Feeling Rough

You would have thought that having had a relatively busy weekend, followed today by getting up at half eight and being proper full-on busy All. Day. Long... You'd have thought sleep would come easily.

Pfft, you'd have thought...

I honestly didn't stop till about five this evening today, and I had to use all my faculties too, physical, strength, mental, dexterity, following lists and instructions, crouching low, stretching high, trying to not lop off my fingers or fall down stairs, and remembering how to type and count too..

Last night - well, most nights this last week - have been horrendous, even for my sleep patterns, and while I could have done without being quite so stupidly busy today, I thought - foolishly - that it might help me sleep.

So, early night... Nine o clock.

And here we are at half midnight already. I know what most of the issue is. My body is screaming, and my head is swimming with what feels like blancmange, and thoughts struggle to rise through it.

So here I lay, three and a half hours of trying to sleep, so I figure I'll try blogging, focus away from sleeping.

Or not sleeping, as the case is.

Thursday, I'm going back to the doctor and asking for a referral back to Pain Management. Not that I am holding much hope with them being helpful... Just like the last times (yes, plural) I've been there.
And maybe this week I'll learn to stop running around doing everything and delegating to the rest of the household to do something. I know I can't keep going on like this. I nearly fell out the shower yesterday. I almost fell down the stairs today. Twice. I nearly stuck myself with a knife AND almost lopped off a finger today too.

Not good.

Anyway, I'm going to return to the bed and staring at the ceiling now in a hope that part of my body realises it'll stop hurting if I fall asleep, and will feel better in the morning.

OK, not better... Less shit, maybe. Unless I did more than I should have done today, in which case, I'm going to suffer for the next few days.

Joy.

Wish me luck.

Gotcha You Ba$tard!

You may recall over the last few years with Kellie, her health issues have always been a bit of an issue. Aside from the hassle of her Familial Hyper-Triglyceridemia, she had the occasional issue with having wonky-heartbeats.

To be honest, this has been going on for as long as - if not longer than - the Triglyceride Saga. Over the last few years, she's dealt with it, felt sick from it, been to the doctor about it, been referred to the Cardiac Unit at the hospital about it, worn 5-day monitoring hardware, had paramedics out about it, and been taken to the Critical Dependency Unit section of Accident & Emergency over it.

At no point has anything been found, nor has Kellie been taken that seriously. From "it's all in your head" to "Panic Attacks" to "Arrhythmia" she's been told different things by different medical "professionals"

Her Lipid Doctor, a few months ago, took a look at one of her old ECG Traces and decided she could see Atrial Fibrillation. So that's what Kellie has "had" since then. Her heart goes funny due to Atrial Fibrillation.

So today... I was in Asda, after spending the morning traipsing around town with the 0dd Sister shopping. I had a basket of shopping, was hot, tired and miserable thanks to the old farts bumping and shoving around the shop. My phone rang, and it was Kellie.

"I don't want you to start to panic... But..."

Words you know will actually do the very opposite.

James was taking Kellie up to A&E. She had had one of her funny turns, lost all her colour, went sweaty, had a crushing pain on her chest, pain in her left arm... No good things at all. So I dropped the basket, hastily apologised to the sister, and flew out of Asda, ran to the bus station, and jumped on a bus to hospital.

I got there PDQ, just in time for Kellie to come out of triage with James acting as bouncer/bodyguard/human wall, and we sat with the woman, watching her sway and look like shit-on-a-stick. Got her booked in, and within ten minutes, we were called through.

I didn't tell her she was flagged as "Urgent Priority"

We said bye to James, thanked him, and followed the nurse into the Critical Dependency Unit, and got her settled onto one of the beds, answering some basic questions as she did so. She wandered off, and a Senior Staff Nurse came in to take some bloods. However, she already had some taken yesterday at one of her "How Much Gross Stuff Is In Your Blood" checkups, so all her results should be on the system. Huzzah! No needle!

He then started asking questions about how she felt, what was going on, describe how it felt - all this stuff that we've gone through a squillion times before. But, she explained how she felt, me adding bits she missed, and him sort of listening. He decided to do an ECG, so put the stickers on her body - some that I feel were in a strange place, compared to where I've seen them done usually - and ran the machine.

It did it's ten-second trace, spat out the paper, and he had a look at it. Hmm'd a bit, "Your heart is fine" he decided "There is no Atrial Fibrillation on here at all. Your heart is healthier than mine!" he proclaimed.

I wasn't happy.

He then started down the route of "Do you know what a panic attack is....?" which is another term for "I'm going to fob you off now" especially as her wonky heartbeats have woken her up in the night. There is NO panic involved whatsoever. Kellie cut him off dead there. She was tired, felt crappy, and didn't want to be there..

"It is NOT a panic attack, I have had panic attacks before now!"

He shook his head and looked back at the ECG. "But your heart is fine. I will go and ask a doctor to give you a second opinion if you like?" Damn right you can do that. Go find a doctor to look, to talk to us, to explain. For several years, we've been fobbed off, so yes, he went to get a doctor to give us a second opinion.

A short time later, a pretty little doctor came in. She was young, and about three inches tall. VERY friendly and nice, and she went through everything, listening to both Kellie and myself. We went through history, examples, symptoms, triglycerides, how it made her feel before-during-and-after, described it in her own strange words, and generally took note of everything she was told.

