Fermentation and Percolation - Abdominal Joys

Wearied by humid heat, each minor task seems Herculean, even more so when it involves a trip into town. For many years now I’ve been unable to face travelling any distance but, it has become increasingly difficult to steel myself sufficiently for the very short journey into the town centre. Chauffeured by ma belle Helen it’s only a matter of 5 to 10 minutes in the car, but even that becomes quite arduous when the stifling heat seems to amplify the sensory overload of passing traffic and scurrying pedestrians both whilst journeying and on arrival at one’s goal.

Earlier this week I had to travel into town to collect my new glasses, of the spectacles not the drinking vessel kind; a short trip on a day when the heat proved overpowering to me. An additional problem, on this occasion, was a diarrhoeal flare up of my IBS. A quick visit to the toilets at the shopping mall found all cubicles temporarily “out of order”; the subsequent scurrying to a large store, and ride up the escalator, proved somewhat disconcerting as the whole abdominal area felt as if an excruciating fermentation or percolating  process was occurring.

Having reached the necessary facilities in the store both cubicles were occupied as I waited cross-legged and anxious for a unit to become available. As I’ve said before, visits into town are always a discomforting experience for yours truly but, this time, the humidity of the day alongside my turbulent abdominal spasms caused additional distress, on top of a familiar state of sensory overload.

It was really touch and go as to whether I managed to keep the appointment to try on and collect my new prescription eyewear. On the verge of a panic attack, I did manage to collect the optical item although I was more interested in getting back home than giving myself sufficient time to fully check that they were OK. Whether or not they proved satisfactory was of far less importance than the rest and facilities waiting for me at home.

The Guilt of a Spoonie Wimp

Convulsive weeping, the pattern of my day; a sense of failure, weakness or betrayal, none of it makes sense! After weeks of feeling further under par, a decision to increase my dose of amitriptylene (up to now used to deal with some nocturnal discomfort) towards an anti-depressant level just made me feel worse. Persistent headache, intensified abdominal bloating & discomfort, loss of appetite (difficulty swallowing even), postural hypotension alongside a more general dizziness, all seemed to coincide with the increased dosage.

Recent weeks had seen a marked increase in my stress levels, as work on the new extension kitchen, dining room, and walk-in shower, dominated my conscious awareness of every day-time, and the added confusion of life in total disarray in other parts of the house proved more burdensome than either of us had anticipated.

Sleep and pain patterns have become even more erratic than usual but then, always at the back of my mind was a proposed visit to Worthing to celebrate the Golden Wedding Anniversary of my brother & sister in law, Dave & Janet. Having plucked up courage to book an hotel room, sometime last week, for a four night stay, the imminence of the travel became more real but, I felt the special nature of the occasion would somehow enable me to carry it through.

Today was to have been the day of travel (more like travail) – a journey of approx 6 hours duration – but although the car was packed with our case and rucksack, necessary medications having been packed last evening, the event was not to be. At present even the five to ten minute journey into town can seem like an arduous expedition so, I should have realized that this event was not to be. First mistake was removing myself from the duvet lair, after an all too familiar restless night, over an hour earlier than is my norm.

Wham, the enormity of the proposed venture hit home with pile-driver force; I would love to have been there for the celebrations but, my own wimpish nature resisted the travail. That’s when the tears got into full flow, a deep rooted feeling that I was really betraying my brother & sister-in-law, I began to wish I didn’t love them, that would have made it far easier to turn down the invitation. The vicious circle followed – yes, I should make the journey, no matter the deleterious effects that may have – no, I’d be foolish to travel but, that’s letting my brother down.

Sadly, the journey is not taking place, the sense of guilt weighs heavily. 

A SLOW SLIDES JOURNEY INTO DAYMARE

A SLOW SLIDES JOURNEY INTO DAYMARE

Today would be best forgotten but, it’s my failure that I find it hard to forget, just as I find it almost insurmountably difficult to forgive. Much of today’s problems, other than the generally ongoing ME related ailments, emanate from the inappropriate prescribing by a certain medical professional. That GP I am unable to forgive.

This morning I was forced to emerge, from the duvet lair, a good

1 ¾  hrs earlier than is my norm, to keep a previously postponed appointment at the hospital’s orthoptics department. The morning, apart from my unearthly hours emergence into the day, was also greeted with a quite heavy snowfall.

Anyone who knows me, at all well, is all too aware of my difficulty with travel of any kind and, this morning’s short journey, following the main roads rather than our usual shortcuts, was one of following and being followed by skidding and stalling vehicles.  This was just like living through a nightmare for my sensitivities. At one point, even my beloved chauffeuse thought we’d maybe have to call the hospital to cancel the appointment, this time at much shorter notice. In spite of prior weather warnings of snowfall the responsible(!) authorities hadn’t bothered to grit the roads.

