I meet with D today, a clinical psychologist with the Pain Management Team. I haven't seen her since I holidayed with Dolores and it's good to catch up. Although seeing her is usually an emotional journey, it doesn't feel like therapy, and we end up giggling like school children for an hour and a half. It was a strange concept at first - being given work to do on yourself. A bizarre school report of how, emotionally, one 'could do better'. However, after a while it becomes really interesting learning about you. I found it quite amazing that after all these years (a) I could know so little about certain aspects of my character and (b) how astute someone else could be at spotting them in such a short space of time.
I treat myself to a facial afterward - the fish oil tablets are not making any noticeable difference yet (I suppose I may have to give them longer than 2 days to work)- and I feel cocooned in a bubble of relaxation after 90 minutes of sensitive discussion. The therapist wafts 2 different scents under my nose and asks me to choose which one I find more pleasant. "Definitely the first". Turns out I have chosen 'comfort' rather than 'focused'. Enough said. After she's pasted goo onto my face she gives me a neck massage and I can feel gristly lumps crunching in my neck as her fingers move. I make a mental note to invest in a package of back massages this month or I run the risk of not being able to turn my head by the end of it.
I'm settled onto the sofa in pyjamas watching the England game when Dolores decides she wants to be heard. To be honest the first half was so bad I don't blame her - she was probably trying (she succeeds) to get me to take some tranquillizers to relieve me of the boredom. We want some of what Northern Ireland are having please - fair play to them with a win over Sweden. Something we haven't managed since 1968.
Katy
(Jam or marmalade?)
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
I is for intolerable
I seem to be stuck in a vicious not sleeping-morbid-tiredness cycle. I'm beginning to think that I was accidentally injected with too much sedative in hospital. Either that or I'm incredibly lazy and I've only just realised. Despite being crushingly tired during the day, as soon as I go to bed to my eyelids peel themselves to the back of my head. Sleeping tablets don't work and I have tried all the usual fluffy remedies of lavender on my pillow (smell gives me a headache) and a warm milky drink before bedtime (I have to get up for a wee). Does anybody have any suggestions for a good nights sleep and boundless daytime energy? Or is that liking asking for the keys to the universe?
I've also invested in some fish oil tablets as my memory seems terrible at present. Whether this is due to the drugs or just plain old age who knows. If they're good enough to feed to Primary School children (the tablets not the drugs that is) then they're good enough for me. We probably have the same attention span.
I've stocked up on the vegetable count in my fridge too - just because I'm eating lots of strawberry ice cream, I'm not convinced it counts as one of my five-a-day.
BF called last night - 4 years ago we were at the Winter Music Conference in Miami. We reminisce about a time when we were tanned, interesting and gorgeous as opposed to pale, unhealthy and social recluses. What happened to us? Oh yes, I got ill and she got pregnant.
Katy
(What Inspires you?)
I've also invested in some fish oil tablets as my memory seems terrible at present. Whether this is due to the drugs or just plain old age who knows. If they're good enough to feed to Primary School children (the tablets not the drugs that is) then they're good enough for me. We probably have the same attention span.
I've stocked up on the vegetable count in my fridge too - just because I'm eating lots of strawberry ice cream, I'm not convinced it counts as one of my five-a-day.
BF called last night - 4 years ago we were at the Winter Music Conference in Miami. We reminisce about a time when we were tanned, interesting and gorgeous as opposed to pale, unhealthy and social recluses. What happened to us? Oh yes, I got ill and she got pregnant.
Katy
(What Inspires you?)
Monday, March 26, 2007
H is for heartstopping
I speak to BF today who is understandably shaken after crashing her car. 'I'm going to kill my children' flashing through her mind as a blowout left her facing the wrong way on the wrong side of the road. All 3 kids were in the car.
As the car shuddered to a halt in a hedge she anxiously peered into the back to check on the children. "It's just like a fairground ride Mummy" said her eldest. "Can you do that again?"
Katy
(What is your pet Hate?)
As the car shuddered to a halt in a hedge she anxiously peered into the back to check on the children. "It's just like a fairground ride Mummy" said her eldest. "Can you do that again?"
Katy
(What is your pet Hate?)
G is for garbage
The first 2 days of convalescence whizz by as I sleep for most of them, alternating between bed and sofa. In true invalid style I am building up my strength by eating a nutritious and varied diet - of ice cream. Despite the tiredness, the initial 24 hours are Dolores free. I am so used to her company, even if she is only whispering, that her absence is a little disconcerting. I feel a tiny butterfly of excitement at the thought of a summer without her, but quickly stamp on the thought as I don't want to get ahead of myself. On day 2, I recreate a scene from a retirement home by parking myself in a recliner in the window, complete with rug over knees. Soaking up the sunshine I am enjoying being able to read the Sunday Times undisturbed from cover to cover when she interrupts. I have to quiet her with pills but I still feel positive that the hospital procedure was the right choice.