It was decided that Kellie would be hooked up to a proper monitor, so they could see her heart beat, rate, blood pressure, sats, respiration's - the whole medical shebang. A nurse came in and set it up, or, at least, attempted to... She put the stickers on Kellie, wired her up, but nothing. She went then got called out to a properly poorly patient.

Step in Super Dan.

I've done my fair share of setting up heart monitors and ECG machines. I know where the pads go. I also know - as apparently the nurse did NOT, that in order to get a reading, the sticky pads need to be connected to the patients skin.

NOT the patients work tee shirt.
And NOT the patients bra.

So, Super Dan removed and reattached the pads, and low and behold... Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep - one functional heart monitor.

Nursey came back in and noticed it was now working (I said I jiggled it!) and started doing Kellies Observations. Low and Behold - the Sats Monitor wasn't working. Out goes the nurse, in steps Super Dan and using the technical-know-how of "Unplug It, Count to Ten, Plug It Back In" the little red light came on JUST as the nurse walked in.

Kellies Sats seemed a little low to me - 95/96 or so, fluctuating up to 99... Hmmm.

And so, left alone, Kellie and I sit quietly. I watch the heart monitor (I don't know why, they are just mesmerising) and try to keep my mind occupied on the in the present, not the past when I used to watch other heart monitors...

I hate hospitals.

While watching, I notice a funny sort of blip on her heart trace. At the same time, Kellie says "Ooh there's another one, that felt weird..."

Proof! Something was there, and there was no one medical around to witness it. Cue the phone! Out comes the phone, and the camera, and Click! One photo.

I run out the cubical up to the doctor and show her the phone picture. "Oh wow, good catch!" she says, and borrows it. She goes off to show her boss, who in turn gets ahold of the Cardiac Registrar, and explains to him what Kellie is going through, and what I caught.

I go back to Kellie, feeling a little smug that someone has finally seen what she's going through. And proof it is. Over the next hour, she has many of the bastard things, usually a minute or two apart, some several minutes apart, some happening twice on the same trace.

Now, I didn't snap them ALL, but I did take some pictures. Hey, I was bored and trying to stay awake. But I got some of them!

The normal "little" peaks are Kellies "normal" heart beats, pumping away like a little, er, pump. The big peaks with the big drops - THEY are what are causing the problems. Every time it happened, Kellie felt it, felt a bit wonky, felt icky, sick, all the rest of it.

They are NOT right, and they are NOT normal.

These are just a few of them we saw. And yes, her heart rate is wonky to, ranging from 60 up to 90 in the space of minutes or even seconds.

After a while, our lovely doctor came back in. She had been talking with the Cardiology department, going through Kellies previous results, and checking the 6-day trace she had done. They decided that yes, there were these anomolies in that trace, but they were very few and far between.

NOW, they are happening on a regular basis, which means it has gotten worse and needs some sort of attending. The Doctor explained it is NOT Atrial Fibrillation (which is mainly for old people!), but a Ventricular Eptopic Heartbeat. Basically, her heart is beating in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

So, she has prescribed her Beta-Blockers which will regulate her heart beat. She now has answers as to what has been going wrong for so long. She has a longer-term plan of getting through it. Her Lipid doctor will also be referring her to the Cardiology Department to get another checking out.

Aside from the stress, the hassle, the shit, the grief and the worry of today, Kellie finally has answers as to what is wrong, and how to make it better. Reading up on it, it's not a great thing to have, it's not the best thing you can deal with, but it's treatable and managable, so it's not too difficult.

Now, I KNOW some of you have or deal with Eptopic Heartbeats, please feel free to mail me, Facebook me, Tweet me or contact me - ESPECIALLY if you have Ventricular Eptopic Heartbeats.

A VERY big thank you to those keeping my company via text, those that were sending their love (I didn't tell everyone, you didn't miss it) and a big thank you to James for rushing her up to A&E.

And apologies to the Asda worker that had to replace all my shopping that I threw into the corner when I ran out.

Damn Kids!

So, our lovely break to the beautiful Dartmoor has taken a small turn for the idiotic, thanks to the presence of - none other than - Jaysen.

Today, we decided to go for a nice long walk onto the moors. It was beautiful. So gorgeous, picturesque... We made out way uphill a fair distance, looking at the scenery, the plant life, the wild horses (much to Kellie - the horseophobe - delight) and the exposed rock formations.

It was at here we stopped for a break, taking in the views, looking at the rock formations that it happened. Jaysen decided to move uphill a little more but being that he's a dick head, he slipped, and landed knee-first onto a rock from the aforementioned rock formation.

He was hurt, definitely in lots of pain, and while checking him, Dom and I noticed the dark stain spreading on his jeans.

Seeing as we were damp, his trouser leg wouldn't roll up, so we had to wrap a coat around him and pull down his jeans.

Where we saw this;



Ouch.

So, time for outdoor first aid. We didn't have bandages or tissues, so Molly volunteered her tee shirt. A minute later, she's nekkid under her coat, and we're tearing up the material to wrap up the leg.

Thankfully he was able to walk on it, so we wandered back at knob-head-son speed. Kellie called James, who was working at the pub, to let him know. Luckily, his boss is a trained first aider, and they always have injured walkers in there, so that's where we headed.

Sandra (the boss) sat him down, we pulled off his jeans in the pub (sexy) and she set about cleaning it, putting butterfly stitches across it and wrapping it. We've got to keep an eye on it just in case, and he's now sat with his leg up.