Whilst my beloved queued, waiting to access the hospital’s car park, I made my way to the relevant department. As I looked for the right place I wandered past the turning, having been told it was to the left, by a volunteer near reception, whereas it was actually to the right. Having ambled along the corridor a notice clearly stated that patients for Visual Fields Test should take a seat “here”, which I duly obeyed. Several minutes later a couple of hospital staff ambled by and asked if I was alright; I in turn informed them that I was waiting for the visual field test. Evidently I should have first reported to a reception staton some twenty to thirty yards further along the corridor.

By this time I urgently needed the loo, and had a bout of re-active diarrhoea, before entering the surgery. The clinician was quite concerned that my head felt so hot, and I explained how this wasn’t unusual as I could sweat in a freezing environment, my body thermostat being shattered / wildly erratic ever since succumbing to ME.

About halfway through the tests on my first eye I required a break as my chin and forehead were so uncomfortable, and I needed a drink of water before I continued. No sooner was the patch transferred to the other eye, and appropriate lens in place than I became quite headachy and totally incapable of concentrating as all spun around me. I informed the clinician that I wasn’t able to continue the test and also cancelled and discharged myself from tomorrows appointment with ophthalmology.

I simply cannot cope with early hours or concentrated attention. The appointments would not, in any case, have been necessary had my GP not messed haphazardly with my medication. [Earlier postings have already dealt with this situation]

minor travel major travail

Just where is that emotional stamina hiding; come to that, it would be useful if I could uncover a resource for topping up my rather limited levels of the physical variety. After a short trip across the Pennines, about which more later, even my already constrained ability to concentrate on any sustained reading has gone into abeyance. At least I’m hoping it will return! No matter how much I enjoy looking out onto the garden, the heavily overcast and frequent rain-sodden days do little for one’s morale.

 

After a morning of extremely vividly disconcerting dreams, I finally felt sufficiently alert to remove myself from the bedclothes at around 11.15am, thirteen hours after availing myself of their embrace. As my beloved doesn’t go to her place of employment on a Wednesday it made the rest of the day more bearable. By about 4.30pm I felt it necessary to rest my eyes, at which point ma belle enquired whether I needed to lay myself down on the sofa. At the time it didn’t really seem at all necessary but, within half-an-hour my legs began to suffer a dull throbbing ache, feeling as if they’d been waterlogged.

 

Finally I had to admit my OH was right and, I really did need to lie down; no sooner had I reclined, in supine posture, than my wrists began their far too familiar nagging ache requiring a swift application of splint supports. Just another ordinary day!

 

                                                  ***

 

Now comes the report on that trans-Pennine journey, although, in terms of mileage, it was a short drive, to me the outward journey seemed a far too protracted arduous nightmare. Spastic colon, and acute diverticular discomfort set the tone of the adventure; within the parameters of a 70 mile route, I most urgently required a loo break on three occasions, the first of which required a diversion from the route we were travelling.

 

The SatNav redirected us, via the Old Skipton Road, across desolate sodden moorland. This route didn’t help at all as a kind of agoraphobic panic attack overwhelmed that attention which had previously focussed on my painfully aching abdomen. When we eventually arrived at the hostelry where we’d be spending the night, it was encouraging to see they had at least four draught ales on offer. As we approached our upstairs accommodation the heat in the hallway proved overwhelming, as was that which greeted us in the room.

 

That evening we attended a wedding party, the purpose of our visit, at a nearby Jacobean venue. On arriving at the venue, I managed ( whilst leaving the badly lit car parking space) to trip on a protruding step as ma belle and I sought the relevant hall entrance. The entrance was attained via an ill lit awning tent and, once again I tripped as my foot fell from the edge of the footway.

Not a good start; since my days as a union steward I’ve been well aware of health and safety issues, and the ill lit irregular causeway would certainly have been a major concern. As I’m prone to giddiness, and an associated fear of falling (such that I will only take a shower when my beloved’s around), I wasn’t able to relax at all.

 

Inside, the venue was disconcertingly sprawling and, we failed to find the quieter lounge. We spent best part of an hour, but seemed much longer, sat at a table in the bar area chatting with one or two family members. Just the noise of chatter became overwhelming; part of my illness means that I find it difficult to cope with crowds or noise so, really, I was in the wrong place. My total alcohol intake was less than half of the pint of ale I’d imagined I would enjoy.

