I've got an answer....but forgotten the question?!?

Okay, so a woman walks into the Rheumatologists office and walks out with a diagnosis!
Not funny?

Well until last Saturday I would have considered it laughable, because each previous visit I've had to consultants of all shapes, sizes and denominations has left me without an answer, downtrodden and without any hope of being given the right treatment.

Last Saturday I expected the same. So much so, that I attended the appointment, (brought forward a month due to a cancellation) without any expectations, other than the disappointment of their apathy. So you can imagine my shock when the consultant said 'I know what's wrong with you'.

 It was a bit like being introduced to the real Santa, or finding out the taxman owes you money and has volunteered a refund...it just doesn't happen...at least not, I thought, to me.

However this time it was different. The consultant, a man in his early thirties I guess, listened intently to my woes, made notes, examined me thoroughly, then uttered those immortal words 'I know what's wrong with you'.

It was, in poetic, fluffy, creative writing terms, like being slapped in the face with a rainbow! It hurts like hell, yet is profoundly attractive and promises the riches of appropriate treatment!

My new found sage has promised to write to my drug pushing GP to get me off the morphine, and onto a more appropriate nerve block. He is arranging appropriate physiotherapy, and has given me the information I need to research my 'condition'. He is also seeing me again in 4 months to discuss how I'm getting on and inject some of my arthritic joints.

What can I say?

My gob has been well and truly smacked!

But have I been handed a pot of gold or a poison chalice?

It's really difficult to explain how I feel today. On Saturday I was elated. Someone is treating me. It's a first in my 27 years of joint pain. For three quarters of my life I've waited for someone to acknowledge that my joint pain is linked, and not just a series of reoccurring unrelated sprains. And now I know what it is you'd think I'd finally be satisfied wouldn't you? If you'd asked me last week I'd have told you that that's EXACTLY what I wanted. Now I'm not sure.

I've read words such as 'acute', 'incurable', 'neurological', and it scares the pants off me (and I can't bend over to put them back on again!)

I've found myself this week saying things like, 'My rheumatologist says I've got.....', and 'Apparently I've got....', but I just can't bring myself to say, 'I've got...'.

I just can't say it.

It feels too real.

I suppose it's a case of be careful what you wish for.

Don't get me wrong, I'm really grateful that I'm going to receive the right treatment for my condition. That is certainly something to be positive about.

 For the first time in months I can think about the possibility of skiing again next February, and hopefully walking the dog again over the summer, but at the moment I need to sort my head out that I've got this thing that isn't going away.

I want so much for this not to define me. I don't want to be the person with x,y or z. I want to be known for who I am, not what I've got, but at the moment it's all I can think about so I'm in real danger of becoming my disease.

On Tuesday I see my GP to start my new medication regime which will bring with it a whole new list of attractive side affects to deal with, so forgive me if my smile wains just slightly. Over the summer I will start the physiotherapy and exercise plan that will get me mobile again. It's going to hurt, but no pain no gain don't they say?

I'm aware that with help I will succeed in living with my symptoms.

I'm aware that without the support of my friends and family it would be a much harder journey.

I'm also aware that I haven't told you my diagnosis.

Frustrating isn't it?






http://www.ukfibromyalgia.com

Plastic fantastic? Or naturally normal? You decide!!

I'm fortunate enough at the moment to be working part time, which gives me access to daytime television, which is horrifically fascinating! Have you seen Jeremy Kyle? Cringe!

Anyway, last week I saw 'This Morning', and watched an interview with a 'charming' 35 year old American woman calling herself 'Chelsea Charms'. This tiny 5'3" woman has...wait for it...164 XXX boobs which she has named 'Ity and Bitsy'. (Itsy and bitsy they are not!!!) Not surprisingly she earns an absolute fortune as a 'feature dancer'...read from this what you will! Apparently her boobs are still growing due to a procedure she has had which has now been banned in the EU and US. Basically, she has been injected with a polypropylene string that irritates the breast tissue, causing it to ooze liquid which then increases her breast size. Is it me? Does this sound appealing to anyone else? I mean, I know I'm not exactly flat chested, so I've never had any desire to have an 'enhancement', but really, this just sounds gruesome!! I imagine Steven King could write something suitably grim about it!