So here we are, day two of our nice relaxing break. All fun.

Damn Kids!

Jaysen and the Hospital Trip

So, those of you that follow me elsewhere, would have seen my increasingly worse updates yesterday regarding Jaysen, his injury, and our trips to the hospitals. Plural.

I was sitting on the bus with Tamsyn, minding my own business on the school run when my phone rang, showing a number it didn't know nor recognise. I answer it, and it's Jaysen... "Hi dad, I've just fallen off my bike, and I have a hole in my hand."

I'm a little sympathetic, but all the kids are known for, shall we say, making the most minor injury sound like they've been disemboweled. I ask the standard questions, are you OK, is your bike OK, can you carry on to school...? No, he has a hole in his hand, is bleeding lots, and the man that he's with is going to run him up to the hospital.

Now, I can tell what you're all thinking, but my brain was NOT firing properly. I have the guys home phone number, he's been nice enough to help Jaysen out, and I was mid-transit with Tam. I figure, he can run Jaysen to A&E, I'll drop Tam off, shoot up to the hospital, worst case, he'll get a couple of stitches, I can drop him back to school, get home, job done.

I call Kellie to let her know what's going on, and she tells me off... I can't let Jaysen go with a stranger, I shouldn't trust people I don't know, etc etc. Oops. So I book a cab and my phone rings again - it's Kellie panicking... She tried calling Jaysen, his phone rang then went to voice mail, and when she tried again, it didn't even ring.

Basildon Hospital, however, is known for being a mobile phone dead spot. When we're there for blood tests or consultant appointments, we struggle to get a signal. Jaysen was in the bowels of A&E (or the boot of a crazy axe-murderers car!) where signal is non-existent.

My cab turns up, and I tell him to get me to A&E where my son has been dropped, and the driver is brilliant - gets me across Basildon in zero minutes. Yay for warp speed! He drops me right at A&E and I go in, ask for Jaysen, am directed to the kids casualty section, where I am re-directed to a treatment room. In I go to be greeted with a scene out of a budget horror movie.

Jaysen is sat on a chair, his hand in a doctors lap, a nurse standing beside them. Jaysen is covered in blood. The doctor is covered in blood. The nurse is covered in blood. There is bloody gauze, bandage, tape, and towels all over the bed. The floor is covered in blood.

Wow.

Jaysen, however, is fine. Not pale, not flinching, chatting away to the doctor and nurse, smiling to me, asking how I was... So obviously his little hole is just a bit of a bleeder. I can't see the hole, however, because at this point, he's been wrapped up. To protect from infection, apparently.

To make sure everything is OK, we're sent around to Xray, so I take the opportunity to call people, to let them know what's going on, and that no one needs worry as he's fine.

By the time I'm done, he's out of Xray and we go back to casualty, and are ushered into a room to wait for a doctor to assess and stitch him up. We sit and chat, and finally, it sort of emerges what happens...

While riding to school, Jaysen came to a corner, around which came another cyclist, travelling at some speed. In virtually a head-on crash, the two bikes hit, the other guy comes off his bike and he and his bike hit a fence. Jaysen, however, remains on his bike, and turns to make sure the other chap is OK. He says he's a bit hurt, and that his bike looks broken and holy crap you've got a hole in your hand dude!

Jaysen looks down to see a hole in his hand, dude. A hole that is rapidly leaking claret out all over the place. The other cyclist calls someone over to help, a woman, who panics and calls someone else over to help. The guy runs into his house, grabs a towel and gets Jaysen to put pressure on the wound. The cyclist goes his own way, the woman goes hers. Not sure what else to do, the bloke picks up Jaysens bike, and ushers him into his house, from where he calls me and lets me know what's going on.

Remember - I've yet to see his "hole" in his hand. I'm still thinking he's hit a bit of glass or a sharp rock and punctured himself.

So I turn to the nurse and ask her, "Is it really as bad as he's making out?" and she pauses, looks down at her messy apron, looks at me and says "It's probably worse than that actually!"

Hmm, interesting.

A doctor - a friendly chap from Jamaica - comes in, and starts questioning Jaysen as to how he did it, and starts unwrapping the bandage. Jaysen repeats his story, and the doctor says it looks like he has a break on a knuckle as well... And at this point, the hand is revealed to me...

PLEASE NOTE:
Clicking on these pictures will reveal the UNCENSORED version! Don't click if you're squeamish, and don't click if you're then going to tell me you're offended.

Jaysen really didn't do it justice. "A hole in the hand" is NOT what was revealed beneath the bandage. Look at the back of your right hand. From between your pinky and ring finger knuckles, go backward towards your wrist three to four inches. THAT'S the length of it. Go down into your hand about a half an inch, and there's the depth. Yes, it's gross.

The doctor showed me all the main blood vessels (which were visible!), poked at the tendons all showing their faces, checked for nerve damage (of which there was none) and started to wash it out. With a pair of tweezers, he pulled what appears to be a wiggly worm in the actual wound. If you look at the uncensored picture, it's clearly visible.

Giving the wiggly worm a gentle tug, Jaysens pinky finger started to bend. He then got the boy to straighten his pinky - and the wiggly worm pulled the tweezers downwards.

