Friday 8 August 2014
Some recent pieces.
Bulletins
They want to know why people are stressed
and so depressed in this modern age.
People’s lives were always tough
you took the smooth along with the rough
yet stress has mounted, year on year
so why is that? Could it be fear?
In days of yore concerns were yours
you didn’t know of far off wars,
of other nations’ trouble and strife
of some guy beating or killing his wife,
unless that guy lived very near
these were things you’d never hear.
You see what I mean? The more we learn
the more we worry, the more we burn
with deep concern
for matters we haven’t a hope in hell
of ever solving. Might as well
turn off the tv, the PC screen,
close our eyes to what might have been
and kiss the world goodbye.
Or simply sit and cry.
© August 2014
The Start of Another Day
I wake from a good night’s sleep for once
as the sunlight streams through the window,
growl hello to the cat - my mezzo soprano
is coming out basso profundo.
No energy yet to rise and shine
I submit to her feline wishes
and contemplate having to go downstairs
and deal with a sinkful of dishes.
When the caterwauling becomes intense
I turn myself onto my side
push myself up to a sitting pose
and wait for the room to subside.
I follow her to the bathroom
- she knows my habits well -
then, ablutions done, we go downstairs
to the unkempt kitchen from hell.
© July 2014
Winnie the Pooh
At times he reminds me of Winnie the Pooh
which may seem odd to you;
something about his shape perhaps,
the rounded tum, the flattish bum;
he’s sweet and round as a sugar plum.
And the way he walks, and his tender heart,
and his simple child-like intellect
which nonetheless is very wise.
Yes, he can be foolish, thoughtless too at times,
a bear of very little brain?
But he’s such a soft old cuddlesome thing
my sunshine through the rain.
July 2014.
Shot ( A poem of M.E.)
Imagine you’re a rag doll,
sounds funny but it’s not,
for instead of using something soft
they’ve stuffed you with lead shot.
And as you lie upon your bed
in this most parlous state
moving feels impossible:
like shifting a ton weight.
You lie there thinking what the hell
has someone done to me
when suddenly you realise
you really need to pee.
You summon up some energy,
just an ounce or two,
enough to get your body
off the bed and to the loo.
You remember having muscles
but those, it seems have gone.
And as for bones, forget it.
you may as well have none.
For me it isn’t always so,
most days I manage more.
For others it’s a way of life,
truly, I’m in awe.
© July 2014
I Want My Body Back
Someone stole my body; it’s really most remiss.
They took away the one I had, replacing it with this.
Please, I want my body back, I want my body back!
The one I had could walk for miles and running was a cinch.
This one barely moves at all, inch by painful inch.
Please, I want my body back, I want my body back!
Mine was slim and firm and lithe, it loved to dance all night.
This one’s twice the size of mine, a doughball, soft and white.
Please, I want my body back, I want my body back!
I used to have such healthy skin. I’d show it off with pride.
This substitute is spotty - a thing I can’t abide.
Please, I want my body back, I want my body back!
Just look at it: the dimpled thighs, the sagging breasts and butt,
the bingo wings, the flabby skin, the elephantine gut!
Please, I want my body back, I want my body back!
I really am not happy with the one I’m wearing now.
The former Running Deer has been replaced by Sitting Cow!
Please, I want my body back, I want my body back!
If anyone can tell me who took away my body
please let me know, I’d like it back, even if it’s shoddy.
Please, I want my body back, I want my body back!
© July 2014
Opposable Thumbs
I sing in praise of opposable thumbs
and yes I know that may sound dumb
but thumbs are so useful, thumbs are fine
and oh how I miss the use of mine.
With one of them out of action for now
life is much trickier. Thumbs, take a bow!
June 2014
Fighting For Food
I fight with the fridge to open the door
I fight with wrapping and packets galore.
It’s all for my health and safety of course
as I break my nails and shout myself hoarse.
I don’t know who invents this stuff
that makes my life frustratingly tough.
It only adds to my dejection.
Do we need so much protection?
June 2014
Living in Second Life
Why do I live in Second Life? Cause living there is easy!
I dress with a click, don’t have to wash, and don’t get knackered or wheezy.
There I can walk and run and fly, dancing is a doddle.
Here I can barely get out of bed and walking is more of a waddle.
Want a new house? No problem mate. I’ll have it done in a jiffy.
My island is landscaped, with lake and trees, and none of them look iffy.
Here I’m a sad old so-and-so if occasionally funny.
There I’m young and fit again, in fact a bit of a honey.
So now you know, I love my lives, each for different reasons.
But I have to say it’s rather nice to be able to change the seasons!
:)
© June 2014
Too Early
Early, too early.
No hint or tint of dawn disturbs
the eastern sky and yet
she wakes me, makes me
beg for mercy. Please
please show some pity
pretty kitty, let me sleep
today.
© May 2014
Little Tablets
Little tablets on the bedside, little tablets made of ticky tacky
little tablets, little tablets, and they all go down the same,
there’s a pink one and a green one and blue one and a yellow one
and they all come in little boxes and they all look very tame.
And the tablets in the boxes all give us some side effects
but the doctors still prescribe them and we take them just the same
And the people don’t imagine that tablets might do them harm
so they swallow all the tablets and they know they’re not to blame.
© May 2014
Thursday 7 August 2014
Hospitals I Have Known. - Not for the squeamish.
Hospitals I Have Known.
I have been admitted to hospital a few times now with various experiences. My experiences of childbirth deserves a book of its own so I’ll ignore those for now.
My first experience involved a simple lumpectomy, a fibroadenoma. There was nothing remarkable about it. I had to contend with a stream of student doctors coming to examine the beautiful continual stitch around my areola but, apart from that, it went off without a hitch.
The next time was for a hysterectomy due to prolapse. This was a nightmare. It was supposed to be a simple short procedure but in the event things were not so simple, they couldn’t stop the bleeding nor get the stitches to hold. I was on the table for hours, had a blood transfusion, and was kept unconscious for three days due to the intense pain. Also the food was inedible, really. No fibre, fish that was transparent by the time I got it having dried up totally, and so on. I became horribly constipated, for days on end, and when I finally managed after a number of pessaries and an enema, what I saw in the commode looked like something a horse would pass. Also I couldn’t pass urine because of swelling and had to be cathererized. Added to the physical trauma was a woman in the next bed dying of what I assumed to be bowel cancer. I know she couldn’t help it but the ward smelled like a field of rotting cabbages. The nurses never came if you rang for them so people were left with bursting bladders for a very long time. And on top of all this the ward above was being refurbished so there was constant hammering, sawing, drilling and so on which meant no sleep.
And talking of bursting bladders, which I was, when the nurses removed my catheter after about a week, they neglected to do a residual test and my bladder started to swell to bursting point. When the doctor discovered this he exploded and had the catheter put back. By this time the pain and bad food and lack of sleep led to me walking out in my nightie, catheter bag in hand, desperate to go home. They managed to persuade me to stay overnight, promising me that I could go home in the morning and come back in a week by which time things should have settled down. So that’s what happened. Unfortunately I already had ME at this stage and the whole experience left me devastated for a very long time.
