Slow Running

 

I doubt that it’s possible to resist this inbred protestant work ethic, and its consequent guilt trip. I’m the guy who, for many observers, seemed so laid back that, even when standing upright, my spine must have been around 45 degrees from the horizontal and yet, this gnawing guilt persistently upsets me.

For the past few years, for health reasons, I’ve been unable to undertake any employment paid or voluntary, each day being so unpredictable, presenting the unexpected obstacle or fresh hope; physical and emotional stamina rarely coincide even on the best of days. A major regret is that, when I was enjoying better health, I pushed myself that bit too far; my current ability to pace myself, to subsist on a lower altitude plateau, does not come easily.

A very good day for me, these days, means running at as high as 35% of what would have been a quite sluggish activity level for me a few short years ago, and yet, I’m still plagued by guilt. I ought to be doing more; forget the fact that taking a shower is frequently a daily task too far, cleaning my teeth an effort too much when exhaustion suddenly overtakes me, I should be doing more; I should be out there earning an honest living.

Of course the media, and politicians of all persuasions, almost daily attack anyone living on disability or incapacity benefits as degenerate scroungers. If only some of that vitriol could have been spared to attack the greed driven recklessness of the banking fraternity, or the many hours wasted (and billions of pounds lost to treasury) by those working out ever more devious tax-avoidance schemes for those who already have more income annually than most of us can expect to earn in a lifetime, our economy might now be in a far healthier state.

Perhaps in a few months time, when I chronologically comply with / qualify for the Old Age Pension, the “guilt” will flee from me. Somehow that could be the time for freeing up; it’s currently difficult to admit that I’m enjoying being a gentleman of leisure, whilst I so wish for the energy to be running in a far less leisurely mode.

Sonic Vibrations

Disrobed and prepared, time hangs slowly, waiting to enter the unknown zone.

The first bit’s nice, lie down, head on the pillow; a pillow propping up the knees to ensure optimum stability and comfort, alleviates my anxiety regarding maintaining stillness for the duration. Headphones firmly clamped in place, emergency / panic button placed at ones fingertips and it’s all systems go. Just a last check to make sure one’s arms are well tucked in, before the slide into the cylinder begins.

Curiosity takes over and, I’m desperate to know how light or dark it’ going to be in the belly of the machine. As it turns out to be light, next decision to be made is do I close my eyes or leave them open; the awareness that its light also enables one to be fully aware of just what a confined space they are within. Close the eyes and this restraint has gone; there could be all the space in the world out there so, what’s the worry? To my surprise there are no worries at all, nor is there any real awareness of time.

The soundscape is rather like an avant-garde techno-trance experiment. What’s lacking in the drum and bass field is more than compensated for by the healthy bass balance in all the proffered sounds, bass, treble or mid-range. To my ears, this random array of note clusters strikes me as quite tonal, a remarkable absence of discomforting dissonance.

It’s virtually impossible to apply any regular time signature to this precocious rhythmical melody; at times one is aware of the absence of note-clusters, a blanketed industrial washing machine being heard some distance off, before the music begins again.

Following on from this excursion, to a rather exclusive little music club, my GP will be informed of the results of my MRI scan within two weeks.

Waiting Time

 

An almost crystalline purity and perfection pervades the morning sky. The  brightness, that clarity of light synonymous with crisp cold days, swiftly elevates the spirit,a kind of exalted invitation to the dance.

Having managed to strugglingly manouevre myself downstairs, on finding  a relatively comfortable chair, I gaze out across the bedraggled garden. This little landscape has been victim of a far from modest elemental buffetting; the combined artillery (both light and heavy) of wind, rain and cold brigades, has beaten the earth into submission.

I'm all too well aware  of those little preparatory tasks. that remained undone, in the run up to winter but, hopefully, I will feel more up to tackling the  necessary recuperative tasks when the the season changes.

Malcolm - 7 January 2009

A Christmas Message

I just sit and look across the room, my beloved lost in thought, a slightly perplexed smile on her face as she ponders the words she’s typing. I smile to myself, a token of admiration coupled with adoration. Sometimes, I lose track of time as I simply contemplate ma belle’s visage; I enter a wonderful world of devotion and love. It seems strange that no matter how much in love I am, it continues to grow.

We’ve gradually completed the Christmas decorations and enter into the magic of the season. Most importantly, for all the gewgaws with which we surround ourselves, we remember that our real celebration is of a helpless child born to a teenage mum in an occupied state in the Middle East. Research suggests that this child Jesus would most probably have been born around April but, I rather like the way Christianity has assimilated this pagan feast time to celebrate the birth of the Christ child. Those who choose to follow the way of the Christ child should not seek to separate themselves from the world but always be there alongside those they can assist in a far from perfect world. Christians are to be “in the world but not of the world”; it’s never enough to accept the world as it is but, rather, we have a duty to transform it.