"THAT -" proclaimed the Jamaican doctor "- is a tendon. We're going to have to refer him..." I looked at the boy, and rolled my eyes, then the doc finished his sentence. "To Broomfield Hospital."

I know for a fact, that's in Chelmsford. Not really that far away, but bare in mind, we don't drive. Uh oh.

So, the doctor washed and repacked the hand, but not before I got some cool photos. Again, clicking on them WILL reveal the uncensored version.

My personal favourite - because it's gross

I call everyone, let them know what's going on. Kellie shows the photo around the guys at work, and they are all as impressed as I am with the damage he's done... Clearly it's a battle of the sexes - every woman that has seen it has felt sick, every bloke that has seen it has applauded.

While he's wrapping the hand up, the doc explains that had he managed to go a half-inch deeper still, he would have separated his little finger from his hand - but it would have remained connected at the wrist.

Ouch.

As a precautionary measure - and because of the scale of the injury, the doc started him on a very strong course of antibiotics...

So, Mr Doctor Man starts to examining the wound, checking out the bits and pieces that are literally bulging, oozing and hanging from the hole. In the pictures (assuming you're brave) you'll see what appears to be a wiggly worm... Well, the doc seemed concerned with it, and took it by the tweezers, giving it a little tug.

Jaysens pinky moved. Hmmm.

Getting Jaysen to wiggle his pinky, the tweezers gripping the worm pulled downwards. "That's a tendon." the doctor explained. I kinda figured that out myself. He checked for nerve damage and blood-flow, but they seemed fine.

"I'm going to have to send him to Broomfield Hospital - the plastic surgery team will need to rebuild him from the inside out..."

Great.

With a new box of antibiotics, a referral letter and Jaysens open wound redressed, I call everyone to let them know what's going on... When I call Kellie, she arranges for one of the guys at work to come and get us - and she rides along. I think she knows where today is heading, and aside from wanting to see Jaysen, I am Jaysens little rock, so Kellie gets to be mine. And she comes along too.

Chris and Kellie roll up ten minutes later, and we all pop home so we can change before heading up to Chelmsford.

Broomfield Hospital is beautiful. It more like a cross between a University and posh shopping centre... So pretty. We check where we need to be, and a helper takes us to Phoenix Ward, which I think is the kids Plastic Surgery ward. The staff are amazing - just like every other kids ward I've been on - and get Jaysen booked in and checked over, asking lots of questions about his health and questioning how he managed to splatter his hand.

The surgeon arrives within a few minutes of arriving, and has a look, a prod, a poke, and tells us he's pretty sure the wiggly worm is one of the two tendons attached to the pinky - and it's snapped, plus the other is damaged. So he will need surgery.

Out come consent forms and the discussion of what is going to be done, which I have to sign with very shaky hands. I'm being tough and strong, but not liking the situation at all. Jaysen is then given the option of Local or General Anaesthetic, which we discuss with him, and it's generally agreed that Local would be the best bet for health, recovering and himself.

I need to point out at this point that so far - every single step of the way - Jaysen has been a star. He's not complained, not whined, not moaned... The only thing he DIDN'T like was having a needle of local stuck into the wound before the Basildon doc could examine it. He's had no painkillers of any kind, despite being bent and fiddled with. I was, and still am, amazingly impressed with how he held himself all day.

We then have to sit and play the waiting game. We know Jaysen will be seen "that afternoon" but by now it's already gone 1pm. As he's only having a local, he's allowed to eat, which cheered him up no end, so we sit and chill out with some lunch. And then we wait. And wait.

And my phone dies!

And we wait some more.

Finally, at a quarter to four, the surgeon comes in, and tells us they are all set. Time to get gowned up, and despite demanding the nurses make him remove his boxers so his arse hangs out... No, now they allow children to have "dignity" or something. Pah.

Of course, when I'm around, your dignity goes out the window...

Next came the part I was dreading - walking my child down to surgery. I hate it. I hated doing it, I hated thinking about it, and I knew I would hate actually doing it.

So with Kellie holding my hand, we led Jaysen down to the surgical wing, where we had to leave him - then walk back to the ward and sit and wait.

Kellie made me a coffee, and I did my best to ignore the time. Now, I know that, logically, he was only having surgery on his hand. Logically, he wasn't hooked up to any machines. Logically, he was having some tendons repaired and a wound stitched up.

Logic, however, had done a runner, and didn't want anything to do with me that afternoon.

So we sat and waiting, running on "Hospital Time" which a lot of you fully understand. Up to this point, I was holding it together pretty well, but was definitely filling my pants with stress.

At 5.15pm, the nurse came up to get us. He was done and the surgeons were finished. Walking back to recovery, I couldn't breath, my chest was tight and I was ready to bolt. I had Kellie go in to see him, because I didn't know what I was going to see, and didn't think I could do it. It might sound wussy and weak, sue me, but my mind was racing in over drive.

Five minutes later, a cheery Jaysen is wheeled out, still in his very pretty robe, with an arm wrapped so securely, it resembled some form of boxing glove. From the tips of his fingers, down to his elbow, complete with a solid plastic splint, he was totally immobilised.

Which, you know, is sort of obvious as he has to allow his tendons to heal.

He looked so happy with his arm being strapped up - and that he was still in his dress - I had to get another picture of him...

Yes, you will notice that his thumb is totally free and able to move. This is him giving me a thumbs up. Despite the look on his face. And the very attractive socks.