I had a short spell in another hospital for my knee to be stabilized. That wasn’t bad, I coped fine with it. And the next operation was for another tumour, this time a not so benign one, but once more I was treated with utmost care and concern. It was almost like being on holiday. A nice rest, being looked after by people who appeared to know what ME is and made sure I would be safe.
However, I recently underwent an experience in yet another hospital which was remarkable to say the least. A question: How do you convince hospital staff who basically know nothing about ME that the sensory overload of bright lights day and night, constant noise, chattering visitors, and people in general, causes stress, which leads to adrenaline, which - in my case - sends blood pressure soaring, when all they can say is "Do you normally have high blood pressure?"
Some friends suggested I went to the GP due to terrible lower bowel pain I’d had. 8.30 am seemed ok for getting in early. Wrong. Waiting room already full. Turns out I don't have a GP assigned to me any more so after a long wait in which I started passed out, due to orthostatic intolerance, I saw the Nurse Practitioner about the pain and puking I’d done. He suggested I go to hospital for a scan "to be on the safe side." They ordered me a taxi, now late morning. No one asked if I needed to make any arrangements at home if I was kept it. First mistake. I have an ageing, sick, senile cat at home, who panics if left alone and had no food out. But I naively thought I’d be home shortly.
At the hospital they spend an age filling in forms and doing all the usual basic tests until the surgical reg came around. Having had my belly poked and pushed by a variety of people now, one more wasn't going to make much difference. He said we'd do a CAT scan to be on the safe side, considering my age. “To be on the safe side.”
He went away. Then I found myself being fitted with a drip which apparently I had to have before a CAT scan. A drip which unknown to me was to take four hours. Then the surgical reg passed by and asked me if I'd had the scan yet! NO says I. I was by this time freezing cold, sitting in light summer clothes under the air conditioning vent. A nurse brought me a blanket to wrap myself in and at least the small ward was fairly dimly lit and quiet.
Then they moved me up to a ward. Bewildered now I kept telling them I shouldn’t be there. Around 7pm I was really starting to worry about my poor cat who had now been home alone for nearly 12 hours with no food. "Never mind" I thought, "soon have the scan and home." Then they hung up another bag of saline. Another four hours would take us to 11 pm. No way they'd do the scan that night! In the morning was now the plan. One nurse even suggested I might be there for the whole weekend!
By now my blood pressure was in the 220s which put everyone in a flap. The excruciating pain from the cuff was unbelievable. This happens to me when I get over stressed. If I told them once I told them a dozen times. But of course, night staff, day staff, different doctors….. The night that followed was impossible - lights left on all night, constant beeping from drip machines, clanging and banging of new admissions coming in. No sleep, or very little. And every 3 hours the torture of blood pressure tests. Me trying to be stoic and failing miserably, nurses saying they were so sorry but they had to keep checking, and systolic staying around the 220 mark.
During the night a very nice young house doctor bounded in, checked me all over and made the decision that this was just stress, acute hypertension, nothing to worry about. He had previously asked why I was on a drip as my creatinine levels were fine. He was so nice my pressure dropped to near normal when he did it. But by morning I - and others- were knackered from lack of sleep and the damned torture went on. One foreign nurse thought maybe we'd get a better result on my lower leg. We didn't and it felt like my leg was breaking. I still have pain from that occasionally.
However I finally got my scan. Nothing much to see except gall stones and diverticular disease, both of which were no news to me. So it had all been for nothing, really, though it ruled out anything "nasty". Now could I please go home? Oh no, the doctor has to discharge you. When? When he gets here, he's very busy. Well could I go home, feed the cat and come back? You could but he'll be here between 1 and 2. OK, I'll wait. 2 o clock came and went. Images of a dead cat keep running through my head. Again with the blood pressure tests, again with the pain. And still the bright lights, and then visiting time. Numbers of chatty people driving me totally insane. I simply can’t handle it. I kept walking out of the bay looking for somewhere quiet to get some relief but the whole ward was the same. Eventually one nurse asked me what I needed and took me to a day room I had no idea was there.
Four o clock came. I couldn’t take any more. I threw a total wobbly and, sobbing, started walking out with the cannula still in my arm. That got them moving. Phone calls right left and centre. Doctor will come soonest. Six o clock he arrived with effusive apologies, so busy today. To be fair he was so dishy, I'd have let him off almost anything.
He listened to my explanation of stress etc and agreed it was perfectly reasonable but he had to check with his boss and then I could go. His boss was less than convinced. He might keep me in for further tests. NOOOOO. And they might want to take out my gall bladder at some point. I just looked at him. By this time the pressure had dropped to 168 over 90, clearly a huge improvement at the thought of going home. And much less painful I might add. So after much deliberating they decided to do a ten lead ECG and if that was normal I could go home.
The ECG was fine, needless to say. So ok, I can go HOME!
The cat was still alive, thankfully; the kitchen was a bit of a mess where she'd been hunting for food but after some tinned salmon she more or less forgave me for my unwilling neglect. So, I don't care if my gall bladder explodes with stones flying everywhere, NEVER AGAIN!
Saturday 10 May 2014
Poems Written From A Different Point Of View.
Sometimes it's good to think about things in a different way, try to see things from another's point of view. Some of these are from my life, the rest - imagined. I leave you to decide which is which.
A Comfortable Woman
She stood there
looking at me,
her eyes warm and smiling,
her gaze caressing me.
Tall, yes, quite tall,
but no beanpole;
quite the reverse.
Her plump face,
her ample womanly body,
brought to mind
a well stuffed easy chair
strong and welcoming.
Walking towards me
she reached out and,
sinking into her embrace,
I nestled my head against
the extravagant bosom,
listened to the beat,
beat, beat of her heart;
a heart as big and generous
as the body it served.
Blanketed by her warmth,
soothed by her softness,
I was a child again,
wrapped snugly in
a down-filled comforter.
11.11. 2001
The Back of Your Neck
There's a little place on the back of your neck
just below your hair
and it seems to weave a kind of spell
whenever I kiss you there.
Is it that old black magic, love,
that sends you into a spin?
Or simply a normal reaction to
the feel of my lips on your skin?
The warmth of my breath as I linger there
and very gently blow
or the merest touch of the tip of my tongue?
I don't suppose you know.
Whatever it is I love it
and the slender curve of your neck
and the air of vulnerability
that makes me a quivering wreck.
It doesn't seem possible one little spot
seemingly so benign
could exert such power over a man
and drive him out of his mind.
Dec 2001
Ode to the Woman With Chestnut Hair.
I see you out here every day
but you never even look my way
a lovely young woman with chestnut hair
and just a hint of Titian there
sparkling eyes and a ravishing smile
you're clearly a woman born to beguile.
There's something about the way you walk
with a toss of your head as you laugh and talk
and yet there's a hint of sadness too -
tell me, is something troubling you?
Something terrible, something small?
Is there anything I can do at all?