 

Ten years on from succumbing to this condition (moderate Myalgic Encephalomyelitis), it becomes increasingly hard to understand that I once, not only coped with but, whole heartedly, enjoyed a quite gregarious lifestyle, pubbing, clubbing, politicking, wining and dining, leading  house groups and more!

 

Back at the inn, the landlady turned down the radiator at our request and supplied us with an electric fan and opened the skylight, the only window in the room, to allow some air to circulate. Most of the night was spent restlessly on top of the bed; music from nearby filled the air until 2.00am after which I became aware of the swoosh of traffic, presumably from the motorway. Further distraction was proffered in the form of other guests returning to the inn, as the floorboards groaned and roared their disapproval of human footfall. A worn out washer on the hot tap in our en suite, erratically appliquéd a kind of water torture onto the other aggravating layers of distraction.

 

Having missed out on food the night before, I was looking forward to breakfast but even this hope remained unfulfilled. Still feeling rather stressed, and upset by and commenting on my trip up experience of the previous evening, I interpreted a nervous smile from Helen’s brother as a sneer and duly threatened to deck him. At that point I quit the breakfast room.

 

Our journey back across the Pennines was a far happier experience, travelling predominantly on motorways advocated by the disembodied voice of the SatNav.

A Traveller's Tale

 As the names Sheffield & Leeds appeared on the motorway signs I felt able to breathe freely once more. There really is no other place on earth quite like God’s own county and, having just travelled up from deepest Hertfordshire, the thought of soon being able to set foot once again on Yorkshire’s sacred ground proved truly heart-warming! To be totally honest, the ‘heart-warming’ was probably in response to the prospect of arriving home on the third day. Although born a “man of Kent”, and having inhabited points North, South, East & West of England, I am proud to be a Northerner and born-again Yorkshire man.

Our outbound journey, on Thursday, was not without its little hiccups as (what should have been) a three and a half hour journey turned into a more tortuous five hours of intermittent frustration. I’m not a good traveller at the best of times and this was most certainly not the best!

We received a most friendly welcome when we finally arrived at the Red Lion Hotel, in Radlett. The purpose of our venture southwards was to attend the wedding of one of Helen’s nieces; the wedding service was being held at St Paul’s Church in St Albans and the reception at Shenley Cricket Centre, the Church approximately seven miles and the reception venue just over one mile from the hotel we’d booked into.

The meal we had in the hotel’s restaurant was really excellent, at the time I thought it almost made the journey worthwhile. A most obliging waitress came back with the recipe for the sauce served with our main course as I’d been so enthusiastic about it and, she also printed out the route to be taken from the hotel to St Pauls.

After a most restless night, I managed to make it down for breakfast even though sundry muscular and joint pains had begun to kick in. The rest of the morning was spent lying down, attempting to get some rest before we set off for the wedding. Come the time we were due for departure to St Albans I knew there was no way I’d be able to cope with neither the journey to nor the ceremony itself.

My attempts to rest and relax whilst ma belle had headed off to the wedding were thwarted by the blaring/beeping of car horns (by the aggressive southern motorists as they approached the mini-roundabout in close proximity to the hotel). By this time a pounding headache and a disorientating spinning sensation, closely akin to that experienced when I suffered with labyrinthitis, joined the by now familiar aches and pains searing through my limbs whilst the ribcage was feeling rather bruised.

I should add that by this time I’d begun to be overwhelmed by a sense of despairing self-pity, after all this same Friday was also my birthday and here I was in an alien land feeling quite alone and desolate. When my beloved returned from the wedding service I reluctantly agreed to take a taxi to the reception. That decision proved totally disastrous as I was unable to cope with the babble of conversation and (joyous?) laughter – a total sensory overload. Within fifteen minutes we were in a taxi back to the hotel.

Later in the evening I felt almost ready to eat so, Helen and I ventured down through the bar to the restaurant only to be informed that the restaurant was closed (due to the extra bar business where the televised soccer seemed to be a major attraction and shortage of staff). I muttered to ma belle, “typical, it’s just not my f…ing day; it’s the most f…ing wretched birthday I’ve ever experienced, a bloody nightmare”.

Suddenly a degree of sanity overwhelmed me; I went to the Hotel Reception Desk to make an official complaint that we, as paying guests, had not been informed that the restaurant would be closed on a Friday evening. A few minutes later we were taken to the restaurant where a waitress took our order and the chef came to check whether and when we needed anything. This is what I consider service beyond the call of duty. I’d mentioned to the waitress that part of the reason I couldn’t cope with the noisy environment (of the bar) was because of my moderate M.E. As we finished our desserts the waitress volunteered that we could exit the restaurant via the kitchen, thus avoiding the bustling activity of the bar.