The surgeon came back up a little while later, just to reassure us that everything went fine. They had to fully reattach one tendon, and repair another. To do the reattachment, they had to make the wound longer, as the other end had retracted up into the arm. Luckily, it was only an inch or so further up, so they didn't have to do too much more damage. Once that was repaired, they sewed their way up and out of the wound, closing it with very fine thread. I assume, considering the chap is a plastic surgeon, that the scarring will be minimal.

Jaysen has to remain in his bandaging for at least six weeks. We have a surgical check up next week to make sure everything is healing OK, at which point I am hoping to see the closed wound. You've seen what it looks like up above, but I've not seen it since fixed up.

I'm very interested.

Finally, we got in at 8.15pm, exactly twelve hours after I stepped out the front door to take Peanut to school. We were all hot, exhausted, Kellie and I were stressed out still, and Jaysen was a little bit worn out and aching (unsurprisingly) but had been a complete star all day.

All in all, it was a rough day. As usual, many people came out to see if they could do anything, to see if they could help, to send us and Jaysen their love. Facebook was full of good luck messages and similar, and again, a massive thank you to all our friends for their support and everything else.

Last night was a bad night for me, with things playing on my mind, and after a stressed-out stomach decided to evacuate it's contents at half four or so, I gave up, got up and had a shower.

Jaysen remains in good spirits, is cheerful and jokey, is only in a little pain - more dull aching than anything else - but we've been out and about together most of the day, wandering around town, seeing his mum, visiting his good Samaritan, popping around Asda, then home again...

Downside - his hand is so well wrapped - his RIGHT HAND of course - he cannot hold a mouse, cannot hold a console controller, cannot hold a pen, cannot get it wet... For at least six weeks.

I'm sure this space will have more, but for now, a massive thanks to the staff at Basildon Hospital Childrens Casualty Department, the staff at Broomfield Hospital Phoenix Ward, the A&B Taxis that ran us around, Big Chris for driving us from Basildon to Broomfield, Les for lending us his Fun Bus, and especially the man that helped Jaysen - that looked after him, wrapped his hand up, looked after Jaysens bike, and drove him to hospital regardless of his own plans at that point.

And to all of our true friends, a massive thank you for being there.

To Coin A Phrase (Sorta) Pt. Three

(Part The Third) And so, we reach the more boring post in which I whine about me and how I feel and everything else. The entire post can be summed up as follows:

Wah-Wah-Me-Back-Pain-Wah-Tired-Wah-Mental-Wah-Woe-Is-Me

If you are going to read this post, and are then surprised that all I have done is moan, more fool you - don't bother whining in the comments. That sentence up there is very accurate, and I've not even written the post yet.

Maybe toddle off somewhere else if you don't want to read it.

So, me. Hmm...

As you might have gotten from the previous two posts about Where The F... Have I Been? you will be able to see that I have barely stopped for the last few months. That, however, is a bit of a lie, because I have had moments where I've had to stop for the simple fact that I've had no choice... My body simply won't let me do anything else.

On the pain front, things are pretty much as they have been of late... Lots of pain, nothing in the way of pain relief. Not really. My Co-Codamol/Pregabalin combination does little more than take off the edge of the pain, but it is constantly there, screaming at me in some way or another. Either my back feels like a jumbled knot of pain, my hands, arms and legs range from "Random Aches" to "Hot Fiery Pains" and my neck, elbows and knees seem to switch on and off as they please... Wobbly arms and legs, heavy head... Plus a few migraines thrown in for good measure - one of which saw me puking in the 0dd Mother In Laws toilet. Which was mortifying, FYI.

It hurts to move around, to walk, to carry, to do stuff, so I have to limit what I can do - which I REALLY do not like. I know, I know, there's nothing for it, I HAVE to limit myself, but I don't have to like it.

You name it, I have been having problems with it, from walking and going out, to concentrating on, say, reading a book or watching a TV program... The pain just messes it all up.

On top of the pain, there is the tiredness, no, exhaustion. I don't feel "Oh, I had a late night, I feel reeeeally tired" tired, but "I've been running the London Marathon every day for the last six months, I am knackered" tired. I've been struggling to stay awake most of the time, get into bed, doze off, wake up an hour or two later, then fight between sleeping and not sleeping, and when I DO finally doze off I either A) have shitty dreams that wake me up and prevent me from going back to sleep, or B) managed to fall asleep 30 minutes before the alarm clock goes off, and have to get up regardless.

I am hurting, tired, miserable and completely fed up with everything. And for added fun and adventure, I've been struggling with words and sentences, either failing to find the words I want outright, or my brain throwing in random words that have NO bearing on the conversation, or even better, talking and slurring and sounding like I've been on the booze all day - which is worse when having to talk to strangers, as they look at me like I'm one of the local alcoholics... Now, if I WERE one of these chaps, fair enough. However, to judge me on the fact I SOUND like one really pisses me off. I want to get a tee shirt made that says "I may sound like I'm drunk, but I'm not. You're looking at me like you're a judgemental twat, and you are."

On top of this, I started with my specialist counselling, and have had two sessions so far. I don't seem to have done a lot in either one mind you - the first I walked away with two wads of paper, one on "Sleep Hygiene" which she gave me and after I told her how many years I've had issues sleeping and what I've done to try fixing it, she told me to read through it, not that it's worth it as you probably know it all anyway. The second sheet was "Identifying and Working Through Troubling Thoughts" and about twenty pages long...

