A favourite quote and a way by which to approach life.

Today is the tomorrow that you worried about yesterday.

Saturday, 27 October 2012


Who are you?  What makes you who you are?  Do you ever think about that?  When people ask you who you are, what do you answer?  Do you say that you're so-and-so's sister or brother, son or daughter?  Do you say that you're the person who lives at number x of y street?  Do you identify yourself by the job you do, the people you work for, the people who work for you?

I'm going through a time of flux at the moment, and a time when I don't know what to say when people ask me what I do.  What do I do?  For the past six years, up until the end of August this year, I could say that I was a student.  First of all I was a student with the Open University doing my undergraduate degree; then I was at student at Newcastle University doing an MA.  Now?  Now I, um, now I'm not very sure.

In theory, I'm a writer.  In theory, I'm writing the rest of my book about asthma, and a children's book about my cat.  In practice, I haven't actually written since I finished my MA portfolio.  I needed the break.  I needed a rest after getting utterly exhausted from having to keep going through the course of my studies.  I want to write the books I'm 'writing', but I'm stuck in a rut of not writing.  To be honest, I'm a bit low.  I have nothing to focus my mind on writing, or anything else for that matter.  I need to get writing again, but the stuff I'm writing for my book about asthma is very emotionally draining, and I'm feeling a little fragile.

And what then?  What about when I've finished the book?  What if nobody wants to publish it?  Can I call myself a writer if I haven't been published?  And that question is relevant to both when I've finished writing the book and to now.  I don't want to self-publish.  Yes, it's a possibility, but it's not the route I want to go down.  I want to be published 'properly'.  This is a bit of a ridiculous question to be worrying about at the moment, given that I've only got about 30 000 words of my book at the moment.  Also, my supervisor for my Post Graduate Certificate portfolio suggested a publisher she thought might be suitable for me to approach when the time came, so it's even more ridiculous to be worrying about it when there's a slight possibility of a publisher.

So if I don't identify myself by the job I do or don't do, then how do I identify myself?  What about you?  Who would you say you are if were to take your job/career away?  Is it by family?  I have parents, yes, and siblings, yes, but they don't define me. Their existence doesn't say who I am, even if their existence contributes to who I am...

I'm confusing myself now...

But there's more, more to do with my identity and the question of who I am.  It's difficult to explain, but it's to do with having carers.  They only come three times a week, although it was recently suggested that I have them more frequently.  I turned down the suggestion.  Yes, it might be helpful, but it makes me even more dependent on others, and thus strips me of independence.  I'm only thirty eight.  I don't want to be dependent on others for normal things of daily living.  I don't want to have to be reliant on others to cook my meals, to clean my house, to do anything for me.  It might seem like a dream to some, to have people come in and cook for you, do your ironing, clean your home, change your bed linen.  Perhaps it is if it's a choice, but when it's a necessity it's different.  When it's a necessity it challenges your perception of yourself, and it challenges others' perception of you too.  Suddenly you become the needy one, the one who can't do things, the person who is not quite so easy to be with, the person who is different.  I don't want that.  I know that I am that.

On the whole, people who care - either professionally or voluntarily - are good people.  They want to help.  Help is good, but help can also be limiting.  The fact that I have these people to do things for me means that I don't do them for myself.  That's great if it's things that I can't do any more, but not so good if there are things that maybe I could do for myself sometimes.  I don't know what these things are, if I'm honest, but I suppose that what I'm getting at is that sometimes disability can  itself be disabling.  Because there are things you can't do then sometimes it is presumed that there are other things that you can't do so you suddenly find that they're done for you.  Again, there are no specific instances of this that I can think of, but I know that this has happened, and I resent its possibility in the future.

The more that things I can do/am able to do are taken from me, either by health or carers, the less I know about who I am.  The less I know what my identity is.  All I do know at this point in time, is that I don't want to be the person who does nothing, who needs everything doing for them, who needs help all the time, who is difficult to be with, who is different.