Although I didn’t manage to attend either the ceremony or the reception, for which we’d made the journey down, it was a delight to experience such real hospitality proffered by the Red Lion, Radlett, Herts.

Our return journey, on Saturday morning, passed without a hitch – the exact reverse of the route we’d intended to take on the outward journey – and we reached home in just three and a quarter hours. Recuperation from the adventure may take quite some time but, it’s slightly easier to cope with sundry ailments when at home in familiar territory.

The Best Laid Plans

Monday 31 August

Although it's the thought that counts, that very thought can militate against one; I suppose it's something to do with "the best laid plans ..." And did those thoughts and plans backfire, on my poor long-suffering beloved; not everyone can turn an 80-90 mile trip into a distance more akin to 200 miles, partly attributable to road maps being scattered over a few separate pages of an atlas - spatial sense is shown for the feminine virtue it truly is - and her desire to save me the stress of going via the M62, far from my favourite stretch of road.

Having travelled for best part of two hours, I suddenly became aware that we weren't passing through any of the urban villages (of Lancashire) that I'd anticipated; rural idylls (of both Yorkshire and Cumbria) were the order of the day but, having taken this pleasant alternative route we reached the M6 at a point from which our destination goal wasn't much less of a distance away than it had been at the outset of our journey. (As aforementioned, all of this was the result of Helen's best intention to avoid the much loathed M62 route). For the first several miles on the motorway it was difficult to exceed 25mph, the slowest part of the journey so far.

The one thing of which we were certain was that we now had to head down as far as junction 26 and the M58; so far so good. Just for confirmation we switched on the satnav - destination address already programmed in and, this is where the real fun began. We missed a turn at which our destination was a mere 5.5 miles away and, as the amazing technological device re-planned our route, within a matter of minutes it was a mere 12 miles away. Further down the route we passed a familiar landmark which we knew to be within a few minutes drive of our destination but, the satnav would have none of it! A further twenty-five minutes down the line the satnav continued its wild goose chase eventually telling us that we'd reached our suburban destination when reality demonstratively disclosed the fact that we were actually in the city centre, Liverpool 1 and not Liverpool 19. We'd already been forced to make a few U-turns, and other probably illicit moves, having been directed wrong way into one way streets etc. ... etc ...

Eventually, we arrived at the Innkeepers Lodge, moved in our cases, before venturing around to visit Kathleen, Helen's step-mum, which was a simple ten minutes walk. No navigational problems there but, exhaustion had set in for this bad traveller. The walk back to the hotel proved a little more perilous; through heavy lidded eyes each road, strreet, avenue appeared much the same and my intuitive compass had gone on strike. That's when the dreaded panic set in; chest tightening, breath taking, muscle-spasming painfulness kicked in and all I wanted was to be back home! To be honest, home is the only place and sensation that I really care for; the idea of a break away being relaxing is anathema.

Tuesday 01 September

Taking advantage of a generous breakfast, included in the room price, necessitated me getting up from my bed to walk at a rather earlier hour than has been my norm over recent days. Cereal, probiotic yoghurt, fruit juice, toast, pain au chocolat ... who could ask for anything more; well perhaps a doggy bag was in order to sustain us in that large interval between breakfast and evening meal. Having allowed twenty minutes for breakfast to settle, off we went to Kathleens once again for a little chat and the opportunity to take a few snapshots and a little bit of video-ing. We were back to the inn shortly after 11.30AM, in my case for a much needed rest and, for my beloved, a chance to catch up on some reading. There are definitely some exhibitions at Liverpool's Tate Gallery but, at this stage my reserves of both physical and emotional stamina are still a little battle scarred from yesterday's adventures.

Who knows what the rest of the day will bring but, I am looking forward to a meal at Mad Harrys this evening (technically it's the 'Madhari Tandoori Restaurant' but it's a name that becomes affectionate in my accidental(?) pronunciation)! Mad Harrys is directly opposite to the main door of our temporary habitation. Last night we ate at the Toby Carvery, adjacent to the lodge where we are staying, where I enjoyed a baked sea bass along with a generosity of self service potatoes and vegetables. I even decided a Yorkshire pudding would make an interesting additional accompaniment. Meantime, my beloved settled for the carvery turkey.