I will confess to you - as I told her - every time I started reading it, my brain shut down, and refused to process it. There was so much in there that just didn't make sense, my brain could not take the words and put them in any order that I could understand.

My second session, she kinda just let me... prattle... By the end of that, she decided I have traits of OCD that need to be worked on (!!) and that she would like to talk about the sorts of bad thoughts and worries that I have on a daily basis. She also wants to understand my activity levels and what I am doing, to see if I need to do more or less, and learn to pace myself...

I DID point out that I have kids and Kellie works, so pacing is not always an option, but I don't think she understood...

I have never been one to think counselling was any use... I am attending anyway just in case she CAN help me and make me feel better, but my breath is honestly not held.. I know there are some of you that have been through it and it has helped or even worked wonders, but I struggle to talk to people I know and love about my problems - talking to a complete stranger is very very difficult for me.

The only ray of hope to come out of it was a new medication! Yep, after realising how much I do (or, rather, do not) sleep on a nightly basis, she recommended I be put on a trial of Melatonin - basically, the hormone that makes you feel tired and puts your body to sleep - That, in tablet form.

It says to take an hour or two before bed, so I took it at 9pm the first night, thinking, even if it takes two hours, 11pm is still not too shabby. By half nine, I was drifting off to sleep, got comfy and snuggled down...

And was wide awake again at 1am. I dozed on and off all night that first night. The second night, pretty much the same story. Night three was the night Kellie decided to be sick and have her heart conk out. Nights four and five, I kept waking up to check she was still alive.

Since then, I take the tablet, doze off within an hour, and have 2-3 hours of sleep, before waking up, and then struggle to get back to sleep or even stay asleep.

So that's either going to be "Dose Increase" or "Back to the Drawing Board" for that one.

The last two or three days, however, I have felt like sh!t. Proper, full-on crap. I've been in agony, have no appetite, am exhausted, have struggled to get out of bed - Thursday and Friday mornings, Kellie had to get up and sort herself for work AND the kids for school, as I could barely move out the bed. Friday morning, I struggled up at half eight, said goodbye to Kellie, went to the loo, fell back into bed - and there I stayed, dozing on and off till 1pm... And even then, I had to get up as I needed a change of scenery...

So, as I said in the first paragraph:

Wah-Wah-Me-Back-Pain-Wah-Tired-Wah-Mental-Wah-Woe-Is-Me

Well That Took A While...

It has been noted by some (*cough*many*cough*) that yours truly has been missing in action for a while. It's true that 0ddness has not been updated for most of June, and to be honest, my excuses - now I've arranged them in my noggin - sound, well... feeble...

Mainly, I feel like shit. Proper It-Hurts-To-Do-Much-Of-Anything shit. Like a good boy, I take a cocktail of drugs in the morning, and I take my scheduled drugs in the afternoon, and my handful of drugs at bedtime. Plus, during the day, I am popping painkillers like they are M&Ms. But they don't seem to be doing much of anything. I get out of bed and am in pain. I potter around the house, and it hurts to do so, thus increasing the pain. I try to do "normal" stuff, and it hurts, increasing the pain. I flop on the sofa to chill out, but can't get comfy so fidget around a lot, which increases my pain. I go to bed, and the pain stops me from sleeping properly, so I fidget more and don't rest.

When I DO sleep, it's broken up by pain. So when I get up out of bed, I am in pain.

And the cycle begins all over again.

I've tried those very helpful bits of advice that many have offered of "Push Through It" or "Focus On Something Else And Ignore It" as well as "Get Over It" but aside from just being completely bloody moronic, all those bits of advice do is make me worse. I grin, bear it, grit my teeth, push through the pain - and end up making myself feel a million times worse for longer.

Yeah, THANKS for that advice.

I am still waiting on hearing from someone at the specialist place about my appointment, and if I've not heard anything by Wednesday, I am going to give them a tinkle.

On top of that, I am not sleeping properly again. Partly, over the last couple of nights, it's because the bedroom is silent where Kellie isn't here - as mentioned previously, she is with the 0dd Brother In Law down in Devon - so it's just me and Dom here this weekend (and into the week too).

As mentioned before, thanks to being in pain, I am struggling to get comfortable at night, and thus struggling to sleep properly. Disturbed sleep, more than insomniac sleep I think. I am waking up really early, and staying awake, after not sleeping very well during the night. It doesn't matter if I go to bed at 10pm or 1am, I automatically wake up at 0430 for NO reason at all, and stay awake. I then find myself nodding and fighting my body shutting down between 1pm and 3pm, and again at around 8pm...

On top of this, I don't feel like I've stopped of late. There always seems to be something that needs doing, something that needs sorting, somewhere that needs visiting... Monday is Beavers & Cubs, Tuesday is Fat Club, Wednesday Jaysen & Tamsyn come home, Thursday is Scouts... Then we seem to be doing stuff at weekends, alternate Sundays I have to walk the kids back to Jo. All this, while doing normal usual stuff in and around the house.

The boys - now both being in the realm of "Teenager" have developed this attitude of late that can be summed up with "Someone Else Will Do It" They waltz around asking if their laundry is done, when's lunch, when's dinner... Then when asked "Can you bring a wash load down from your room" or "Do that bit of washing up" it's like we've asked them to eat their own shit. End of the world, huffing, eye rolling, whining like girls... Stuff gets dumped in and around the house and just... left. Their room looks like burglars have been through it. They are now on pain of actual DEATH to keep it tidy, otherwise *I* will clear it up.