Little brother calls on day 3 and helps ease my cabin fever by taking me out to lunch at The Baltic. We walk quickly from the car; the wind is funnelling down the Quayside and blowing swirling snow in our faces. A thousand cold knives through my little bones. We warm up with hot cups of coffee and soup. Afterward we take at look at the exhibitions. Much of contemporary art leaves me cold and since returning from Italy I think I have become even more intolerant. It strikes me that it is not altogether unreasonable that if you are going to define yourself as belonging to a certain profession, then you should be able to display certain characteristics associated with it. However, being able to draw seems to be a lost art to many contemporary artists. The previous Baltic exhibition provided examples of some of the exceptions, but today the Elvis drawn in chocolate and a room full of pans on a conveyor belt leave me impatient to leave. I note that the artist also uses cow dung, presumably a metaphor for the quality of his work.
Katy
(Grumpy or happy?)
Little brother calls on day 3 and helps ease my cabin fever by taking me out to lunch at The Baltic. We walk quickly from the car; the wind is funnelling down the Quayside and blowing swirling snow in our faces. A thousand cold knives through my little bones. We warm up with hot cups of coffee and soup. Afterward we take at look at the exhibitions. Much of contemporary art leaves me cold and since returning from Italy I think I have become even more intolerant. It strikes me that it is not altogether unreasonable that if you are going to define yourself as belonging to a certain profession, then you should be able to display certain characteristics associated with it. However, being able to draw seems to be a lost art to many contemporary artists. The previous Baltic exhibition provided examples of some of the exceptions, but today the Elvis drawn in chocolate and a room full of pans on a conveyor belt leave me impatient to leave. I note that the artist also uses cow dung, presumably a metaphor for the quality of his work.
Katy
(Grumpy or happy?)
Thursday, March 22, 2007
F is for faint
It's D day. Or rather H day. Hospital. I feel curiously indifferent. I've been here before so my expectations are low.
I start to feel a little edgy as I walk through the disinfected green corridors the colour of pain. A nurse checks me in and attaches my plastic bracelet. Thankfully I am near the top of the list and I only have to wait for half an hour before my name is called. I change into my gown and I'm wheeled to theatre by a tiny but hard as nails Scottish nurse. We chat about Liz Hurley's wedding pictures that I've just been scrutinizing (we agree the dress is too much of a meringue. Money doesn't necessarily buy you good taste she tells me).
I'm wired up to endless machines and Dr M arrives all calmness and smiles. He begins by injecting local anaesthetic to numb my skin. He's already told me that he could puncture my lung, so I'm concentrating on lying VERY still. The procedure doesn't take long - it's uncomfortable and slightly painful but nowhere near as bad as last time. As soon as he's finished I perform my usual trick of trying to faint and I have to wait for my blood pressure to stabilise for 20 minutes. My left arm has gone weirdly limp and translucent - apparently this is good. I'm reassured that I will only look like an extra from Star Trek temporarily. I'm hooked up to a drip and wheeled back onto the ward.
X sits by me and holds my hand, chin resting on the metal rails at the side of my bed. "It's all rock and roll with me" I tell him "You don't get crazy Friday afternoons with just any girl you know". He smiles, puts socks on my cold feet and leaves me to sleep whilst going in search of magazines.
After waiting for the drip to run through for an hour, the obligatory tea and toast and double checking that I'm not going to keel over, I'm discharged.
Back home I try sitting on the sofa but Dolores is wailing like a banshee and I have to retire to bed. I lie with tears streaming down my face, terrified that I have aggravated rather than erased her. I take lots of drugs and drift into a light sleep. I come round in the dark of early evening and distract myself listening to Pete Tong.
I call home to see how my Grandma is - she's been in hospital today too but the news is positive. Her consultant told her she must keep drinking to stay hydrated - "Does that include red wine?" was her first question. That's my girl.
I get up around 9pm but there's no sign of Dolores. Not even a squeak. Nothing. I daren't say anything out loud in case I break the spell.
Katy
I start to feel a little edgy as I walk through the disinfected green corridors the colour of pain. A nurse checks me in and attaches my plastic bracelet. Thankfully I am near the top of the list and I only have to wait for half an hour before my name is called. I change into my gown and I'm wheeled to theatre by a tiny but hard as nails Scottish nurse. We chat about Liz Hurley's wedding pictures that I've just been scrutinizing (we agree the dress is too much of a meringue. Money doesn't necessarily buy you good taste she tells me).