Every day as I wait for the bus
I dream there might be a chance for us
but you pass me by as I'm waiting there
and I can only stand and stare
for I am nervous and you are bold
and you are young while I grow old.
Oh beautiful woman with chestnut hair
What will become of one so rare?
I fear you will marry some merchant banker
- I hesitate to be much franker -
who will not appreciate all your grace
oh woman with the enchanting face.
I'd love to be able to make you see
how much there is to a man like me
but for all I've learned in all my years
I haven't outgrown my boyhood fears
you'll never call me on your mobile phone
as I stand and wait for for the bus alone.
And that's as it should be I've no doubt
for youth comes in as age goes out
but possibly one day I'll receive
a look perhaps, however brief,
that says you've seen me standing there
oh beautiful girl with the chestnut hair.
© Dec 2001
Prevarication
Ah, no, she said, not this time...
You can't, she said, not now...
Stay here, she said, I'll call you
It's too late anyhow.
It's just, she said, you're busy...
I thought, she said, you'd need...
Some time, she said, to study
I want you to succeed.
Oh, right, I said, you're saying...
I see, I said, OK...
Is this, I said, for long then?
And then I thought, no way...
You've got, I said, another?
I've been, I said, replaced?
Would you, I said, have told me?
as she stood ashen-faced.
Ah, well, she said, about that...
I'll make, she said, amends...
I would, she said, have told you
And we can still be friends.
Oh no, I said, not this time.
We can't, I said, not now.
Go home, I said, don't call me.
It's really too late now.
© Dec 2001
Down But Not Out.
Regularly we assemble
and each observe
the downcast eyes
the drooping stance
of the dejected,
the shifty with their
hasty furtive glances,
a few hard stares
from the brazen
toughing it out.
Reluctantly we advance,
shuffling, hands in pockets
to sign away our dignity,
admit defeat,
but Hey!
for a little longer
we will not starve,
our families will eat.
Dec 2001
Channel Crossing
Out in the English Channel in a small twin engined boat,
the fog, a real pea-souper, gripped us by the throat.
It came down very quickly and left us blinded there
in one of the busiest shipping lanes just about anywhere.
We could hear the fog horns out there and the sea was getting rough
and making cocoa down below was difficult enough
but getting it up up to the man at the helm was even more of a fight.
I swallowed the rising biliousness, but probably looked a sight.
Working on the charts below was not an easy job
and the weather forecasts didn't help - my head began to throb.
Who the heck had suggested this? I wouldn't get into a row
but whoever it was had better believe he owed me big-time now.
We'd left the Isle of Wight, you see, on a beautiful sunny day;
Cowes was full of yachstmen just waiting to sail away.
The skipper ignored the radio, which had given us the news
so here we were in a little boat, with fog instead of views.
We'd planned to visit the Channel Isles, Alderney, we'd said,
but the thought of sailing past it was filling me with dread.
We could end up in mid-Atlantic, drifting around unseen
with little food or water on board and all of us turning green.
So I plotted a course for Cherbourg (a skill of which I can boast)
right across the channel, right there on the Normandy coast.
As the skipper changed direction, following this new course,
the guy on the bow with a fog horn can was sounding pretty hoarse.
Out across the channel we went, and how that spray can sting!
Freighters and liners were sailing past but we never saw a thing.
Just the deep sad sound of foghorns came eerily through the mist
as if we had travelled back in time to some prehistoric tryst.
How we ever made it across without being crushed or drowned
is something I'll never understand, but we made it to solid ground.
I guess it was down to providence, well that's what I choose to believe,
but if anyone ever suggests it again I'll make my excuses and leave.
Jan 2002
She
She comes to me, gently smiling
her eyes so dark and beguiling.
What manner of woman is this
whose expression suggests such bliss?
In accents quite sublime
she tells me to take my time;
holding my hand in hers
"you're doing fine," she purrs
and, with a little persuasion,
I rise to the occasion.
Soon I begin to sweat;
I'll get the hang of this yet!
No matter how hard she tries
I see it there in her eyes:
Now don't get carried away
that's quite enough for today.
I admit defeat as she grins.
The physiotherapist wins.
© 2002
Sound Association.
I went to the market yesterday
to buy myself some plums
and standing there in the marketplace
I heard the sound of drums.
Gradually the blare of brass
was added to the noise
and people stopped and people stared
to watch the marching boys.
And the uniforms and the polished boots
and the drumsticks beating time
produced a stirring in the blood
and a fever in the mind.
Step by step they marched away
till the band was heard no more
and I bought my plums and I went back home
and locked the outer door.
I stood for a while just trembling
at the memories I'd thought dead
it's amazing how the sound of drums
plays havoc with your head.
I went to the kitchen and made some tea
and I heard the radio play
and the twenty first century music
brought me back to the present day.
© Dec/2001
The Watcher
Unobserved
in the long night hours
I watch her.
Engrossed
she is unaware that
I watch her.
Moonlight
cold and clear
presents
a captivating study
in monochrome.
Hushed and still
afraid almost to breathe
I watch her.
Oblivious
she sits serene as
I watch her.
Her arms enfold
the tiny child
our child
their eyes locked
in awe and wonder.
Proud yet humbled
my heart overflowing
I watch her.
Dec 2001
The Western Wall.
I stood before the massive blocks
of mellowed ancient stone
and spent some time regarding them
in silent contemplation.
Two thousand years have passed since first
these stones were cut and laid;
two thousand years of history -
it's something of a mystery
they stand here yet, unmoved.
These building blocks so old and golden
tell of another time.
speak to us of long ago,
of old religion, priestly robes,
the gold menorah and the ark;
of ancient laws and promises
and faith that made a nation.
And wedged into the cracks between
were countless little messages:
heartfelt prayers and supplications
left behind by pilgrims.
Others there moved rhythmically,
blackcoated, bearded, side locks bobbing,
fur trimmed hats and yarmulkes.
I stood and watched these men at prayer,
sensed the immensity - the weight -
of centuries of desolation
now stored up within these stones
and, all unbidden, shared their grief,
their overwhelming sorrow.
Jan 2002
As Hostilities Cease
I watched a man rejoice
as he returned to what was
little more than rubble
and marvelled
at the indomitable courage
which is the epitome of
the universal lust for life.
March 2002
A Memory of Jamaica
I stood alone in the shallows
on the shoreline of Jamaica.
Montego Bay as I recall
was where she'd had me take her.
On the beach some fishermen
were laughing in their boats
and I watched the shadowy shapes of rays
come swimming by, real close.
And as I stood in the turquoise sea
just soaking up the heat
dozens of tiny little fish
were nibbling at my feet.
White, they were, with yellow fins;
attractive little creatures.
It's just a memory I have
of one of the island's beaches.
© 2002.
Pennine Journey
A narrow winding road,
a drystone wall on either side,
cuts through rock-strewn velvet slopes
of purple, green and brown.
Now and then, here and there,
the woolly shape of wandering sheep
- Motorists Beware! - cause
heart-in-mouth encounters.
