be sat in the house going stir-crazy like I usually do. I'm feeling a little positive today, although I already had one of my looks into the abyss. I'm hoping that the motivation to get out a little more, even though it is just two doors up, will help.

The future is a very scary place for me though, with not knowing what's going on and whether I have something treatable or whether it's something I'm stuck with. I can't even find a routine that I can stick with, because I make the decision to do something the next day, and when the next day comes, I don't have the energy to do anything, or the balance to even look after myself properly. I'll find out on the 4th of July when I see my next specialist. Independence day for those of you across the pond. I wonder if it's an omen, or if it's just fate having a good laugh at my expense.

Well, today I hope will be the start of my own Independence, although that's pushing it a little, since I'm dependant on my neighbour letting me go round and use his excersise stuff. It's something I'm doing for myself though, something I want to do, and maybe something positive will come of it. My clothes might fit for a start, which would be a bonus. I have so far resisted buying new things, because that's admitting that I'm going to stay the size I am. I want to put some effort in and try fitting into the clothes I already own. I have some nice stuff in my cupboards and drawers, so it would be nice to be able just to go and pick out something to wear instead of wondering "Does it fit?" or worse "Does my bum look big in this?" Of course it does!

So it's good to talk to people, but I'm not about to start asking if I look fat. I have a mirror for that one. I went and talked to my neighbour, and now I'm doing something positive about the extra inches. I talked to another friend this morning, and now I have another avenue of enquiry to ask my specialist about. I talked to my parents and our friend about what I should do with my life, and the friend has given me the push that has seen me start designing business cards to do my own wee business. I talked to another good friend after yesterday's blog, and he told me to keep going, a little motivation to keep writing. I sent an e-mail to another friend yesterday and it's her blog that has inspired me to have my own. We all talk, but sometimes not often enough. I reccommend it as a good way to get your head straight and get some motivation in your life. It also keeps me sane and while it doesn't stop me looking into the abyss, it provides a little safety line that keeps me from falling in.

Sanity? Who needs it...?

Well, I've resisted temptation to blog for so long, just knowing that my life isn't really that interesting. I don't have any world-changing ideas, I don't go out doing great works, and I'm definitely not one of the "it" people. Then again, how many people in the world are just like me? Average human beings with baggage that either stays locked inside, or gets released in diaries, blogs, conversations...

I hate the thought of pity, so please don't bother pitying anything I put down. It's catharsis to release my thoughts into the world wide web, and maybe someone out there will think "Hey, I know where you're coming from" and nod sagely. Others might think "Why are you not in a mental institution?" and they probably have a point.

Are we all insane to some degree? What is sanity anyway, and do I really need it when I can have more fun being me? Some of the things that have happened to me over the past few years would probably have sent some into an assylum, and I can't say I'd blame them. I'm one of the lucky ones though: I have family that have supported me through the bad years. My mum and dad are, for me, the best people in the world. They listen and love unconditionally, comfort through the bad times and share the good ones with the joy that is appropriate.

It's a support that I've needed recently. I've not really spoken too much about me of late. I try not to, because, like I say, I hate pity. People pitying me makes me depressed, because I start wondering if it is as bad as they are seeing. I work within my limitations, try not to be a burden to my poor, suffering husband who has to put up with my manic mood swings as I fight against my limitations and lose, sometimes worse than other times, and the frustration that ebbs and flows through every day. It's the same. Every day, the same frustrations, the same limitations, the same old blah existence.

I laugh off the questions of why I have to walk with a stick. I have vertigo. I joke that I can't stand being five foot two. People think vertigo is a fear of heights, and it's not. It's a balance disorder that has so many contributing factors or root causes, and nearly a year after mine started, we are still no closer to finding out the root cause of mine, or even if it's permanent.

It's silly really. It all started with sore feet. When I say sore feet, I really mean it, to the point where walking was agony, but I still had to do it, although I stayed sat whenever I could. It worked its way up into my knees, and at that point, I decided it wasn't going to get better on its own and went to see my doctor. Several blood tests later, and they work out I have a thyroid problem. Don't ask... Thyroid gland in neck, sore feet. I couldn't work it out either. Anyway, that was the diagnosis, so I got sent off for all sorts of scans to find out what was going on. I had a lump on my thyroid. This was bad news in all sorts of ways for me. I had skin cancer when I was much younger, and it is always something that is in the back of my mind. Is this going to come back and bite me in the ass (or neck) however many years later?