I want back some of who I used to be.

Thursday, 25 October 2012

Norfolk (part two)

It seems a long time ago now that W and I were in Norfolk, but I do owe you all another post about the things we got up to.  We crammed a lot in to our time away, whilst still managing to have a few days around the cottage and the local village.  However, we couldn't go that close to the regional capital without spending a day in Norwich, so we took the Park and Ride in to the city centre one day and went visiting the cathedrals.  There are two in Norwich (as there are in many cities) - the Catholic and the Anglican - and we went to the Catholic one first, passing through a lovely park on the way:

Bandstand in the park
Gargoyle on the outside of the Catholic Cathedral
The Nave of the Catholic Cathedral
The south aisle of the Catholic Cathedral

It looks old, doesn't it?  I have to say that I felt a little cheated to find out that it was only built in 1910.  It's still lovely, though, so I don't mind too much.

We had a very pleasant walk then to the Anglican Cathedral, which is simply called Norwich Cathedral.  One of the streets we went along had lots of plaques laid in to the pavement representing different professions.  Here's one of them:

And then we arrived at Norwich Cathedral:

The East end of the Cathedral
Seen from the cloisters
The cloisters
The font is unusually placed along the side of one of the aisles, but it was one that I particularly liked.  There's a sign next to it that explains that it used to be a vat in a chocolate factory, and was donated to the Cathedral by the factory.  I'm not sure if this is when the factory closed, or at some other time.  I love the idea of being baptised in a chocolate vat:

Chocolate pot font

Isn't it fabulous?

Sadly we weren't able to stay for evensong that was just about to start as we left, because we'd have missed the last bus back to the Park and Ride car park.  That was a bit disappointing, but we did have a pleasant walk/trundle back through the city to the bus station.

Where we were staying in Stratton St Michael was only about a half hour drive from a small zoo - Banham Zoo.  W and I both love animals and wildlife so it was a natural thing for us to visit the zoo, especially as we were so close.  There were mixed reviews of it in the cottage's visitors' book, but we really enjoyed it, despite it being the one day when we had torrential rain, although the rest of the country had it much worse.  In fact it was so bad in other parts of the country later in the week that the A1 got flooded and was closed.  We were keeping an eye on this as the A1 was, of course, our route back up North, and it was looking as though we wouldn't be able to get back home.  The week progressed, and although we had pretty good weather, the rain in other parts of England was awful, so much so that the diversion route off the A1 then became flooded.  Although we had a couple of days left before the planned end to our holiday, we had to make a decision - were we going to try getting home on the Saturday with no guarantee of making it, or were we going to see if a couple of extra days would give the road chaos a chance to settle.  In the end we settled for the latter, and after talking with the cottage proprietors (and W clearing it with work), we   arranged to stay until the Monday.  Although we might have managed to get back on the Saturday, I suspect that the goods vehicles that couldn't get through earlier in the week might well have clogged up the A1, and certainly when we were driving back on Monday there was still a lot of evidence of the floods.  By this time the water on the road had been cleared - pumped off by the fire brigade - but there were many, many fields along the way that were still like lakes.  As it was, it still took us eight hours to get back!

So anyway, with our extra time in Norfolk we decided to make the most of it, and on the Saturday when we should have been coming home, instead we went to another zoo - Africa Alive - just outside Lowestoft in Suffolk.  Africa Alive is much bigger than Banham Zoo, but it's owned by the same people.  I have to say that at both places I thought that some of the cages were a little small, but the animals were obviously well cared for, and none of them seemed distressed.  I will leave you this evening with a selection of photos from Banham Zoo and Africa Alive.  I have rather a lot of these photos so I'll try to limit those I put up, but it's going to be hard, and I predict a bit of an animal overload for you ;oP