A lowering leaden sky lies
heavy on the hilltops while
a giant duvet, somewhat soiled,
showers us with diamond drops
to decorate the windscreen.
Higher now, and suddenly
the landscape disappears
earthbound cloud surrounds us
and all is hushed and still.
For a while the going's slow
creeping, peering as we go
headlights on and dipped.
A gradual descent and with it
virtual blindness at an end
smiles accompany relief
as unexpected sunshine
greets our gaze.
July 2002
Would You Mind?
If I hold your hand would you object?
If I kissed it would you mind?
When we say goodnight will you expect
a kiss of a different kind?
It's been so long since I wooed a maid
a lifetime now, it seems
it's little wonder I'm afraid
to act upon my dreams.
The wife of my youth is dead and gone
I miss her every day
for years the sun no longer shone
in any worthwhile way.
How on earth can I explain?
The day I met you here
I saw the sunshine through the rain
the mists began to clear;
overhead or in my mind
I felt a rainbow form.
Who would have thought that I could find
such shelter from the storm?
So if I'm clumsy please forgive
the awkward things I do;
there's nothing that I wouldn't give
to make you happy too.
© 2002
A Comfortable Woman
She stood there
looking at me,
her eyes warm and smiling,
her gaze caressing me.
Tall, yes, quite tall,
but no beanpole;
quite the reverse.
Her plump face,
her ample womanly body,
brought to mind
a well stuffed easy chair
strong and welcoming.
Walking towards me
she reached out and,
sinking into her embrace,
I nestled my head against
the extravagant bosom,
listened to the beat,
beat, beat of her heart;
a heart as big and generous
as the body it served.
Blanketed by her warmth,
soothed by her softness,
I was a child again,
wrapped snugly in
a down-filled comforter.
11.11. 2001
The Back of Your Neck
There's a little place on the back of your neck
just below your hair
and it seems to weave a kind of spell
whenever I kiss you there.
Is it that old black magic, love,
that sends you into a spin?
Or simply a normal reaction to
the feel of my lips on your skin?
The warmth of my breath as I linger there
and very gently blow
or the merest touch of the tip of my tongue?
I don't suppose you know.
Whatever it is I love it
and the slender curve of your neck
and the air of vulnerability
that makes me a quivering wreck.
It doesn't seem possible one little spot
seemingly so benign
could exert such power over a man
and drive him out of his mind.
Dec 2001
Ode to the Woman With Chestnut Hair.
I see you out here every day
but you never even look my way
a lovely young woman with chestnut hair
and just a hint of Titian there
sparkling eyes and a ravishing smile
you're clearly a woman born to beguile.
There's something about the way you walk
with a toss of your head as you laugh and talk
and yet there's a hint of sadness too -
tell me, is something troubling you?
Something terrible, something small?
Is there anything I can do at all?
Every day as I wait for the bus
I dream there might be a chance for us
but you pass me by as I'm waiting there
and I can only stand and stare
for I am nervous and you are bold
and you are young while I grow old.
Oh beautiful woman with chestnut hair
What will become of one so rare?
I fear you will marry some merchant banker
- I hesitate to be much franker -
who will not appreciate all your grace
oh woman with the enchanting face.
I'd love to be able to make you see
how much there is to a man like me
but for all I've learned in all my years
I haven't outgrown my boyhood fears
you'll never call me on your mobile phone
as I stand and wait for for the bus alone.
And that's as it should be I've no doubt
for youth comes in as age goes out
but possibly one day I'll receive
a look perhaps, however brief,
that says you've seen me standing there
oh beautiful girl with the chestnut hair.
© Dec 2001
Prevarication
Ah, no, she said, not this time...
You can't, she said, not now...
Stay here, she said, I'll call you
It's too late anyhow.
It's just, she said, you're busy...
I thought, she said, you'd need...
Some time, she said, to study
I want you to succeed.
Oh, right, I said, you're saying...
I see, I said, OK...
Is this, I said, for long then?
And then I thought, no way...
You've got, I said, another?
I've been, I said, replaced?
Would you, I said, have told me?
as she stood ashen-faced.
Ah, well, she said, about that...
I'll make, she said, amends...
I would, she said, have told you
And we can still be friends.
Oh no, I said, not this time.
We can't, I said, not now.
Go home, I said, don't call me.
It's really too late now.
© Dec 2001
Down But Not Out.
Regularly we assemble
and each observe
the downcast eyes
the drooping stance
of the dejected,
the shifty with their
hasty furtive glances,
a few hard stares
from the brazen
toughing it out.
Reluctantly we advance,
shuffling, hands in pockets
to sign away our dignity,
admit defeat,
but Hey!
for a little longer
we will not starve,
our families will eat.
Dec 2001
Channel Crossing
Out in the English Channel in a small twin engined boat,
the fog, a real pea-souper, gripped us by the throat.
It came down very quickly and left us blinded there
in one of the busiest shipping lanes just about anywhere.
We could hear the fog horns out there and the sea was getting rough
and making cocoa down below was difficult enough
but getting it up up to the man at the helm was even more of a fight.
I swallowed the rising biliousness, but probably looked a sight.
Working on the charts below was not an easy job
and the weather forecasts didn't help - my head began to throb.
Who the heck had suggested this? I wouldn't get into a row
but whoever it was had better believe he owed me big-time now.
We'd left the Isle of Wight, you see, on a beautiful sunny day;
Cowes was full of yachstmen just waiting to sail away.
The skipper ignored the radio, which had given us the news
so here we were in a little boat, with fog instead of views.
We'd planned to visit the Channel Isles, Alderney, we'd said,
but the thought of sailing past it was filling me with dread.
We could end up in mid-Atlantic, drifting around unseen
with little food or water on board and all of us turning green.
So I plotted a course for Cherbourg (a skill of which I can boast)
right across the channel, right there on the Normandy coast.
As the skipper changed direction, following this new course,
the guy on the bow with a fog horn can was sounding pretty hoarse.
Out across the channel we went, and how that spray can sting!
Freighters and liners were sailing past but we never saw a thing.
Just the deep sad sound of foghorns came eerily through the mist
as if we had travelled back in time to some prehistoric tryst.
How we ever made it across without being crushed or drowned
is something I'll never understand, but we made it to solid ground.
I guess it was down to providence, well that's what I choose to believe,
but if anyone ever suggests it again I'll make my excuses and leave.
Jan 2002
She
She comes to me, gently smiling
her eyes so dark and beguiling.
What manner of woman is this
whose expression suggests such bliss?
In accents quite sublime
she tells me to take my time;
holding my hand in hers
"you're doing fine," she purrs
and, with a little persuasion,
I rise to the occasion.
Soon I begin to sweat;
I'll get the hang of this yet!
No matter how hard she tries
I see it there in her eyes:
Now don't get carried away
that's quite enough for today.
I admit defeat as she grins.
The physiotherapist wins.
© 2002
Sound Association.
I went to the market yesterday
to buy myself some plums
and standing there in the marketplace
I heard the sound of drums.