I'm wired up to endless machines and Dr M arrives all calmness and smiles. He begins by injecting local anaesthetic to numb my skin. He's already told me that he could puncture my lung, so I'm concentrating on lying VERY still. The procedure doesn't take long - it's uncomfortable and slightly painful but nowhere near as bad as last time. As soon as he's finished I perform my usual trick of trying to faint and I have to wait for my blood pressure to stabilise for 20 minutes. My left arm has gone weirdly limp and translucent - apparently this is good. I'm reassured that I will only look like an extra from Star Trek temporarily. I'm hooked up to a drip and wheeled back onto the ward.
X sits by me and holds my hand, chin resting on the metal rails at the side of my bed. "It's all rock and roll with me" I tell him "You don't get crazy Friday afternoons with just any girl you know". He smiles, puts socks on my cold feet and leaves me to sleep whilst going in search of magazines.
After waiting for the drip to run through for an hour, the obligatory tea and toast and double checking that I'm not going to keel over, I'm discharged.
Back home I try sitting on the sofa but Dolores is wailing like a banshee and I have to retire to bed. I lie with tears streaming down my face, terrified that I have aggravated rather than erased her. I take lots of drugs and drift into a light sleep. I come round in the dark of early evening and distract myself listening to Pete Tong.
I call home to see how my Grandma is - she's been in hospital today too but the news is positive. Her consultant told her she must keep drinking to stay hydrated - "Does that include red wine?" was her first question. That's my girl.
I get up around 9pm but there's no sign of Dolores. Not even a squeak. Nothing. I daren't say anything out loud in case I break the spell.
Katy
(Fact or fiction?)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
E is for expire
My mother excels herself today in the number of different methods used to try and contact me. I get a text to say that she has e-mailed and the e-mail asks me to text her when it's convenient for her to phone me. I love my mum to bits, but should Cameron get into Number 10, she could be subject to an eco-tax all of her own for the energy expended by her communications.
J picks me up at 6.30pm and takes me to look at her new house. J makes me look like Waynetta Slob, and since moving in last August the place has been gutted, redecorated and organised to a standard Monica Geller would be proud of.
It's lovely to catch up and she tells me that the girls had a get together whilst I was away. Apparently after a few drinks the lap top had come out and they had a group reading of my blog. At this point J shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "H saw the dress you bought" she tells me. "And, well, she came to the conclusion that you had gone away to kill yourself and that the dress was your death outfit". I explode with laughter and wobble on my chair, clinging onto the table for support. Fantastic - despite the fact that H is so wide of the mark, I love the fact that she knows me well enough to realise I would want a fabulous outfit to off myself in.
Katy
(Half Empty of half full?)
J picks me up at 6.30pm and takes me to look at her new house. J makes me look like Waynetta Slob, and since moving in last August the place has been gutted, redecorated and organised to a standard Monica Geller would be proud of.
It's lovely to catch up and she tells me that the girls had a get together whilst I was away. Apparently after a few drinks the lap top had come out and they had a group reading of my blog. At this point J shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "H saw the dress you bought" she tells me. "And, well, she came to the conclusion that you had gone away to kill yourself and that the dress was your death outfit". I explode with laughter and wobble on my chair, clinging onto the table for support. Fantastic - despite the fact that H is so wide of the mark, I love the fact that she knows me well enough to realise I would want a fabulous outfit to off myself in.
Katy
(Half Empty of half full?)
Monday, March 19, 2007
D is for dilemma
Hey diddle diddle
my head's in a muddle
which hospital procedure to choose?
Dolores laughs, wicked and certain
that whatever I decide I'll lose.
Katy
(Roll a Dice or toss a coin?)
my head's in a muddle
which hospital procedure to choose?
Dolores laughs, wicked and certain
that whatever I decide I'll lose.
Katy
(Roll a Dice or toss a coin?)
Thursday, March 15, 2007
C is for cuddle
The kids wake me up at 6.30am. By now I am used to the sound of the junior assassins approaching. The click of the door latch followed by a loud whisper "Are you awake Aunty K?" As with the Borg, resistance is futile. Eldest is already dressed in her school uniform. E still in pyjamas climbs under my duvet and gives me a cuddle. The endless "why's" are silenced by the James and the Giant Peach DVD for half an hour.
I make them breakfast after 7 - milk has to be in very specific bottles ("I want piglet on mine"). E strokes my hair as I bend down to replace an unacceptable bottle choice "You've got pretty hair" and all is instantly forgiven. Sucker.
BF emerges looking worn after a grumbly night with baby and we head out for some fresh air. The amount of kit required to go such a short distance still amazes my untrained eye and it's a full half hour before we manage to leave the house. We take the 3 dogs with us and it seems every available grown up arm has something hanging off it; child, buggy, dog, doll, book. It's a beautiful spring morning and the views are spectacular. For the first time since being back I feel awakened by my surroundings. Whilst away words were constantly crowding my head, ideas vying for position.