With bin bags.

I don't know, maybe I am just tired and cranky due to the pain. I don't know what the hell is going on any more to be honest. Life seems to have caught up, over-taken me, but actually run me over and left me at the side of the road. I want to stop hurting. I want to do something mundane without my body paying me back ten-times over. I want to enjoy life without having to bend over for everyone else.

Selfish? Maybe. Every once in a while though, surely that is acceptable?

As one of my favourite song lyrics goes: "I'm sick and tired, of always feeling sick and tired..."

A Milestone

So, today was The Day. After taking my first day "Off Sick" on 31st May 2000, and seeing doctors and specialists and clinics and professionals, and trying different medications and techniques and remedies and everything else you can think of, I have finally been told "This Is What Is Wrong With You"

Let me backtrack. I have been dreading this appointment today. Properly dreading it. I suspected I was going to be told "it's all in your mind" or "this is the wrong place, let me refer you to..." or worse-case "Faker!"

I've been stewing on it and worrying. Kellie has been doing her best to keep me at an even keel, but last night I hardly slept at all.

We had a rather busy weekend, helping the 0dd Mother-in-Law empty her loft for re-insulation, then Sunday we spent the day at the park with Clare (Kellies friend from school) and an assortment of children. I was knackered.

On the plus side, it meant that today, they could see me on an "off" day, so when I said "I have no strength in my hands or arms" they could see I actually had no strength in my hands or arms.

The questions and questionnaires I had to fill out were a little daunting and I kept getting confused on them, but had Kellie with me to help with them. Pain, Energy Levels, Concentration, Moods, Mental Stuff, other Medical things...

We sat and I told the doctors (there were two in there with me!) exactly how I felt, how fed up and miserable I am, how I am with my pain, how I was before I was ill... And, as per my other half, I had to tell them properly or she would tell them. And by that, I mean she would have said "The dozy git wears himself out by doing too much because he's a knob-head and I tell him not to do this stuff and I tell him to let me help but does he listen oh no because Dan knows best and blah blahblahblah..."

Sod. That.

It took them a few minutes to agree that I do in fact fall quite merrily slap bang in the middle of a diagnosis for ME/CFS. With all the mental stuff, the concentration, the lack of energy, the pain and generally feel shit all the damn time, it's "obvious to us that is what you have"

So how do I feel about it?

Mainly, I am relieved that finally I can say to people "THIS is what is wrong with me!" and not just let people think I'm a lazy bastard that doesn't want to work. I am happy they sat and listened and understood what I was telling them. I'm a little miffed it has taken so long. When they told me, it was all I could do not to burst into tears. I think Kellie knew, and took my hand and squeezed it.

I'm not sure how I feel to be honest. Time will tell, I suppose.

The plan of action now, is they have three departments: A Pain Management chap, a Therapist Lady... And... I can't think who the third was. The Pain Management bloke is also a physiotherapist, and will help out where he can, but because of "how I am" with my moods, anxiety, depression (which I admit, I hide very very well) and my brain-related stuff, I am seeing the Therapist first - Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT) to help me work through things.

They have also increased my Lyrica/Pregabalin dose by 50% so I am now on 450mg a day, and can go up to 600mg apparently.

I was open, I was honest, I answered all the questions truthfully and didn't hide anything nor make anything seem worse than it actually is.

So time will tell.

Thank you to my Kellie for being with me, for taking me, and for holding my hand. And thank you to Mand for messaging me on and off today to make sure I am OK and for understanding. Thank you to everyone that wished me well via Facebook & Twitter too...

And I will keep you posted as best I can with everything - not sure I will go into stuff with the CBT lady too much... Guarded as ever ;)

Belief

Do you know what is difficult? Being the way that I am - a sensitive soul at times - I find it most difficult when people look at me bumbling around, struggling to do whatever I am doing, and failing to get words out - and you can tell by their expression or the simple things that they say, that they have zero belief there is anything wrong with me.

I think in the world I can probably count the number of people that honestly believe there is something wrong with me on one hand. I'm not counting people that only go by what they read, but people that see me on a semi-regular basis. Some of them say innocuous things, some of them look at me in a way that is almost as loud as words.

I wish, just once, I could make people understand how I feel, how the lethargy takes over my body and drags me downwards. I wish I could make people realise how hard it is trying to read something when the brain fog has descended, reading and re-reading the same page over and over, trying to get it to sink in. How, doing what most people would consider to be a mundane task, my body is screaming in pain.

Last week, I hardly stopped for whatever reason, trying to keep on top of everything. The weekend was spent out and about, and yesterday - with the sun shining and it being warm - I mistakenly thought I would have enough energy to strim the front lawn and pull up the Knotweed out back. Halfway through the strimming I was knackered. By the end I was exhausted, and after I raked the grass and pulled up the weeds, I was exhausted. My hands and arms were burning from inside. I couldn't talk properly, my body doing it's "You Now Sound Drunk" party trick.

Usually, I would have had to walk Jaysen & Tam back to their mums, but the 0dd Mother-In-Law was present, so she threw me and Tam in the car and drove her back, then me home again.

Thank you, 0dd Mother-in-Law. And congrats to her on doing her 5k Walk For Life yesterday too!