What really astonishes me about this woman's self induced malformation is, if she'd been born with unnaturally huge boobs she would undoubtedly have been a candidate for a breast reduction. Huge boobs may be the things teenage boys dream of, and apparently grown men pay to look at, but to women, they're a bloody nuisance! Back pain, lack of sleep, struggling to find nice clothes and dealing with unwanted attention are just a few of the reasons women give for wanting breast reductions. Young girls with huge boobs are often mocked mercilessly by boys at school, yet this woman has deliberately turned herself into a cartoon sex object in order to make a living. Hmmm.

Don't get me wrong. I don't blame this woman for exploiting men with her deformation. If people want to pay money to look at her, then that's their choice, but it kind of makes me think of a circus freak show.

On another program, I watched top music and film stars who have had plastic surgery to 'enhance' their looks. Some look good, and I can understand how people who depend on their looks can become obsessed with maintaining 'perfection'. Unfortunately most of these once beautiful people end up with twisted and deformed features in the name of 'perfection'. Noses are twisted and lips are inflated and uneven. Plasticine faces are pushed and pulled out of shape so that in the end they all end up looking the same. Ugly! Had they'd been born with these deformed features, would they still have achieved stardom?

It has also been reported this week that a woman in America has been injecting her 8 year old daughter with Botox to improve her chances in beauty pageants! Hmmm. What can I say? Child abuse?
I am fortunate enough to know several people who look different to others. Life has given them a face or a body that can be difficult for people, who don't know them, to look at. This is their life. They face being stared at and judged every day. They have no choice. No amount of surgery will improve their looks, yet they often face painful operations to improve, or save, their lives. How fair is that?

I also know young women who have lost their breasts to cancer. They face massive reconstructive surgery to make them feel normal, yet normal is something they will never really feel again. These women have faced leaving their children and families. They have faced having their bodies mutilated to save their lives. How fair is that?

Why do people who are born with faces and bodies that function normally, go through painful procedures and face life threatening surgeries, just to look a little bit better? Why are huge amounts of money spent to make someones lips a bit fuller, or wrinkles a little bit less defined? Why do people face death to get a smaller bum? Why are some people born with facial disfigurement that no-one can do anything about? Why do young mothers face death on a daily basis? Why?

No, I'm not happy with the way I look all the time. I could do with losing some weight, my teeth are crooked and I hate my nose, but I accept that this is the way I am. People love me despite my big bum and my wonky smile. I don't need, or want, to spend my mortgage on surgery to make me perfect, because I'm NEVER going to achieve perfect, because I don't believe it exists! Surely surgery is for things you need, not things you want! Yes, I know that a lot of people who go for these elective surgeries are suffering mentally, and their insecurity about their body or face can have serious affects on their health, but surely the help they need is psychological, not surgical?

There's nowt as queer as folk.
Unfortunately technological and surgical advances are making folk even queerer!
Where or when is it going to stop?

A right royal do!

Hi,
Back again after a brief interlude. No real excuses for my tardiness...but I'm back on track now, fit and healthy (hmm), and raring to blog! It's been a heck of a couple of months hasn't it? Earthquakes, Tsunamis, nuclear threats, wars....and that's just in our house! But tomorrow we're all going to be treated to a great big slice of pomp and circumstance in the shape of 'The Royal Wedding'. Woop woop!!!

Don't get me wrong, I'll be watching it! I'm even travelling to the North East to watch it on the TV with my Mum (sad but true), but as someone who worked in the wedding industry for ten years, I'll be watching it with a uniquely critical eye!

We've seen the trees and flowers being delivered to the Abbey, but will the style of the flowers REALLY match her dress? Will William's waistcoat match the bridesmaids' dresses; and the table cloths; and the napkins; and the seat coverings? Will there be a chocolate fountain? Will the evening buffet consist of pork pies and vol-au-vents or will they go for bacon butties? How many Swarovski crystals will be sprinkled on the tables, and will the 'Favours' contain handmade chocolates, or just the cheap option from Thorntons? Will they have to pay corkage for the wine, or will the venue provide the alcohol? Who will sit on the top table? What colour hat is the bride's mother wearing, 'cos Camilla can't wear the same!!!!

Aaaaarrrrgggghhhhhh!

I love weddings! I really do! But how commercial have they got, and how flipping expensive!?!

I used to exhibit at wedding fairs a lot so I've met a lot of Brides. Some were calm, minimalist, working to a budget, rational, in love. For others though, getting married was going to be the BIGGEST and MOST EXPENSIVE day of her life. EVERYTHING had to match, even the chocolate in the chocolate fountain! EVERY bridesmaid needed a mini version of her elaborately beaded tiara (even the 12month old with no hair!) The menu would be studied, rejigged, and tasted to ensure that every detail of the meal was perfect (in her mind). The cake design was laboured over for days; traditional or contemporary; coloured or white; fruit or chocolate; until the poor cake designer became as neurotic as the bride. Then of course there is the dress. Designer or off the peg, pinned and tucked and re beaded to fulfil her idealistic princess fantasy that in reality is NEVER going to me matched.