Just as our Christmas lights and decorations transform the darkest time of the year; Jesus message was to turn the accepted values of the ruling elite on their head. Sadly, just like we put away the lights before twelfth night so, through the centuries, have some of the ruling elites served to restore the injustices which Jesus challenged, in the name of Christendom!

May the message of Peace On Earth and Goodwill To All Men be taken seriously in this twenty first century of the common era.

Just as my contemplation of my beloved gives me such a warm glow, so does the true meaning of Christmas.

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This post first appeared on 22 December 2006

collapse of the stoical front

Occasionally the stoical front collapses and tears catch one by surprise. That sudden inexplicable low, amidst the sundry serial and perpetual ailments that beset one, tips the balance. Is it the constant pain, the seemingly interminable incapacity, the sense of isolation resultant from that same invisible disability, or a more general existential angst? Perhaps it’s the combination, of all those things, that sets the tears flowing; for a while I teeter on the brink of self-pity and it proves a real struggle to regain my general positivity. [No sooner have the symptoms of a recent chronic bout of sleep disrupting sciatica receded than a case of TMJD (temporal mandibular joint dysfunction) takes pole position in the table of well-being assailants.]
I’ve always suspected that it’s much harder to witness and share the suffering of a loved one than it is to suffer oneself but, when one does suffer from any ailment, or dis-ease, the awareness that those who care for, and about you, somehow share your pain, intensifies the sense of spiritual suffering. The sufferer also feels guilty at imposing, on the one who loves and cares for them, some of the restrictions (on the socializing front) implicit in one’s own condition. I frequently find myself apologizing to my beloved for my, all too familiar, achingly fatigued condition, and the consequent wearyingly low stamina levels; it’s not that I blame myself for being ill but, to be honest, I’d prefer to be an enabler rather than a burden.

This posting is also on Mal's Murmurings.

A Nudge and a Wink

Night-time trips between bed and bath rooms are fraught with a sense of adventure; my faith in the stability of bed end, stair rail and wall, has not been undermined so far. As long as the muscular and joint pains remain discomfortingly persistent, I remain on guard for the possibility of a random stumbling collapse; at least, in this one respect, the rest and sleep destroying acute discomfort seems to serve a useful purpose!

 

Somehow “collapsing” sounds far more dynamic than “creaking”, at least the results are far more spectacular when, knee, ankle, or hip joint, suddenly give way. The competition between “creaking” and “collapsing” into action becomes increasingly intense.  The sheer unpredictability of which joint takes priority ensures that my enforced sedentary lifestyle never becomes boring.

 

 

What I’m missing most of all is a decent night’s sleep; no matter how exhausted / positively shattered I may feel on retiring au lit, by the time I’ve struggled out of daytime attire, donned pyjamas and, performed the appropriate ablutions I’m far too fatigued to sleep.

 

I can usually guarantee that I’m going to be alerted into wakefulness at least once or twice in every hour by some chronic jarring discomfort emanating from anywhere between small of back and ankles. I still fail to understand the logistics that require the shifting (and adjustment) of the whole of my body, in order to achieve a minor adjustment in the alignment of the right lower limb; we’re talking microns here!

 

Somewhere between 3.00 and 4.00 am, I usually seem to achieve a state of full alertness although this effect has usually been squandered some time before my beloved stirs in anticipation of preparing herself for work.

 

All being well, I manage to remove myself from the duvets hypnotic allure by 11.00 am, only to fall asleep again mid-afternoon, my wife not uncommonly returning from work to find me in a dazed stupor.

RESTORED to ME

 

If one lives in a state of perpetual “not-wellness”, how is it possible to detect when they are ill? I refer to those kinds of chronic condition, which one learns to accept as normative, the regularly attendant symptoms of which would be construed as a real crisis condition in anyone blessed with more normal health.

 

In seeking equilibrium, I would never be so foolish as to anticipate more than 100% recovery from any aberrant additional infliction that comes my way, although the chance would be a fine thing; the real problem is being able to recognize when one’s health has been restored to its most recent pre-viral attack condition. Are the sore throat, earache, glandular tenderness, and muscular pains in the lower limbs and joints a further manifestation of the recent gastric knockout infection or, do they quite simply represent a return to my normative ME/CFS state?

 

Is there something wrong or, am I quite simply being restored to me?