Anyway, they stuck a needle in it (yes, it really is as unpleasant as it sounds) to find out what was going on, and whether it was a bad lump or just an annoying one. By that point, I could feel it when I swallowed, which was quite unpleasant. It was like having something lodged in your throat, but it was merely uncomfortable. They decided it was inconclusive. I had been given the choice of killing it off with radioactive iodine, or having it cut out. I decided to go for the latter option, because if it was a bad lump, it would have to be cut out anyway, so let's just cut to the chase, do the deed and get it over with.

I named my lump Eric, for reasons I best not go into, which caused no end of amusement for people, some of whom looked at me strangely when I said I'd named it. I have a morbid sense of humour, and it helps to look at the silly side of things occasionally. It was either that or get all depressed about it (which I did anyway, but that's besides the point, and it was a lot less depressed than if I couldn't laugh about it). My surgeon thought I was mad, but he went along with it anyway, and probably to humour me, always referred to the lump as "Eric". Blessim. He's a lovely man.

Anyway, I left my work on the 21st of June last year thinking I would be back in a fortnight, hedging for three weeks, just in case. I went into hospital the next day, and in typical me style, I had made friends by the time I'd been in there an hour. I like to have people to talk to, and it's always fun meeting new people. I had all my measurements done: height (short), weight (OMG, I so need to diet), pulse (yes, I do have one, thank you) and all the other silly things they do, including sending the vampires round to leech out more of my blood.

I went in on my own, with himself having to work that day. I'm not scared of hospitals. Frankly the food scares me more than anything they could do to me. Hospitals are the only places on earth I know that can serve ice cream that looks and feels like ice cream, but it's warm! The tea's not too bad though, if you can manage to get one off the wee lady who pushes the trolley round. More about that later though...

...By the way... I forgot to warn you... I take ages to get me started talking. The problem then is stopping me....

Back to the plot...

So there's me, sat in hospital, reading, chatting to the other people in the ward, mooching around general, but not going too far so I don't miss the tea trolley. I'm a tea junkie. I live for my cuppas. Always have done, but I'm getting off the story again...

I napped, slept, listened to music, chatted, read and waitied till it was my turn to go into theatre the next day. Off I toddled, right on cue in my terribly flattering backless gown and robe, into theatre. I don't know about anyone else, but I just love that feeling where they inject you with the first anaesthetic. The light, floaty feeling where everything just drifts into fluffy clouds. Then they do the other one, and your hand goes cold, then the lights go out...

I woke up in recovery later, and annoyed the nurse a bit by trying to take off my oxygen mask. I get claustrophobic in those things. Silly, I know, but I do, and I seriously didn't want it on my face. She was insistent though, and the mask stayed, much to my disappointment. I went back to sleep in a fit of pique. I woke up again when they decided to move me off the recovery trolley and into bed. Now there's a panic and a half... They'd just cut my throat open and stitched it shut again. I felt as limp as a rag doll, and because they'd been poking about, pulling muscles all over the place, I couldn't hold my head up. The panic I felt was unbelievable. I wanted to hold my chin down, but couldn't. I couldn't speak either to ask them to hold my head because the thyroid is right behind the vocal chords, so speaking was off the menu till that bit recovered from being pulled about as well.

It must have been hell for himself, who had managed to get into the hospital just as they were busy slitting my throat. I would have preferred him to be there before, but it didn't happen. So there I was, crying because I couldn't communicate my fear any other way whole the nurses moved me back to my bed. I made it without incident, my drip and my drain tethering me to the bed. Yup, drain, you read that right. A nice tube in my throat taking away any bruise blood to stop the swelling that could have ripped my stitches out. Charming eh? I must have looked so utterly delightful.

So I'm a terrible patient. Decidedly independant. I was told I had to have company and help if I wanted to get out of bed and go to the toilet. You must be joking! I don't "do" company in the loo, and if I can make it under my own steam, I don't need nursemaiding about either. By the time I'd become more awake and alert, I'd worked out how to detatch my drain from my bed and reattach it. Freedom! I could go to the toilet on my own... Well, almost... I was a bit wobbly, but I had my drip stand to wheel about and keep me company, so I leaned on that and sneaked off while the nurses were busy. I made it back to bed before I could get told off. They told me off anyway.

The nights were the worst I think. All quiet apart from the occasional snores and the squeak of nurses comfortable shoes on the flooring. They dropped by every couple of hours to check on me as I lay and read, napped, read some more, and generally didn't sleep much. It's kinda difficult to sleep when you've had your throat cut. It's just a tad uncomfortable. I was getting everything checked and tested every couple of hours, so I didn't get too lonely in the night. The nurses were really nice, and I don't know if they appreciated the fact I was awake and compliant when they did the observations. I was anyway.