It isn't a wedding.
It isn't a show of love and affection between two people.
It's a competition!

'Angela spent £10,000 on her wedding, we need to spend £12,000.'
'Deborah had fireworks at her wedding, we need monogrammed Chinese lanterns.'

What the...?

Does all this expense, and stress, and debt lead to a happy marriage? Of course it doesn't. If people love each other it doesn't matter if you get married in Westminster Abbey and have monogrammed page boys, or go to the local registry office and have a bag of chips after. Weddings shouldn't be stressful, they should be fun! And if the Bride is SOOOOO nitpicking about the first day of her married life, it doesn't bode well for the rest of it! After all, not every day of every marriage is going to be faultless!

So, as Kate steps out of the carriage tomorrow looking like the princess she is to become, probably feeling sick with nerves and overcome with the whole event, take a moment to feel a little bit sorry for her. Yes, she gets the ultimate expensive wedding, but she probably won't enjoy it half as much as she would've done having a quickie service and a nice tea with their respective families. Lets hope the pomp and ceremony doesn't impact on their relationship, and lets hope their marriage is a success despite the fact it won't belong to them, but to the world.

In case you were wondering, my wedding was a quiet, budgeted affair, with a lovely meal and a fantastic party afterwards, and yes, we're still in love!

This is not a pity piece....

Ok...it's probably going to sound like one...but I really don't want this to be a pity piece. So if you get part way through this and think 'Aw...bless' or 'For Gods sake stop moaning', please don't continue reading, I'll write something funny next time...probably about falling over again...ok?

Ok. So, most of you know I've got a bad back, right? Some of you know I have problems with my wrists...you've seen the splints. You've seen the tubigrip when I sprained my ankle...a few times! Some of you have seen me struggle to open doors, or get change out of my purse, or get out of a chair. Many of you may be aware that I'm often a bit distracted, a bit...not with it! And some of you have been unfortunate enough to see me cry. It doesn't happen regularly, so you unfortunate few know who you are!

I was told when I was about 14 that I had 'Lax Ligaments'...yeah meant nothing to me either...except that I could do some great party tricks with my joints...some of you even have photos! Turns out what it actually means is I have a deficiency in the collagen in my body, which means my ligaments over-stretch...and therefore sprain very easily. I've seen loads of Doctors, Consultants in Orthopedics and Rheumatology, Physiotherapists, you name it, they've done it to me. I've been manipulated, injected and discharged more times than I can actually remember (and that's nothing to do with my age). The general consensus is 'Joint Hypermobility Syndrome'. Wicked...I've got a 'syndrome', beats an '..ology'. It has meant that pregnancy gave me two wonderful children and irreparable damage to my back, several years of shaking my head to rock music have caused damage to my neck, well meaning physiotherapists trying to re-seat my cartilage caused damage to my cruciate ligament, I recently sprained my shoulder by sleeping on it, my hands and feet hurt...most of the time.....so the high heels I love are saved for 'special occasions', I wake 2 or 3 times every night because my neck or back has spasmed (which it does to protect my joints) and I need to change positions, so I'm usually a bit tired, my hip pops out at the most inopportune moments (you know EXACTLY what I mean) and it also means I also have periods of absolute exhaustion. I don't mean like a bit weary, I mean like I can't physically do ANYTHING. My family are great at letting me have a half hour to re-charge...its something they've got used to. I currently take 19 pills a day to keep me moving (8 Tramadol, 8 Paracetamol, 3 Arthrotec in case you were wondering, alongside Morphine and Diazepam at the minute as I'm having a bad spell) which is doing GOD KNOWS WHAT to my liver (and believe me it suffered enough during the 80's!) Turns out it's also a genetic disorder, my niece has it and we're embarking on a voyage of diagnosis together, but we also wonder how far down the gene pool its going to travel. There are also times when I feel a little...I won't say depressed 'cos I'm trying to stay away from the Prozac...lets say low...and leave it at that!