Gradually the blare of brass
was added to the noise
and people stopped and people stared
to watch the marching boys.
And the uniforms and the polished boots
and the drumsticks beating time
produced a stirring in the blood
and a fever in the mind.
Step by step they marched away
till the band was heard no more
and I bought my plums and I went back home
and locked the outer door.
I stood for a while just trembling
at the memories I'd thought dead
it's amazing how the sound of drums
plays havoc with your head.
I went to the kitchen and made some tea
and I heard the radio play
and the twenty first century music
brought me back to the present day.
© Dec/2001
The Watcher
Unobserved
in the long night hours
I watch her.
Engrossed
she is unaware that
I watch her.
Moonlight
cold and clear
presents
a captivating study
in monochrome.
Hushed and still
afraid almost to breathe
I watch her.
Oblivious
she sits serene as
I watch her.
Her arms enfold
the tiny child
our child
their eyes locked
in awe and wonder.
Proud yet humbled
my heart overflowing
I watch her.
Dec 2001
The Western Wall.
I stood before the massive blocks
of mellowed ancient stone
and spent some time regarding them
in silent contemplation.
Two thousand years have passed since first
these stones were cut and laid;
two thousand years of history -
it's something of a mystery
they stand here yet, unmoved.
These building blocks so old and golden
tell of another time.
speak to us of long ago,
of old religion, priestly robes,
the gold menorah and the ark;
of ancient laws and promises
and faith that made a nation.
And wedged into the cracks between
were countless little messages:
heartfelt prayers and supplications
left behind by pilgrims.
Others there moved rhythmically,
blackcoated, bearded, side locks bobbing,
fur trimmed hats and yarmulkes.
I stood and watched these men at prayer,
sensed the immensity - the weight -
of centuries of desolation
now stored up within these stones
and, all unbidden, shared their grief,
their overwhelming sorrow.
Jan 2002
As Hostilities Cease
I watched a man rejoice
as he returned to what was
little more than rubble
and marvelled
at the indomitable courage
which is the epitome of
the universal lust for life.
March 2002
A Memory of Jamaica
I stood alone in the shallows
on the shoreline of Jamaica.
Montego Bay as I recall
was where she'd had me take her.
On the beach some fishermen
were laughing in their boats
and I watched the shadowy shapes of rays
come swimming by, real close.
And as I stood in the turquoise sea
just soaking up the heat
dozens of tiny little fish
were nibbling at my feet.
White, they were, with yellow fins;
attractive little creatures.
It's just a memory I have
of one of the island's beaches.
© 2002.
Pennine Journey
A narrow winding road,
a drystone wall on either side,
cuts through rock-strewn velvet slopes
of purple, green and brown.
Now and then, here and there,
the woolly shape of wandering sheep
- Motorists Beware! - cause
heart-in-mouth encounters.
A lowering leaden sky lies
heavy on the hilltops while
a giant duvet, somewhat soiled,
showers us with diamond drops
to decorate the windscreen.
Higher now, and suddenly
the landscape disappears
earthbound cloud surrounds us
and all is hushed and still.
For a while the going's slow
creeping, peering as we go
headlights on and dipped.
A gradual descent and with it
virtual blindness at an end
smiles accompany relief
as unexpected sunshine
greets our gaze.
July 2002
Would You Mind?
If I hold your hand would you object?
If I kissed it would you mind?
When we say goodnight will you expect
a kiss of a different kind?
It's been so long since I wooed a maid
a lifetime now, it seems
it's little wonder I'm afraid
to act upon my dreams.
The wife of my youth is dead and gone
I miss her every day
for years the sun no longer shone
in any worthwhile way.
How on earth can I explain?
The day I met you here
I saw the sunshine through the rain
the mists began to clear;
overhead or in my mind
I felt a rainbow form.
Who would have thought that I could find
such shelter from the storm?
So if I'm clumsy please forgive
the awkward things I do;
there's nothing that I wouldn't give
to make you happy too.
© 2002
Wednesday 23 April 2014
My latest poem: The Second Life Wife
Oh! the things I have done and have seen!
at times in my life I have been
a wife, a mistress, a lover,
no better at one than the other.
I was a wife for a very long time.
It wasn’t great. It wasn’t sublime.
I left when I just couldn’t take any more
my spirit had been ground down to the floor.
As a mistress was I much better?
Each visiting day was red letter.
Of course in the end he went back to his wife
but by then he’d had seven years of my life.
And then of course there was - yes.
Perhaps I should just let you guess.
For nine years her lover, or maybe her friend.
It all went horribly wrong in the end.
In between those the occasional date,
no-one I’d love, no-one I’d hate.
One wanted to marry, at first I agreed,
then realised he was not what I need.
And now - what of now? What am I today?
I lover of sorts, but so far away.
A voice with an accent, a face on a screen,
a love that traverses the miles in between.
Six years and counting. We’re both getting old
with nary a kiss or a body to hold.
But love is important in everyone’s life
so now I’m a virtual, Second Life, wife.
After all I have seen, and done, and been
a lot of memories, what do they mean?
I made my mistakes, as anyone might,
but I think I finally got it right.
© 2014
at times in my life I have been
a wife, a mistress, a lover,
no better at one than the other.
I was a wife for a very long time.
It wasn’t great. It wasn’t sublime.
I left when I just couldn’t take any more
my spirit had been ground down to the floor.
As a mistress was I much better?
Each visiting day was red letter.
Of course in the end he went back to his wife
but by then he’d had seven years of my life.
And then of course there was - yes.
Perhaps I should just let you guess.
For nine years her lover, or maybe her friend.
It all went horribly wrong in the end.
In between those the occasional date,
no-one I’d love, no-one I’d hate.
One wanted to marry, at first I agreed,
then realised he was not what I need.
And now - what of now? What am I today?
I lover of sorts, but so far away.
A voice with an accent, a face on a screen,
a love that traverses the miles in between.
Six years and counting. We’re both getting old
with nary a kiss or a body to hold.
But love is important in everyone’s life
so now I’m a virtual, Second Life, wife.
After all I have seen, and done, and been
a lot of memories, what do they mean?
I made my mistakes, as anyone might,
but I think I finally got it right.
© 2014
Sunday 16 February 2014
Brainfog
Maybe you've heard of brainfog. Perhaps you suffer from brainfog. If not, you may be wondering what brainfog refers to. Well, let me try to explain.
When I developed ME, Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, apart from the devastating and surprising refusal of my body to do the things it could previously do, my sleep suffered dreadfully. I believe this had a lot to do with the brainfog which I then started to suffer. Without proper sleep anyone's brain starts to misfire but added to the neural damage of ME it's a sure fire way of not being able to function normally.
My sleep at that time was severely affected. Sometimes this meant being awake all night and, obviously, tired all day. Sometimes I did sleep at night, though the sleep was not like real sleep at all. I would become unconscious, switch off you might say, but wake suddenly in the morning without any sense of having slept. No drowsiness, no dreams, and I hadn't moved at all during the night. I don't know what kind of sleep that describes, not being an expert, but it isn't normal and it isn't refreshing or healing.