   

ATOS Calling

11.30 am, Sunday morning, and the telephone rings. The caller asks if I’m me, a disembodied voice from ATOS, the private medical arm employed by the DWP, proffering me a date to attend a medical in York. It has got to be York (not Leeds, my preferred option next to a home visit), in the most dismally oppressive claustrophobic building, where one is locked in the waiting room, outer door locked behind you and the door to reception locked in front of you. If you need the toilet, one has to get the attention of the receptionist and traverse the corridors beyond the receptionists room; an ideal setting for people who have problems with their physical and/or mental health.

The date suggested by the disembodied one is a Tuesday, to which I have to point out that I’d already explained on my form that Wednesdays are the only day when my beloved chauffeuse is available to transport me there. Of course, they had an available time on the Wednesday so they’ll be sending a confirmation letter regarding the date and time of the appointment.

In less than one year’s time, I shall be in receipt of a State Pension, as well as a couple of other policies maturing; the big question is, will I be in receipt of incapacity benefit until that time? The unpredictable nature of my condition, how I will be from one day to the next, (the only certainty being that if I overdo it I’ll be wrecked for several succeeding days), has prevented me from taking on any voluntary work or having what I used to consider a normal social life. To be honest, if I was to declare myself as being available for paid employment, I would be lying to myself as well as any potential employer. I’m sure they’d all rush for the opportunity to give employment on the basis that I would only attend when I was fit or alert enough to attend, at the whim of my erratic achingly exhausted body.

The only viable option, should they (under their remit to attack the most vulnerable members of society) deny my eligibility for IB, is to live off my savings, and make the necessary national insurance contributions, for the next eleven months.

Just something I had to get off my chest, at the same time acknowledging that there are far too many people in a worse predicament and condition than myself. I just wonder why I should be made to feel guilty about having a health condition which is not immediately obvious, except to those like my beloved who have to live with its effects.

Many Happy Returns

I make little secret of the fact that I’m not the best of travellers so, having just returned from a visit to Northampton, today is going to be a rather quiet celebration of my birthday. At the time the Beatles released “When I’m 64”, such a great age seemed almost unimaginable for this wreck of a twenty-something but, now I’m there, health problems notwithstanding I’m going through one of the happiest periods of my life. My only requirement for contentment is the presence of ma belle amoureuse, tending to the garden when stamina permits, and observing the flora and fauna hereabouts.

Sorry; that paragraph took off in a direction I hadn’t anticipated, even though every bit of it is true. Come to think of it, any direction my rambling takes is something of a surprise, not exactly stream-of –consciousness more rivulets-of-idleness. I don’t even know what I intended to say; just crossed my fingers and trusted in the keyboard to make it plain!

Let’s start at the very beginning, it’s a very good place to start; when you read you begin with A,B,C, when you write you begin with me, me, me … So, travelling is the cue. The reason for the visit to Northampton was, for my beloved to celebrate her sister Margaret’s 70^th birthday; the six siblings were to go out for a celebratory dinner on the Friday lunch time. Helen and myself don’t like the idea of being apart for even one night, so we decided that I would travel down with her, provided I could overcome my travel anxieties. Being a poor traveller, this necessitated a two night stay, arriving on the Thursday afternoon and returning home on Saturday morning.

Most of my time on the Friday was spent in our room, at The Innkeepers Lodge, resting and sleeping. I occasionally ventured out to amble around the pine tree surrounded grounds of the establishment and, grabbed a couple of starters in lieu of a main meal at the adjacent carvery. I’m grateful for the time spent sleeping, otherwise, it would have seemed an extremely long day whilst my beloved was out with her siblings. What kept me going was the thought of being back home around lunchtime the following day. Please note, it’s the arrival that matters not the journey.

The return journey went much more smoothly than we could possibly have anticipated but, nothing can match the joy of ones return to the homestead.

A highlight of the return journey was a sign, presumably referring to ongoing maintenance work, stating “DELAYS ARE LIKELY UNTIL AUTUMN 2010”; my God, I thought, I have difficulty coping with a ten minute hold-up (hyper-ventilating panic attacks etc.), I don’t think I can survive one for 2 ¼ years.

A little further along the motorway, a large poster in an adjacent field read, “PREPARE TO MEET YOUR GOD”. The way some people were driving, crossing lanes without signalling, cutting in without leaving an appropriate space between the other vehicles, it seemed quite ominous. If the intent was to proselytize, it was sufficiently distracting to ensure that potential converts may not survive long enough to repent or convert. Must admit, I appreciated it more as the work of a prankster with a sick sense of humour, rather than a wayside pulpit.

This posting also appears on Mal's Murmurings

A Matter of Chance?

No matter how much we may think we freely choose the time and place for our actions, there are times when a specific action (in terms of time and place) quite simply had to be. Yesterday was a case in point.

Regular readers of my blog will realize that so often my decision to go out, perform a certain activity etc, is determined as much by the vagaries of my resource of physical and emotional stamina as it is by my will to do so. Yesterday afternoon I had determined on a certain goal but, a choice had to be made as to whether ma belle and I would walk there (a venue slightly further than my usual brief brisk walking range) or go in the car.