So, those of you who don't know me that well, or didn't read my last blog post, will probably imagine me being pretty inactive...and it probably would be better for me if I did do slightly less, but it's really hard to admit that I've got a problem here, and I'm damned if I'm going to lie down and admit defeat! People at work tell me not to climb or lift things, but I do it anyway. People at home tell me not to carry the hoover, or pick up the kids....but I do it anyway. Why do I go skiing...interesting question. I tell myself to slow down, because it's only me who's going to suffer if I bake with my daughter instead of sitting down, but what do I do? What would you do? This probably isn't going to kill me, but I don't know what I'm going to be like in the future. I know it's getting worse. The older I get the more things hurt, and the more determined I am to enjoy what I can do. Like I said at the beginning, this isn't meant to be a pity piece, but most of you who read this are my friends, and a lot of of you don't know my 'dirty little secret', but please, next time you see me in splints, or limping because my back hurts, or looking a bit tired or vacant, please don't ask me what I've done 'this time', or tell me off for 'overdoing it'. Yes I'm in pain most of the time (blah blah blah!), but the worst part of having this is not wanting anyone to feel sorry for you. This is my life journey, and I've got lots of great travelling companions, just sometimes I might need someone to carry my suitcase!

xxx

To ski or not to ski...

We're currently on the countdown to our annual skiing holiday. I would like to paint a picture of myself as a controlled sporty type, who gracefully traverses the most difficult of pistes and sips champagne cocktails in exclusive apres ski bars. In reality, I'm the clumsy klutz who inevitably falls over in the queue for the chair lift, or actually forgets to get off in one instance, causing the irate Swiss operator to curse my ineptitude and stop the whole lift whilst I ungracefully removed myself from a snow drift. No, I'm not a natural skier. I am doomed to cause myself physical damage!

Two years ago, for my fortieth birthday, we went to Switzerland for a week. It was a stunning location, with the pistes right at the top of the mountain. Fabulous right? Yes, fabulous, providing you don't have an irrational fear of heights, and as every piste was fringed by sheer, death defying cliff edges (slight exaggeration maybe), I was convinced I would fall over at every turn. Consequently, I never turned! I skied across the slope...then fell over...for a week! Skilled artists would struggle to re-create the glorious shades of blue and purple my legs became, and a horrifically bruised coxics made falling on my bottom a scream - literally!  On the day of my birthday, having deposited the kids in ski-school we set off to 'ski' one of the lesser red runs (supposed to be intermediate, actually a vertical death trap!) To say I skied at all would probably force a re-definition of the word 'ski'. At one point I begged my husband to leave me on the slope, believing hypothermia a less painful option than continuing to 'ski'. For some reason, unknown to both of us, he didn't leave me, and we made it to the bottom. It had taken over an hour to complete a run that should have taken 15 minutes, and I was sore, tired and disheartened to say the least. The only way back to the top of the slope, and our children, was via a T-bar lift. For those of you who haven't experienced this contraption, imagine an upside down ships' anchor attached to a metal rope that drags you uphill in pairs side by side. The idea is that the bar sits behind your thighs, and pulls you gently uphill. The idea is not, I repeat not, to decide halfway up that your legs are very tired, and you might just sit down a little bit. It wasn't pretty! It also meant I had to get back down to the bottom before I could get back on again! You guessed it, I took my skis off and walked!

Last year we went to Bulgaria. No massive cliffs. Nice wide slopes. Lovely ski instructor. Dislocated thumb! Yup, I goofed again! Don't get me wrong, I did ski last year. Even the corners. Unfortunately I managed to tangle my skis with my ski poles on a particularly flat part of a slope (looking at the view) and did a spectacular swan dive into the ground, causing my thumb to protrude at a significantly un-natural angle! I shoved it back in again to avoid the embarrassment of being transported downhill in the emergency skidoo, and continued the holiday with painkillers and copious amounts of beer!

So,  as I pack the cases, and organise the currency, and book the dog into kennels I can't help but wonder what embarrassment and damage I will cause myself this year. Still, it could be worse. Don't get me started telling you about the disasters I caused myself on 'Sun' holidays! At least ski holidays have an abundance of ice to chill my aching bones!!

(PS. At the time of writing this, I am signed off work with back problems and am troughing back morphine and diazepam....typical me eh? This year's ski holiday could involve more beer ... less ski!!)

Not as I do!