It would appear that, although I went to sleep, it was only into stage 1 light sleep; I never entered REM sleep in which dreams occur, or reached deep or slow wave/delta wave, sleep. During the deep stages of non REM sleep, the body repairs and regenerates tissues, builds bone and muscle, and appears to strengthen the immune system. So without that it's hardly surprising that ME sufferers are very ill.
I still have disturbed nights and reversed inner time clock issues, though when I do sleep now I do tend to sleep "properly". I have dreams, and often feel that warm drowsiness on waking, though not always.
However, when this lack of proper sleep goes on for months or years, it's no wonder the brain starts to give up. The inability to concentrate is the most obvious symptom. Reading, a favourite pastime, became such hard work. After a very short time my brain would feel "full". And, worse, I would read the same sentence over and over again before it made any sense. Watching tv game shows used to be fun, but now I found that by the time the presenter had got to the end of a question I'd forgotten the start of it. My short term memory was shot.
Losing words, in the way a stroke victim does, is also a problem. Everyone has this problem at times of course, especially as we get older, but with brainfog it's constant. Searching for the word you want is so frustrating, but in time I learned to stop trying and just either find another word that means the same, or just describe the thing I meant. I find now that just changing the subject in my mind, looking away as it were, makes it easier. When I stop trying, the word I wanted will sometimes just pop into my mind.
Personally I also lost the ability to type. I had been touch typing for many years but suddenly I found that, although I knew what I wanted to type, my fingers weren't getting the messages from the brain. I would type with the correct fingers but on the wrong hand, or the letters came out in the wrong order, and my thumbs developed a mind of their own and stuck spaces in wherever they felt like it. It's like a kind of dyslexia in reverse. There may be a name for it but I don't that.
This is all very irritating of course. I still tend to spend more time correcting my typos than actually typing, thought it's not as bad as it used to be. At my worst I simply couldn't remember the alphabet. And at my age that's not funny. Well, not very funny.
Brainfog, therefore, is a way of describing the brain's inability to think, to concentrate, to work things out. Pretty much as it sounds really. I have to say that I have improved to some extent. I put it down to the handfuls of supplements, recommended by Dr Myhill, an ME specialist; in particular the brain feeding ones, which made a huge difference to my ability to sleep. Fish oils or other foods containing EPA and DHA for instance. The brain is something like 60% fatty tissue, so feeding this is important. However the thing that made the biggest change for me was PhosphatidylSerine, sometimes written as two words, an amino acid vital for neural function. Although normally the body can create it from foods it is being looked at now as a supplement for Alzheimer's patients.
I've seen various articles saying that PS helps, or it doesn't help, or it may help. All I know is that within a few days of taking it I started to sleep normally and over time my brainfog has improved. One quote says:
"Because PS is necessary for effective neurotransmission, PS deficiency is linked to mental impairment, including Alzheimer's and non-Alzheimer's dementia, depression and Parkinson's disease among middle-aged and elderly people."
To have a brain that is akin to an elderly person with dementia, while you are still young, or fairly young, is very frustrating. We call it brainfog. It occurs in people with Fibromyalgia I understand, and quite possibly in other long term disabilities. My own experience is that it can be improved, if not entirely cured. I hope something I have shared here makes sense to others. I still have some problems myself, after all.
When I developed ME, Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, apart from the devastating and surprising refusal of my body to do the things it could previously do, my sleep suffered dreadfully. I believe this had a lot to do with the brainfog which I then started to suffer. Without proper sleep anyone's brain starts to misfire but added to the neural damage of ME it's a sure fire way of not being able to function normally.
My sleep at that time was severely affected. Sometimes this meant being awake all night and, obviously, tired all day. Sometimes I did sleep at night, though the sleep was not like real sleep at all. I would become unconscious, switch off you might say, but wake suddenly in the morning without any sense of having slept. No drowsiness, no dreams, and I hadn't moved at all during the night. I don't know what kind of sleep that describes, not being an expert, but it isn't normal and it isn't refreshing or healing.
It would appear that, although I went to sleep, it was only into stage 1 light sleep; I never entered REM sleep in which dreams occur, or reached deep or slow wave/delta wave, sleep. During the deep stages of non REM sleep, the body repairs and regenerates tissues, builds bone and muscle, and appears to strengthen the immune system. So without that it's hardly surprising that ME sufferers are very ill.
I still have disturbed nights and reversed inner time clock issues, though when I do sleep now I do tend to sleep "properly". I have dreams, and often feel that warm drowsiness on waking, though not always.
However, when this lack of proper sleep goes on for months or years, it's no wonder the brain starts to give up. The inability to concentrate is the most obvious symptom. Reading, a favourite pastime, became such hard work. After a very short time my brain would feel "full". And, worse, I would read the same sentence over and over again before it made any sense. Watching tv game shows used to be fun, but now I found that by the time the presenter had got to the end of a question I'd forgotten the start of it. My short term memory was shot.
Losing words, in the way a stroke victim does, is also a problem. Everyone has this problem at times of course, especially as we get older, but with brainfog it's constant. Searching for the word you want is so frustrating, but in time I learned to stop trying and just either find another word that means the same, or just describe the thing I meant. I find now that just changing the subject in my mind, looking away as it were, makes it easier. When I stop trying, the word I wanted will sometimes just pop into my mind.
Personally I also lost the ability to type. I had been touch typing for many years but suddenly I found that, although I knew what I wanted to type, my fingers weren't getting the messages from the brain. I would type with the correct fingers but on the wrong hand, or the letters came out in the wrong order, and my thumbs developed a mind of their own and stuck spaces in wherever they felt like it. It's like a kind of dyslexia in reverse. There may be a name for it but I don't that.
This is all very irritating of course. I still tend to spend more time correcting my typos than actually typing, thought it's not as bad as it used to be. At my worst I simply couldn't remember the alphabet. And at my age that's not funny. Well, not very funny.
Brainfog, therefore, is a way of describing the brain's inability to think, to concentrate, to work things out. Pretty much as it sounds really. I have to say that I have improved to some extent. I put it down to the handfuls of supplements, recommended by Dr Myhill, an ME specialist; in particular the brain feeding ones, which made a huge difference to my ability to sleep. Fish oils or other foods containing EPA and DHA for instance. The brain is something like 60% fatty tissue, so feeding this is important. However the thing that made the biggest change for me was PhosphatidylSerine, sometimes written as two words, an amino acid vital for neural function. Although normally the body can create it from foods it is being looked at now as a supplement for Alzheimer's patients.
I've seen various articles saying that PS helps, or it doesn't help, or it may help. All I know is that within a few days of taking it I started to sleep normally and over time my brainfog has improved. One quote says:
"Because PS is necessary for effective neurotransmission, PS deficiency is linked to mental impairment, including Alzheimer's and non-Alzheimer's dementia, depression and Parkinson's disease among middle-aged and elderly people."