BF drops me back at the station later and we chat in the car. She was looking at her wedding photos recently. "You looked so well" she tells me. "I'd forgotten how awful you look, it's happened so gradually". Ah. Love my best friend.
Katy
(What makes you Cry?)
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
B is for baby
Dolores and I hop on the train to see BF and the new baby.
I sit in the car with E (age 2) and the new arrival. I have a tongue rolling contest and listen to E's stream of consciousness babble as BF whizzes around the supermarket.
Time with BF and family is exactly what I needed - a good dose of normality; albeit somewhat frantic surrounded by 3 children, 3 dogs and a cat. There's pandemonium as I hand out presents in the kitchen. E loves her doll - for about half an hour, when she tells me 'I don't like that dolly anymore'. Refreshingly honest. Eldest child is delighted with her sword and her father immediately makes her kneel in the kitchen and knights her.
Eventually the eldest two are put to bed after reading Fantastic Mister Fox. 'That's a high frequency word' child number one tells me. 'High frequency?' I query in a high voice, 'why high frequency?'
'Not that kind of high frequency' BF laughs 'it just means the word is used a lot'. Oh. Clearly I am not parent material yet.
I have a brief cuddle of baby before supper. BF admits it's strange having a little boy after 2 girls. His range of fire whilst changing a nappy came as a particular surprise.
BF's description of labour sans epidural between main course and desert is terrifying - too much information is not always a good thing. We eat chocolate birthday cake to calm our nerves, by which time Dolores is plucking at some of mine.
I make my excuses and crawl into bed with prince Valium.
Katy
(Brown sauce or ketchup?)
Saturday, March 10, 2007
A is for acclimatise
So here we are back at A.
Same old Dolores, different country. We thought about using numbers instead of letters this time. But there are a finite number of letters in the alphabet which makes me feel more positive that Dolores might not always be around. If I used numbers I could count forever.
It has taken me precisely a week to adapt to being back home.. ..and start thinking about how nice it would be to be away again. Everything seems so one dimensional and grey compared to Italy. Although I have missed my flat - it's nice to be back amongst my things rather than living in impersonal rooms.
I have been trying to take it easy since returning, anxious to keep Dolores as quiet as possible. However, despite doing little on Thursday, by evening I am increasingly aware of her starting to whinge. The whingeing turns to crying and I bed down for the duration. Her mood matches the violent stormy weather as she shrieks and howls around the inside of my head and makes me more nauseous than her past few attacks. She makes me constantly sick throughout Friday before allowing me to drift into a fitful sleep. I had arranged to catch up with the girls on Friday night but I have to cancel; frustrated and upset.
Saturday I resolve to have a complete day of rest. As usual my first shower is heaven. I open windows to let fresh air in and make a bed on the sofa with the french doors open. Jack Bauer saves me as well as the rest of the USA as I watch back to back episodes of 24 to hold my attention and stop me from doing.
Although I'm desperate for the outside world today Dolores is kicking me in the back as she always does after a period of enforced lying in bed. I manage a walk to the supermarket before settling down with the Sunday papers.
Same old Dolores, different country. We thought about using numbers instead of letters this time. But there are a finite number of letters in the alphabet which makes me feel more positive that Dolores might not always be around. If I used numbers I could count forever.
It has taken me precisely a week to adapt to being back home.. ..and start thinking about how nice it would be to be away again. Everything seems so one dimensional and grey compared to Italy. Although I have missed my flat - it's nice to be back amongst my things rather than living in impersonal rooms.
I have been trying to take it easy since returning, anxious to keep Dolores as quiet as possible. However, despite doing little on Thursday, by evening I am increasingly aware of her starting to whinge. The whingeing turns to crying and I bed down for the duration. Her mood matches the violent stormy weather as she shrieks and howls around the inside of my head and makes me more nauseous than her past few attacks. She makes me constantly sick throughout Friday before allowing me to drift into a fitful sleep. I had arranged to catch up with the girls on Friday night but I have to cancel; frustrated and upset.
Saturday I resolve to have a complete day of rest. As usual my first shower is heaven. I open windows to let fresh air in and make a bed on the sofa with the french doors open. Jack Bauer saves me as well as the rest of the USA as I watch back to back episodes of 24 to hold my attention and stop me from doing.
Although I'm desperate for the outside world today Dolores is kicking me in the back as she always does after a period of enforced lying in bed. I manage a walk to the supermarket before settling down with the Sunday papers.
Katy
(Which Animal would you be?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