Ringtailed Lemurs - Mother and baby.
Baby Lemur sitting on my knee trying to work out how to control the wheelchair.
Meerkats relaxing in the sunshine.
Spiny mice.
Foxes, but I've forgotten what kind.
Elephants ;oP
'Allo.  You looking for me?
Fighting cattle/bison.
'Zero', the alpha male lion at Africa Alive.
Fighting lions with Zero looking on.
Spider Monkey
W hand feeding a larakeet
A yawny leopard
Oh, 'ello.  Can I 'elp you?
Snow Leopard
Jackass Penguins
Short-clawed Otter
Snack time for the tiger
Longing for freedom?
Red Panda

Sunday, 21 October 2012


The plan had been to write a second post about Norfolk a couple of days after the first.  Plans don't always go as I'd hope, and this time it certainly hasn't.  A day or two after my last post I started to feel grotty.  It wasn't anything particularly tangible - a deep fatigue and malaise, and an inability even to think properly.  I was hoping it was just a bad day of some kind as I was supposed to be going to Liverpool the next day to meet up with some good friends from the Open University.

That night (Thursday) I had an awful night.  I didn't sleep well, I was very restless, I just didn't feel well, and when my alarm went off on Friday morning I felt awful.  My insides decided they'd prefer to be on the outside and my temperature was up to 39.7C.  There was absolutely no way I was going to get to Liverpool, but to be honest, I felt too ill to be too disappointed.

I couldn't keep my meds down, and I was concerned that my asthma would get completely out of control because of that.  My temperature wasn't responding to the tiny amount of paracetamol that I did manage to get inside me, and I was becoming dehydrated.  I rang the GP.  When I said to the receptionist that I think I needed a home visit she sounded a bit incredulous, but really she should know that I would never ask for a home visit if there was any chance I could get to the surgery.  She said that the doctor might just phone me, instead of visiting.

The doctor did ring me, but he said he was quite concerned so would do a home visit too.  I unlocked the door the next time I got up to go to the bathroom, and when Dr Cn arrived he let himself in.  He could see that I really wasn't well, and he was also worried that I wasn't able to keep my meds down, so he prescribed some Buccastem -  an antisickness tablet that dissolves slowly in the mouth.  He then rang the local pharmacy and got them to deliver it to my home, telling them that I was in no way well enough to go to the pharmacy myself.  I then gave them the prescription Dr Cn had left when they came around with the meds.

The day passed in a haze with weird dreams of high temperature, interspersed with many, many trips to the bathroom.  The doctor then rang me again before he left work for home at the end of the day.  He asked if I'd be okay.  I said that I probably would, but I was thinking, 'I don't know.  You're the doctor.'  Anyway, he told me that I should contact the out of hours doctors immediately if I got any worse or was at all worried.  I promised I would.

The cat was obviously really worried as he wouldn't leave my side.  This may sound odd, but Zach is very sensitive, and when I'm ill at night with my asthma he pats my face gently with his paw until I wake up.  He then watches me intently until I'm sorted and breathing easier.  He didn't need to wake me on the Friday, but he did stay glued to my side, following me into the bathroom and watching me closely all the time.  W came round in the evening and she realised that Zach must be starving because he hadn't touched his food in the kitchen.  He wouldn't go through to the kitchen because he was too busy guarding me, but W brought his food into my bedroom and he snaffled it down.

W was brilliant (as ever).  She cleaned my toilet and the bin that I'd earlier vomited in because I couldn't get to the bathroom fast enough.  She went back to her house and brought her fan back to mine to try to help cool me down.  She sat with me for several hours until I was fast asleep, sometime in the early hours of the morning.

Saturday was much the same as Friday, but I was getting more dehydrated.  When W came round in the evening she went to the supermarket for me to get some rehydration salts (and she also came back with some beautiful flowers that cheered me up loads).  She checked the ingredients in the shop.  I checked the ingredients when she got to mine with them.  W checked the ingredients again.  I checked the ingredients again, and again for luck.  There didn't seem to be anything in them that I am allergic to, so I set to trying to get them into me and keep them down.