My surgeon dropped in the next day to see how I was doing, and was most surprised that I could talk almost normally, and tell him I was fine. I also chastised him for the lack of Eric in a jar, and the really small scar. I wanted something grim to show friends, and a piratical look (I told you I had a morbid sense of humour. Now do you believe me?) but he was quite apologetic, and so nice, I let him off. I forgot to tell him about the numbness I'd noticed on my face a few hours before. Well, I couldn't feel it, and the bit on the bottom lip I assumed was from the tube during the op. I decided to tell him next time he was round, but by then I'd forgotten again.

They kept me in an extra day because my normally boringly normal blood pressure had decided to visit my boots for a short period of time. Bah humbug. More hospital food. The day they let me out, himself had serious car trouble and I didn't get out till about eight at night on the Friday. I was happy to be home, and just wanted to sleep. I ended up on the sofa for a fortnight because I couldn't lie with my head back on the pillows. It was too uncomfortable.

I'd noticed a distinct lack of balance when I was poddling about the ward, but I assumed that it was to do with the anaesthetic. Two weeks later, and I still had it. Delayed reaction? I went to the doctor. No clues there. I mentioned the numbness. It might pass. It didn't. It got worse. Two weeks later and I'm still not able to get around too well. I was walking like a drunk and still unable to go back to work. The dizziness was causing insomnia (You try sleeping when the bed is doing a good impression of a fairground ride) and I wasn't functioning too well as a human being. Zombie was closer to the truth. I was drinking tea and spending large amounts of time either parked in front of the television watching rubbish, or sat in front of the computer talking to old friends and new.

I slept for maybe an hour or two a day during those dark days, sleep punctuated by nightmares that would wake me up in cold sweats after being in bed for maybe an hour. I tried sleeping tablets. I got two hours in before the nightmares hit. It was hell, and I had to live it. I had to live it quietly and not complain too much, laugh it off, wander round the house like a drunk zombie and drink water on the days when my balance wouldn't let me boil a kettle.

Months of tests and specialists have turned into nearly a year. I will pass another birthday and this time I won't be able to think of celebrating. What do I have to celebrate? My work understandably needed someone who could get there and do the job, so I got Ill Health Severance. I didn't appeal the decision. I thought about it, but on a good day I could only see more waiting for specialists and a possible cure before I would be fit. On black days I could see nothing but a shell of a life, one where every day is the same.

The black days come and go. I wonder sometimes what earthly good I really am now. I can't walk far. I have to use a stick to get around and I walk like an old lady. I have trouble some days even thinking of getting into my kitchen and cooking a meal. Himself has to put up with microwave food and ready meals, when one of my great joys in life was cooking.

Ah well, I have another appointment coming up in July. I wonder if I will get an answe then, or if it will still be as clear as mud. They've tried everything to find out what's caused it. It wasn't the cut throat, because that's the neck, nothing to do with facial nerves or balance centres. It's nothing to do with any brain disorder. The MRI came up with nothing.

On the good side of things, the thyroid op was a complete success. No more lump, no Eric Junior, but I have a low-dose thyroxine that I will have to take for the rest of my life, because the half of my thyroid that's left is being lazy and not producing quite enough.

I suppose it's made me evaluate my life a bit. It's made me realise that friends are important. I get stuck in my house for days on end, and having people to talk to has stopped me going insane. Or has it? Is this the first sign of insanity? Talking to myself and talking to the world about a problem that really only concerns me if truth be told. It's my problem and I have to deal. Perhaps this will help. Perhaps sharing this bit of me with whomever can be bothered reading my vast quantities of... I don't know what to call it really... will help me find a path through the darkness that haunts my sleep and tinges my waking hours.

I've taken so much for granted. My independence, my friends, my family. This last year has made me look deeper into myself than any other time in my life, and while I've not particularly liked some of the bits I've found in there, there's other bits I can pull out and say "Yes, that was a good time".

Every day I wake up, wander round, hate my dependance. Every day I wonder if I will ever be me again, or if I'm destined to remain this other thing that isn't me. I'm not dependant. I'm not reliant on the charity and help of others. That's not me. That definitely isn't me, but it's what my life is. Every day I look into the abyss of a life like that forever, and I wonder if I can do it. Every day I need to find the strength and determination to go and do something, anything, to just find a little bit of the old me. Every day I hide behind a front of cheerfulness and cry when I'm on my own and feel the abyss looking back at me. Every day I talk to people on the computer who can't see my stick, and I talk banalities, brushing off questions about how I am, because I don't want to admit anything to myself. Every day I try and find the motivation to push my limits, and I don't always succeed.

Every day is the same. Every day is exactly the same.