********

Once more the best laid plans were destined not to be; the rest of the day turned out to be a devastatingly tortuous non-event. Severe muscular and abdominal discomfort led to an all pervasive sense of nausea though, come late afternoon / early evening went out for a little fresh air in the hope of reviving or creating some semblance of an appetite. The effort was to little avail. No sooner had we seated ourselves in the Indian Restaurant than the sense of nausea returned with a vengeance; at least we were able to leave before we'd had a chance to place an order. My only desire was to be back home in Harrogate whilst simulataneously the thought of making the journey was far too much to cope with.

Most of the day and evening was spent in totally restless attempts to rest. Somehow my biological clock can't cope with dramatic changes such as arising from my bed before mid-to-late morning but, it had seemed necessary to partake of breakfast (at an unearthly early hour) as I felt the need to obtain something in return for the nightly room fee. I did manage a pint of Thwaites 'Bomber' in the afternoon, sweet upfront with a sustained dry bitterness lingering on the palate, a much more satisfying drink than the Long Shadow Chardonnay, of the previous evening, which turned out to be flavoursomely oak laden at the beginning but, became an unremittingly tedious monotony before the glass was half-finished.


Wednesday 2 September

After a night of intermittent sleep, I managed to pluck up the courage to take a shower. Whilst in no way considering myself disabled, it suddenly occurred to me that I had quite a high degree of dependence on the shower seat at home whereas here, no such luxury was afforded. So, short and sweet showerlette was in order and, I emerged marginally refreshed to venture across to the carvery for breakfast.

This evening we'll be ambling around to Kathleens for dinner; the trip to scouseland proves worthwhile if only for the opportunity to visit Helen's stepmum but I doubt that I could cope with a visit to the Tate or even a more local gallery. Even when one is feeling relatively better than had been the case for a few years, ventures away from the familiar homestead prove a testing ground too far.

*************

As I shuffled from chair to door, my wearily aching lower limbs decided that an occasional knee tendon spasm, and buckling from the knee, was an ideal way to restore my confidence. That's the point when we remembered that I'd not brought any of my walking sticks with me. My beloved popped down to the bar to see if, by any chance, there was a spare walking stick available and, managed to obtain an umbrella of appropriate length to proffer some support (an item of unclaimed lost property). This enabled me to get out for a little stroll in reasonably close proximity to the inn.

Late afternoon found us once more at Kathleens, to enjoy an evening meal.

Thursday 3 September

With the desire to get home by the quickest route possible, decided it was worth risking a trip along the M62, succesfully relying on the satnav to discern the best exit strategy for a comfortable journey home. My only panic attack occurred within one mile of our departure point, when abdominal and chest muscles once more militated against common-sense. Helen suggested we head back to the inn but, common-sense prevailed and, the desire to get home, in spite of immediate terrifying discomfort, was much greater than the need for instant relief! Once we hit the dreaded motorway, the symptoms were soon ameliorated.

The delight of reaching home, in a mere couple of hours, bore witness to the greatest transfiguration since Jesus met the two old geezers on the mount! How wonderful to smile freely once again.

Reelin' and Rockin'

I’m reeling somewhat from the verbal abuse delivered by the big boss; all that I’d done was use my lunch hour to visit a friend. What he’d seemed puzzled about was my expectation, that it was possible to visit an antipodean friend, at home, during my lunch hour. Yes, I know that it took a little longer break than usual, to travel halfway around the world and back but, I also know that he’s extended his coffee breaks on numerous occasions.

I wake up feeling battered and bruised; it’s hard to believe that a barrage of words can cause such physical damage. Thank God, it was just a dream; don’t think I could have taken much more of this stress. The dream was so ludicrous anyway, a couple of hundred yards is the furthest I’d ever travel during a lunch break and, my aversion to travel, makes the dreamt adventure seems suspiciously representative of some subconscious masochistic yearning.

My beloved suggests a plausible connection between my dream and very recent reality. Yesterday afternoon, after many hours of restful inactivity in preparation (on my part), ma belle chauffeuse drove me to a barbecue*, some twenty five minutes away from home; most of the journey was on the A1 before manoeuvring our way through a couple of potholed, spasmodically flooded, country lanes. Even that little journey provides me with sufficient stress induced exhaustion.

Once we get there, I recover sufficiently to become, temporarily, my old sociable self, contentedly sharing conversation and anecdotes with the assembled company. The company and the pastoral location prove most rewarding but, that doesn’t prevent a state of mind and bone numbing fatigue overwhelming me by 9.00pm. Everything around us is still in full swing but, I can’t risk overdoing it!

So, here in the real world, I recognize that this small excursion is my equivalent of that travel so casually undertaken by my dream-self!

________________

* for more details of the barbecue see my beloved's posting on her Bright Light blog.

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