I was accused of being racist yesterday. Let me give you some background before you think too badly of me! We're trying to sell a car, and we received a phone call yesterday from a guy with a very strong regional accent, (Ok he was a scouser), and I made a joke about him needing a new 'get away' vehicle, which prompted the accusation of racism from my eleven year old. He gave me a strict telling off, and reminded me that I was the one who had taught him that everyone is the same. (Yes, I'm very ashamed!) So this led me to thinking; why do we, as human beings, not accept one another for who we are? We all crawled out of the swamp in the same way, (or were all made in the same image, depending on your viewpoint), so why do we feel the need to pick at each others' differences? In a week where a TV presenter was sacked for 'sexist' remarks, and two young girls were sentenced for kicking a guy to death because he was gay, it is very difficult to understand how we have managed to survive as a race this long!

I know that teaching my kids that everyone is the same is probably a very naive thing to do, (and obviously I don't practice what I preach), but I do essentially believe it to be true. Or do I? Is the black kid at school any different from the white one? Of course not. Is the woman with mental health problems any less deserving than the Nuclear Physicist? No.  Is the man committing lewd acts near the childrens' play park any different from the devoted teacher? Of course he is! He should be locked up! (The lewd man, not the teacher...although...). But now am I being descriminatory?  Maybe I am naive. Maybe we are all different, and we should celebrate or persecute these differences depending on our personal tolerences, but it makes me very sad to be bringing my children up in a society where these intolerances can be so extreme as to cost people their lives. Human beings have fought over land, and religion for as long as history has been recorded, and probably even before that, but I wonder if cavemen (and women...don't be sexist!) persecuted each other because of their sexual preferences or because they wore the 'wrong' animal skin, or their skin or hair was a different colour.

Maybe there is no answer.  I probably won't lie awake all night looking for one. I do feel though that in a society where different cultures, beliefs and lifestyles are forced by geography to co-exists, the only way we will survive as a race is by teaching our children that we are all essentially the same, but we don't all have to act or dress or believe the same. A wise man once said we should love our neighbours, and look at ourselves before we pass judgement on others. It's a great philosophy. One I try very hard to live by, but it's easier said than done, isn't it!!

Where do I begin...In the middle!

So, I'm nearly 42, a married mother of two with a job a house and a puppy...what the heck am I doing going back to University? I don't need to be doing this, do I? Well actually, yes I do! I think there comes a time in everyone's life (usually described as a mid-life crisis I believe) where we realise that if we don't do what we want to do right now, we're never going to do it! Some people buy Harleys, some people get tattoos, or have affairs or another baby! Me...I went back to University. I went back to the very building that I met my husband in over 20 years ago, when I avoided everything academic and learned how to hold my drink and survive without solid food! I went back to sitting in classrooms where I wasn't expected to assist the lesson, but learn in it. So am I enjoying it? Am I 'fitting it in'? Am I 'fitting in'? Actually, yes to all of these. I won't pretend that it's easy, but it is exceptionally satisfying!

Learning because you want to do it, and not because you feel you have to, is a fantastically rewarding experiene. I start each lesson like a puppy; excited and enthusiastic, desperate for recognition and praise. I silently pant 'Teach me, teach me!' at every Tutor and absorb every word they utter like old newspaper. I say I absorb it, that doesn't mean I understand all of it! Some of it is kind of confusing, yet still oddly enjoyable, and while twenty years ago I would have panicked at my inability to comprehend everything, I now don't care! If I don't 'get' something, it's not a sign of my personal failure, it's just something I need explained again! My grades are never going to be excellent, but why do they need to be? So long as I fulfill my own expectations, then I can do no more. I'm even fitting in with the other students, and have recently been 'Facebooked', if that's the correct verb! I won't be going clubbing with them, but I forsee coffee on the horizon!

Education is definately wasted on the young. Have I read that somewhere, or just paraphrased it badly? Whichever way, it's very true. At eighteen, even though I knew I needed an education to get a good job, and a good standard of living, I didn't actually want to learn. I left home and found boys, beer and staying out all night, and studying was pushed well and truly to the back of the picture. The result was, very bad results! I was fortunate enough to get a job, marry my soul mate, have the children we dreamed of and build a great life. Had I studied harder, maybe my life would have taken a different road and not been as personally successful! Who knows? I wouldn't recommend my path to my eighteen year old peers at University now, but I can more than sympathise with their desire to party hard and study less so.

My solution? Start in the middle! When re-designing the human race, the super-powers that be should switch around our teenage years and early twenties with our middle age. That way we could party when we're young, without fear of missing a deadline, and study when we are more keen to do so. At nearly 42, I have finished partying, hangovers are unbearable now so drinking tends to be an infrequent affair, and I have a thirst for knowledge, before the dementia sets in. I am also more financially stable, so student loans aren't so scary! All in all, being a student at 42 seems the far more logical choice!