To have a brain that is akin to an elderly person with dementia, while you are still young, or fairly young, is very frustrating. We call it brainfog. It occurs in people with Fibromyalgia I understand, and quite possibly in other long term disabilities. My own experience is that it can be improved, if not entirely cured. I hope something I have shared here makes sense to others. I still have some problems myself, after all.
Saturday 1 February 2014
It's the Little Things.
It's the little things. The big things, well, people understand it more. For instance, I haven't been able to go shopping for years now. It's tough not being able to choose your own groceries or whatever, something most people don't have to think about, but at least there are supermarkets who will do it for you and deliver their choices to your door. This works well enough most of the time until they don't have what you ordered and the person doing the choosing for you has very different ideas from you. It's a bit like Christmas, every week, but not in a good way. You open the bag wondering what surprise you're in for this time. Will it be something you wanted, or not?
Like most people who get home deliveries I have been presented with substitutions - food I would never buy, don't like, would never eat, or just don't want. I am then in a dilemma. If I don't take it, what do I eat instead? And if I send it back it will just be thrown away, which I find unacceptable. Problem. Stress. Stress I don't need. But on the whole I manage.
Going out when absolutely necessary is simple, I call a cab and struggle the rest of the way.
Housework? It just doesn't get done, mostly. Luckily I was never all that houseproud. My bedroom looks like a jumble sale. The living room is in chaos. I always joke that no one will ever break in because it looks like the place has been turned over already. I move hesitantly, sloth like, around the house, resembling mountaineers at a high altitude, body and brain on go slow. Except when they're at a dead stop. But there's no one here to see it, so I don't care.
No, like I say, it's the little things. Like turning over in bed. You're probably thinking: "What? Turning over in bed? I can do that in my sleep!" Indeed you can, and I'm sure you do. Film of sleeping people shows just how often most people do it, moving around all night long. I used to do it myself once. And on good nights I still do. But on the bad ones...well. The thing is, we have to turn sometimes to keep the circulation going, to avoid pressure sores, going numb, etc. But if your body is flatly refusing to do it, what then? I have nights where I wake up in exactly the same position I went to sleep in, having not moved at all, the sheets totally undisturbed. I have other nights where I wake up just to turn over, because it takes quite a lot of concentration. Oh yes.
It's as if my subconscious is behaving like an orchestra without a conductor. No one is telling which bit of me to move next. Even awake it can be just the same. Have you seen those people who scale sheer rock faces with no help? That three points of contact rule. It's a bit like that sometimes. Move this foot, move this hand, now this one, now that one, and so on, until you get where you want to be. It can take quite a time. And a lot of effort, when your limbs feel like lead. Such a little thing, you'd think, but it takes forever.
Making a cup of tea is another. You're sitting in your seat with a dry mouth, trying to decide if you really need that drink or can you do without a bit longer. It does make me sound awfully lazy, I know. But it's not that. It's the effort it takes to haul your body out of the chair, stumble to the kitchen, then realising you didn't bring your cup with you so you have to go back for it. Then you fill the cup with water and tip it into the lightweight camping kettle to boil. You put the teabag into the cup, pour on the water, shuffle over to the fridge for milk, add the milk, go back to the fridge to put the milk away. Then you have to pick up the cup of tea which feels like a lead weight and try to get it back to the living room without spilling it, set it down and collapse into the chair. By which time you're too exhausted to drink it.
Another little adventure, just one of many during the day in the life of someone with ME.
But before you can start your day of course you have to get out of bed. Now many people will lie in bed thinking about whether they want to get up or not. Not many people lie in bed thinking about how they are going to get up. I do. On bad days anyway. On good days, if I've been sleeping well for a while and have some energy to spare I can get out of bed reasonably easily. Even if it means forcing myself to find the energy, which is counter productive as I suffer for it later. On bad days it's a whole other story.
Imagine waking up and you can't move. Your whole body feels like lead, lifeless, heavy, immovable, like gravity has increased somehow in the night. After a time you can maybe open your eyes, perhaps wiggle toes or a little finger. Good! You wait. After a time you can turn your head. Great! Wait some more and the arms feel like they're less heavy, so you try moving them. Yes! Success! The body is still lying there like a beached whale, but things are improving. In time you can wriggle a bit but the legs are still lying there, two great lumps of meat. Oh you can feel it if you touch them. They aren't numb. Just going nowhere. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, you can move them a bit, slide them around on the bed. The beached whale has gone, to be replaced by an elephant seal. Things are looking up!
That's when I wait until I start to feel my bladder. When I feel that it needs emptying I know my body has finally woken up and I can make it off the bed to stagger with still wobbly legs to the bathroom. Rather like a mermaid newly transformed who isn't used to having legs yet.
This whole procedure can take up to an hour. For me it's never a case of do I want to get up. I have never enjoyed just lying in bed doing nothing. But now I spend most of my time reclining or lying, occasionally sitting, and rarely walking. Boring? Yes, it can be, though I have my computer and books and so on to stop me from going stir crazy.
Every little thing has to be thought about, things others take for granted, things I once took for granted. And this with a brain that is itself compromised. Short term memory is crap. Sometimes I feel like I'm developing dementia but I know it isn't that. It's just ME. Just, she says. Right.
Yes, I know there those much worse off than me, some who can never leave their beds at all, who can't stand any noise or light, have to be tube fed, or are stuck in hospitals being treated like criminals. I am extremely thankful that my level of disability allows me some modicum of independence. I would go crazy otherwise, not being good around people. I am thankful that I have a home, a pension which allows me to eat and buy the essentials, a daughter who cares even if she can't visit often. Maybe it's being thankful for those things that keeps me going. The big things. But the little things? Those are a nightmare.
Like most people who get home deliveries I have been presented with substitutions - food I would never buy, don't like, would never eat, or just don't want. I am then in a dilemma. If I don't take it, what do I eat instead? And if I send it back it will just be thrown away, which I find unacceptable. Problem. Stress. Stress I don't need. But on the whole I manage.
Going out when absolutely necessary is simple, I call a cab and struggle the rest of the way.
Housework? It just doesn't get done, mostly. Luckily I was never all that houseproud. My bedroom looks like a jumble sale. The living room is in chaos. I always joke that no one will ever break in because it looks like the place has been turned over already. I move hesitantly, sloth like, around the house, resembling mountaineers at a high altitude, body and brain on go slow. Except when they're at a dead stop. But there's no one here to see it, so I don't care.
No, like I say, it's the little things. Like turning over in bed. You're probably thinking: "What? Turning over in bed? I can do that in my sleep!" Indeed you can, and I'm sure you do. Film of sleeping people shows just how often most people do it, moving around all night long. I used to do it myself once. And on good nights I still do. But on the bad ones...well. The thing is, we have to turn sometimes to keep the circulation going, to avoid pressure sores, going numb, etc. But if your body is flatly refusing to do it, what then? I have nights where I wake up in exactly the same position I went to sleep in, having not moved at all, the sheets totally undisturbed. I have other nights where I wake up just to turn over, because it takes quite a lot of concentration. Oh yes.