The day being beautifully sunny, and noticing the pond had survived the winter with an absolute surplus of oxygenating weed, I was almost distracted sufficiently to abandon the aforementioned goal, tidying up the pond instead. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, I decided it would be better to walk to the pre-planned venue rather than do any work on the pond. It was definitely decided that we should walk, rather than use automotive power for this little errand.

A couple of hundred yards down the road, a voice called out “Malcolm, Malcolm”. We turned around and, at first I didn’t recognize the lady who was calling out. As we chatted, she told us of her worries and anxieties and that she’d lost two stone in weight through the stress of recent events. She seemed close to tears as we chatted and asked if we would like to call around to her place for a coffee and a chat.

Having performed our little errand, we called in on our way back home and sat and chatted for a couple of hours. Although it was quite an exhausting experience, well past my usual socializing limit, it was also most rewarding. By the time we left it was really great to see her smiling. The problems she’s been facing seem some way from resolution but, at least the problems have been shared.

The timing and direction of our little venture seems almost to have been pre-ordained. Yes, I had to make the choice to venture out but, I had no idea that the exercise would prove so fruitful.

And Was My Friday Good

AND WAS MY FRIDAY GOOD (Friday 21 March)

A dispassionately mundane retelling of the gospel account of Jesus crucifixion, monotonously narrated by Mary Magdalene, with music of a banality that makes one think that perhaps Lloyd-Webber is Verdi’s natural heir. This was ‘Good Friday Liturgy’ (BBC Radio 4), words by Carol Anne Duffy, in what the Radio Times described as having feminist perspective. If having a woman say that she saw the events, rather than a male recorder of the events voice stating what was happening makes it feminist, then ………..!

Having spent a few of the preceding hours listening to Palestrina ‘Stabat Mater’, Liszt ‘Via Crucis’, a plainsong ‘Stabat Mater’ and sections of the Verdi ‘Requiem’, the banality of this special radio production was all the more striking.

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The following is a random jotting which I failed to get around to completing or posting yesterday, presented in glorious Technicolor incompleteness.

MAUNDY THURSDAY ( Thursday 20 March)

On Maundy Thursday, a few random thoughts spring to mind concerning the Last Supper.

I’ve often felt it ironic that the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples, prior to his death by crucifixion, should have been the Passover Seder, a celebration of the Hebrews release from their Egyptian captivity; redemption and death seemed to have been rolled into one. (Pesach derives from the tenth plague when those households whose doorposts were daubed with the blood of the Passover lamb were ‘passed over’ by the avenging angel, a prelude to their release from the Egyptian captivity).

Some scholars however suggest that the meal may have been on the day, a few days before the Passover Seder, when the Passover lambs were slaughtered; this would of course have provided a more instant symbolism.

The symbolic potency of the last supper ( as Passover Seder) becomes truly significant when we realize that through the death of Jesus and the subsequent event known as ‘resurrection’, death itself was overcome, the ultimate liberation from oppression.

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A later posting for today (Friday), A Little Miracle, can be found on 'Mal's Murmurings'

Bruised Without Bruising

This morning, the winds bluster challenges my lungs; it hits my face and takes the breath away. A plenitude of airiness leaves me gasping for air. My body was already feeling buffeted but, this was not of the winds making.

Strange the way that these elemental forces reflect back on me; my feeling leadenly bruised in limbs and torso, it’s impossible not to identify with the howling wind, a desire to wield rather than yield.

I watch the trees flex and strain, as if to minimize the effects of resistance. If only I could take my cue from them. Unfortunately, neither my physique nor will is quite that supple.

I seem to be suffering from the belated aftermath of last weeks endeavours. Transported by an adrenalin rush, I felt a temporary invincibility; reason (or perhaps vanity) told me I could manage a few more little tasks, having decorated the bathroom. After all, the tasks were of extremely modest proportion, but my body still pays the price in terms of a leaden, numb, aching exhaustion.

Psychologically I feel good, a modest overcoming, but physically quite drained.

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This post would have appeared on 'Mal's Murmurings' had I been able to sign in on Windows Live

Ein kleines nachtdenken

How does one explain an awareness of being unaware, a drifting within a static void, a painless ache; why, indeed, should one want to capture and explain such an undeserved and undesirable experience? Perhaps it’s the desire to simply interpret a non-experience in such a way that life makes sense. It’s not so much a dark night of the soul as a plenum void!

The moment is everything and yet feels like the very antithesis of anything, a sense of detachment from daily (or any) reality. Why do I use words? Because they’re there; maybe that’s the reason why!