M.A.D.

I wake on Friday morning at five something, tune in to the BBC World service for the news, there’s something in my head that makes me feel just a little connected to the World I’m in if I listen to it without actually being out there and involved. Unfortunately there have been kidnappings in Nigeria, civilians murdered in Burma & civil unrest on the streets of Thailand, there’s wholesale deforestation going in in the lungs of the world ( The Amazon ), people marching on the streets of Beyalarus and that’s just to begin with.

Yep the world is a bit screwed, reassuringly I am little different.

But today is going to be different, I decided it yesterday. I had a firm word with myself and decided that today I would get up early, blank out the pain in my joints and just get on with my stuff, all the things I have been putting off.

I’ve found that the easiest way to get up in the morning is thus:- I start a rocking motion sitting on the side of the bed & on the second round I push myself half way up, then on the third I raise myself upright:- cue the pain. I know it will be there, but this is a case of mind over matter, after all its only pain, just ignore it.

Once on my feet I reach for my stick and stand as straight as possible. For some reason as yet unclear my right leg now seems to be at least an inch or two shorter than my left, where did the rest of it go?

I lumber awkwardly to the bathroom for a pee and then hobble back to bed, just for a few minutes.

My few minutes turns to two hours, rays of sunshine poke through the bedroom blinds & I can no longer bare the idea of being stuck in bed. I dress awkwardly and begin the journey down two flights of stairs towards the kitchen. Every bloody step hurts but there I will find coffee, dark delicious Italian coffee, one of the best reasons to be alive that I’ve encountered in fifty seven years of existence.

As I limp down the stairs I can’t help but think that four years ago I was walking in the foothills of the Himalayas without a care in the world, today two flights of stairs feel like Mount bleeding Everest, how is this possible? As I lower myself one step at a time my knee makes noises like two blocks of wood being scraped together, or a couple of rusty old lumps of metal in need of a good oiling.

I make it to the kitchen and to the coffee, then carry a cup of the beautiful nectar towards an armchair in which I flop. My Everest conquered I savour my drink and wash down with my first two pain killers of the day.

The warning on the carton states contains opiod, may cause addiction. What a load of tosh, why doesn’t it say these pills will make you so constipated that going to the lavvie will feel like giving birth to a 14lb baby? This malady I endured for several weeks until I put two and two together and discovered that a side effect of the pills could be the production of stools the size and consistency of first world war artillery shells.

On discussing with my GP I was prescribed a laxative, my son collected the remedy from the chemist somewhat perturbed to find that it was three enormous boxes and duly dispensed in a see through bag for all and sundry to smirk at as he carried it through town back home. My ninety sachets of powder are allegedly ‘orange’ flavour. This is a down right lie, they taste nothing like any orange I’ve ever come across. But fair do’s it does what it says on the box.

At the risk of over sharing I have to say I am now a producer of lovely lovely stools. Though one other draw back is that I now seem to produce an inordinate quantity of wind & it’s really difficult to distinguish the difference between a gust of the former and needing a dump. So I now need to take the precaution of going to the lavatory each time I feel a stirring down below, you cannot be too careful in these matters let me tell you but fourteen trips a day – I ask you?

I am now waiting to find out what side effect comes from the laxative doses prescribed to counter the side effects of the pain killers, once I know I will pass it on.

Joy of joys today I have an appointment on the phone do discuss my claim for Universal Credit. My case worker for UC is a girl named Amy, she’s very sweet and does her best, today she wants to discuss my search for work. This with a man that is unable to get past his front door.

Can I write a CV she asks me. I pause, how do I reply to her? My last proper job paid me a six figure salary? I ran a business turning over millions of pounds a year? I had more than a hundred people reporting to me? Of course I can type a bloody CV. But this would be petulant and pointless, all that was a long time ago and now it’s different. I agree to type up a C.V. despite the fact that I am currently incapable of working and come to that I wouldn’t employ me to empty the office waste bins, but that’s not the point is it? The point is just to make the effort, to try.

One step at a time, I shall go, creaky, squeaky & decidedly cranky.