It's as if my subconscious is behaving like an orchestra without a conductor. No one is telling which bit of me to move next. Even awake it can be just the same. Have you seen those people who scale sheer rock faces with no help? That three points of contact rule. It's a bit like that sometimes. Move this foot, move this hand, now this one, now that one, and so on, until you get where you want to be. It can take quite a time. And a lot of effort, when your limbs feel like lead. Such a little thing, you'd think, but it takes forever.
Making a cup of tea is another. You're sitting in your seat with a dry mouth, trying to decide if you really need that drink or can you do without a bit longer. It does make me sound awfully lazy, I know. But it's not that. It's the effort it takes to haul your body out of the chair, stumble to the kitchen, then realising you didn't bring your cup with you so you have to go back for it. Then you fill the cup with water and tip it into the lightweight camping kettle to boil. You put the teabag into the cup, pour on the water, shuffle over to the fridge for milk, add the milk, go back to the fridge to put the milk away. Then you have to pick up the cup of tea which feels like a lead weight and try to get it back to the living room without spilling it, set it down and collapse into the chair. By which time you're too exhausted to drink it.
Another little adventure, just one of many during the day in the life of someone with ME.
But before you can start your day of course you have to get out of bed. Now many people will lie in bed thinking about whether they want to get up or not. Not many people lie in bed thinking about how they are going to get up. I do. On bad days anyway. On good days, if I've been sleeping well for a while and have some energy to spare I can get out of bed reasonably easily. Even if it means forcing myself to find the energy, which is counter productive as I suffer for it later. On bad days it's a whole other story.
Imagine waking up and you can't move. Your whole body feels like lead, lifeless, heavy, immovable, like gravity has increased somehow in the night. After a time you can maybe open your eyes, perhaps wiggle toes or a little finger. Good! You wait. After a time you can turn your head. Great! Wait some more and the arms feel like they're less heavy, so you try moving them. Yes! Success! The body is still lying there like a beached whale, but things are improving. In time you can wriggle a bit but the legs are still lying there, two great lumps of meat. Oh you can feel it if you touch them. They aren't numb. Just going nowhere. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, you can move them a bit, slide them around on the bed. The beached whale has gone, to be replaced by an elephant seal. Things are looking up!
That's when I wait until I start to feel my bladder. When I feel that it needs emptying I know my body has finally woken up and I can make it off the bed to stagger with still wobbly legs to the bathroom. Rather like a mermaid newly transformed who isn't used to having legs yet.
This whole procedure can take up to an hour. For me it's never a case of do I want to get up. I have never enjoyed just lying in bed doing nothing. But now I spend most of my time reclining or lying, occasionally sitting, and rarely walking. Boring? Yes, it can be, though I have my computer and books and so on to stop me from going stir crazy.
Every little thing has to be thought about, things others take for granted, things I once took for granted. And this with a brain that is itself compromised. Short term memory is crap. Sometimes I feel like I'm developing dementia but I know it isn't that. It's just ME. Just, she says. Right.
Yes, I know there those much worse off than me, some who can never leave their beds at all, who can't stand any noise or light, have to be tube fed, or are stuck in hospitals being treated like criminals. I am extremely thankful that my level of disability allows me some modicum of independence. I would go crazy otherwise, not being good around people. I am thankful that I have a home, a pension which allows me to eat and buy the essentials, a daughter who cares even if she can't visit often. Maybe it's being thankful for those things that keeps me going. The big things. But the little things? Those are a nightmare.
Tuesday 28 January 2014
Maybe it's Enough.
Maybe it's Enough
I’m getting tired of married men and being second best.
but why stop at number two, there’s three and all the rest.
I know I’m well down on the list, but that’s how it has to be:
I’m there whenever he needs it, but he’s rarely there for me.
Why can’t I ever fall in love with a man who’s all alone,
who doesn’t have to sneak around, one who I can phone;
who’d be there when I’m lonely or need to talk a while
instead of “sorry I have to go” with a sweet but hurried smile.
He loves me, yes of course he does, in ways that mean a lot,
but love that leaves me lonely is all the love I’ve got.
I think about it often, I’m far too nice, it’s said,
or should that be enabling, or not right in the head.
A women who loves in this way believes it’s all she’s worth,
and better some than none at all as long as she’s on the earth.
They say there’s someone for everyone, though finding them is tough,
but this one’s been the best so far. Maybe that’s enough.
CS 12/2013
I’m getting tired of married men and being second best.
but why stop at number two, there’s three and all the rest.
I know I’m well down on the list, but that’s how it has to be:
I’m there whenever he needs it, but he’s rarely there for me.
Why can’t I ever fall in love with a man who’s all alone,
who doesn’t have to sneak around, one who I can phone;
who’d be there when I’m lonely or need to talk a while
instead of “sorry I have to go” with a sweet but hurried smile.
He loves me, yes of course he does, in ways that mean a lot,
but love that leaves me lonely is all the love I’ve got.
I think about it often, I’m far too nice, it’s said,
or should that be enabling, or not right in the head.
A women who loves in this way believes it’s all she’s worth,
and better some than none at all as long as she’s on the earth.
They say there’s someone for everyone, though finding them is tough,
but this one’s been the best so far. Maybe that’s enough.
CS 12/2013
Saturday 4 January 2014
What Is Wrong With The World
I feel so sad for the seal.
Nature is red in tooth and claw
but the orca must have its meal.
And didn’t the seal eat fish in its turn,
in its graceful sinuous dive?
And those fish ate krill or smaller fish
killing to stay alive?
Lions and tigers feed their cubs
on grazing elegant deer,
or whatever vegetarian
should happen to appear.
I’m told by others time and again
that I shouldn’t eat living things,
whether fish or fowl or good red meat
that travel on feet or wings.
My only excuse is, in gratitude,
I try not to cause them strife,
but try to ensure what few I take
had a peaceful, outdoor life;
a cherished life and an easy death:
its the least that I can do,
but still I am troubled that something must die,
for plants are living things too!
Life is a funny old thing all round,
the carbon cycle goes on.
We live and pass on our DNA
even after we’re gone.
In dust our elements fioat on the wind
to become something else by and by,
rebirth is reality time and again,
how else can I not sit and cry?
To see baby penguins freeze on the ice,
or elephants killed by men:
it’s all too cruel to contemplate.
I wonder where will it end.
Of course many deaths are natural,
it's sad but just their lot.
But so many deaths are down to us,
whether used as food or not.
To take a few, to feed ourselves
may not be to everyone's taste,
but to kill for ornament, or for pride,
is such a terrible waste.
Humanity has to think about how
it treats fellow creatures, and soon,
before we turn this beautiful earth
into something more like the moon.
One cannot legislate for greed
or the unthinking ways that prevail.
Tigers aren’t medicine, rhinos can’t help
when masculine members fail.
Perhaps if we all spread the message around,
educate people with fact,
we can call a halt to the needless deaths
and do it with kindness and tact.
For ignorance often lies behind
the awful carnage we see.
If we care for creation, let’s cherish it all
and let it begin with me.
© Jan 2014
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