Twenty or so minutes after taking the rehydration salts I was lying in bed (in fresh sheets that W had just changed for me) when I realised that I was itching a lot.  Then my eyes started to get itchy and sore and my left eye was swelling up.  I took some antihistamine, but still, my lungs began to tighten and I could feel my throat beginning to swell.  When my nebuliser did nothing to ease the chest tightness and wheezing, and I was being more sick than I had been, I knew I had to take my epi-pen.  I was heading towards anaphylaxis.

The protocol for anaphylaxis is that when you use an epi-pen you have to go to hospital.  You should also call an ambulance to get to hospital.  I hate ambulances.  I did go to hospital, but W took me in her car...  Thankfully, we got there no problem, and possibly quicker than in an ambulance as it was a Saturday night in Newcastle.

I was seen as soon as we went into A&E, and taken straight through for treatment.  The department was full of drunks and people laid out on trolleys in various states of drunken unconsciousness.  The bloke in the bed next to me was absolutely wasted, and trying to get up despite being in head blocks because he had a suspected broken neck.  The poor nurses really had their hands full.  But regardless of that, they were great with me.

Once I was stabilised in A&E I was taken to the Emergency Admissions Unit where I spent the rest of the night and most of the next day.  The anaphylaxis was settling well, but I still had a high temperature, I was still vomiting, and I still had bad diarrhoea so I was far from well.  The medics said they wanted to keep me in for a while, but said that they'd probably keep me in my side room on EAU.  This is why it was a particular surprise when the porter came to take me to the ward.  Nobody had told me I was going to the ward, or what kind of ward it was, so it was even more of a surprise when the porter said I was going to the ward for Tropical Diseases!

It turned out that the ward for Tropical Diseases is also the ward for Infectious Diseases, which gastroenteritis certainly is, and a ward for those with compromised immune systems.  Nonetheless, it was still somewhat unnerving to be going there, and even more so when I arrived.  The Tropical and Infectious Diseases ward is the only ward on the top floor of an isolated part of the hospital.  The corridor leading to the ward is locked.  The door going on to the ward is locked.  There is a red light above the door that indicates when someone on the ward has something particularly nasty.  Each patient has their own room, and each room has a double door/airlock entry system.  Each cubicle can have the pressure inside adapted (I guess some tropical diseases affect pressures, or something), and each room has a camera on the wall so that the patient can be watched with medical staff requiring as little contact as possible.  At night time the camera lens is encircled by red LED eyelashes so that the patient can still be seen in the dark.  The windows in the room don't open.  People hardly ever come in, and when they do they're clad in apron and gloves.  You see these kinds of wards on apocalyptic sci-fi films, but you never think they really exist.  You think there must be some artistic licence for dramatic effect, but no, they do really exist, and I found myself on one.  It was all very, very surreal.

I was on the T&ID ward for three days before coming home on Wednesday evening.  I'm a lot better than I was - so, so much better than I was - but I'm still not right.  It turned out that the gastroenteritis was a bacterial bug, and one that's reportable to the Health Protection Agency, so apparently I might get a call from them to see if they can locate the source of the infection.  I have an idea, but I'll leave it up to the HPA to confirm or otherwise.

I am now completely wiped out.  I still don't feel terribly well, and apparently I could have some symptoms for up to four weeks!  I think this is going to be a slow recovery, and definitely not helped by the anaphylactic reaction.  W and I have contacted the manufacturers of the rehydration salts about that.  The only thing it can have been that caused the reaction is the flavouring, for which the ingredients weren't listed, and under the 'side effects' section in the patient information leaflet it says, 'None known.'  I've filled in a couple of forms for them, and they're also sending one of the sachets off to Germany to be analysed, so at least they're taking it seriously, although I'm still going to try to get in touch with them to find out what the ingredients are in the flavouring.  It's important that I know.  Either there's something in it that I know I am allergic to, but which isn't listed in the ingredients, or I have developed an allergy to something else.  I just hope they give me the information I need.

It's been quite some week.  I'm hoping for a much less eventful week this week.

Sunday, 7 October 2012

Norfolk (part one)

I broke my promise to get back to you before the week was out.  I'm sorry.  You see, I was too busy having fun to update my blog through the day, and either too tired or too busy trying to get my sat nav working in the evenings.  After having got to our holiday destination without a working sat nav (yes, I used the old method of using sign posts *shock!*), I thought it would be a lot easier to get around to our various planned days out if I were to get it working.  I did, eventually, although it was a task and a half as I was working with a dodgy dongle connection most of the time.

Anyway, enough of boring technology stuff.  The cottage that W and I had rented was gorgeous.  It was plenty big enough for the two of us, easily wheelchair accessible through the patio doors, extremely well equipped.  It wasn't huge, but it was attached to a fabulous detached house lived in by the cottage proprietors, and was surrounded by two acres of fabulous gardens that included a trampoline and a tennis court.  Neither W nor I made use of the trampoline, but W, despite her arthritis, did leap on the trampoline one evening.  Here are a couple of photos of the cottage, proprietor's house, the garden, and W on the trampoline:
Our cottage
The proprietor's house with the cottage to the left
Proprietor's house and some of the gardens
W having an evening bounce on the trampoline
An inflatable giraffe enjoying a cup of tea on the patio
What do you mean 'you've never seen a giraffe enjoying a cup of tea on a patio before'?  Georgina was out there for ages, making the most of the sunshine.  She even had a piece of shortbread to go with her cuppa.

Away from the cottage we got up to all sorts of things.  We went for a day on the Bure Valley Railway - a nine mile long narrow gauge steam railway from Aylsham to Wroxham:

Some of the carriage were wheelchair accessible!

When we arrived at Wroxham we got a little lost trying to find our way to the mariner from where we had a boat trip booked.  It might have been helpful if either of us had looked out our tickets from the railway, on which was a map detailing how to get from the station to the tour boats, but we did eventually make it, just in time.  We had a fab trip on the boat, going along Wroxham Broad:

A Wroxham Broad 'street'
One of the oldest boats on Wroxham Broad
A very lush landscape

George Formby's House
An example of Norfolk thatched roofs, seen along Wroxham Broad
The best sign seen on Wroxham Broad
One of many swans on the Broad
Several of the many swans seen on Wroxham Broad
We had a few days where we just pottered around the cottage and in the local area.  The village we were staying in was Stratton St Michael, which is the northern end of Long Stratton, a little way outside of Norwich.  As you might expect, there's the church of St Michael at Stratton St Michael, and at the other end of Long Stratton there's the church of St Mary, in the area of Stratton St Mary.  W and I visited both the churches:
St Mary's Church
Inside St Mary's Church
St Michael's Church
The font in St Michael's Church
An angel with a child on a small plinth by a window  in St Michael's Church.  
Both the churches were lovely, and there was a particularly lovely walk/trundle along the lane to St Michael's Church.  There are a few houses, but mostly it's countryside with harvest fields on both sides, and occasional stretches of brambles loaded with ripening blackberries.  The lane is fairly quiet, although it is a main route from the very busy A140 to a couple of small villages so we did come across several cars on each of our trips to and from the church.  Here are a couple of photos taken along the lane:
Our cottage and the proprietor's house seen from the lane
A grumpy-looking hare in a field by the lane
A rabbit in a field by the lane
A rather magnificent tree at the far end of the lane to St Michael's Church 
I will leave you for now with a photo of the South Norfolk Council Offices in Long Stratton.  I sincerely hope it's not the housing office:
Looking lovely, but a tad overgrown
I'll be back before long with part two, but I think that's probably enough for now.