Today, it was all I could do to shower and dress myself. I struggled with my hair, so gave up and tied it back only semi-brushed. That'll be fun to brush out later. I am doing nothing today - well, not till the evening, anyway with Cubs & Beavers - and am not sure that I could do much if I HAD to.

I'm in shit loads of pain. I am fully exhausted. I can't concentrate. Were it not for Firefox & Blogger spell-checking, this post would be littered with mistakes I am not noticing until they are highlighted.

Today, I am miserable. I want to curl up and cry, and I want someone to not only believe that I am broken, but to understand it too.

I have 8 days until I get to spill all this out to the specialist clinic. Eight days. I am hoping they will be able to prescribe something, anything,

Most of all, I want people to believe what I tell them, not assume I am a lazy scrounger that does nothing because I enjoy it.

The Long Way Around

As of the end of May, I will have been "sick" for 12 years. In May of 2000, I originally went off work with a "bad back" and since then, I have been fighting an ever-constant battle against pain, fatigue, tiredness - and more than ANYTHING - trying to get people to either understand or even at least believe me that there is something wrong.

Originally, I was diagnosed with a kidney infection. I was exhausted from work, my lower back was hurting, and I was showing the symptoms of being sick. It was put down to many manic weeks working long shifts, that I had worn myself down, and now was ill. After two weeks, I was still ill and still in pain, and that's when things sort of slipped into a black hole.

On top of all my own medical shenanigans, I was also dealing with everything that was Bethany. I was bumped from pillar to post, had painkillers prescribed - one of which nearly killed me - I had physiotherapy which, by the physio's own admission, was actually making me worse... I had a walking stick which I hated and often "forgot". Eventually, I had an MRI and was told I had what appeared to be Sherman's Disease/Scheuermann's disease, or Kyphosis.

Wonky, degrading spine, is the laymans term.

I was referred to a specialist who took one look at me and told me that he could take out or fuse the damaged sections, but it'd be a 50/50 chance of damaging the nerves and effectively switching off my lower body. No walking, no bladder or bowel control - so I said no thanks. He then passed me on to the Pain Management Clinic who told me I needed to "get over it" and "get on with my life"

Brilliant.

After losing Bethy, things went down hill even more, and over the years, I have noticed things getting worse, but I press on still. A while back, I changed my GP to someone a little more local, and he has been brilliant. Not satisfied with any of my original tests or diagnosis', he has had me Xrayed and tested from head to toe, and now, almost twelve years to the day of originally going off sick, I have an appointment to see a specialist of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, or ME (myalgic encephalomyelitis)

I got the letter, and upon seeing that I was finally getting someone, I just wanted to burst into tears. Finally, someone would look at me and understand where my head is, how my body ceases to work at random, how my brain just shuts down mid-sentence, how I can't start new books as I can't follow the storyline...

The department has a pain management specialist, a therapist, physiotherapists...

I am nervous, but happy.

It's been a long road, but finally I think I can see a light at the end of the tunnel to getting the help I need. Most of you won't know what it's like to have someone look at you or make comments about your health. Being told to get over it, being looked at like I'm a dreg of society, being spoken to like I am attention seeking... I hate it. I want people to understand how I feel after doing normal, regular things.

I've had a busy few days, and as of bedtime last night, I was worn out. I had horrible dreams all night last night, Kellie left me because of how crap I am at everything, she couldn't deal with my pain, couldn't cope with me not doing anything due to my energy levels... But the kids hated me for the same reason, and all four left with her too. I was stuck in the house, alone, no one to talk to, nothing to do, no one to sit with...

I hate being like this. I wish I could be fixed.

Missing: Presumed Grumpy

I have, once again, been conspicuously quiet across the different social networks. For the most part, I have been quite busy, with the Easter Holidays now behind us (and the year whizzing by) it was hard to sit and bumble out blog posts with kids charging around.

Secondly, I am moody. I don't know why exactly but there is stuff on my mind that is pissing me off, I feel like shite and that is pissing me off, I have germs trying to come out and THAT is pissing me off... And when reading Twitter, or watching Facebook, more stuff pisses me off, to the point that I either close the window, or I rant and rave AT people.

So I close the window.

Even when I do chat in either place, I see something that I think "Ignore it, you're fine" but ten minutes later, I have to kill the window.

I'm not sure what's wrong with me, my usual sitting and stewing on things, worrying about other things, pissed off over other other things and so on - plus I seem to have a week or so that everything gets on top of me that I refer to as my PMS week. I really DO seem to have a time of the month...

Yes yes, I'm a woman...

Why don't I blog about my woes? Well, for starters I know that as soon as I do, people will start messaging me "Do you mean ME?" and asking if it's them I am referring to. Then other people will read what I have blogged, and either use it against me, or take it the wrong way and, well, use it against me. I just cannot be dealing with that amount of stress and drama I KNOW it will create. I'm not even going to say "If you think it may be you, it probably is" because that will just make people go at it more.

And this is why the blog has had less "Blah Blah Blah" on it, and more "Music and Random Images" than usual.

I had hoped the previous post would placate my rantiness for a bit, but it didn't. I'm tired, cranky, mood-swinging, in sodding pain and feeling generally icky - and there's nothing much I can do about it.

I'll survive, I'm sure. Hopefully everyone else will as well... I'm going to give it a few more days to slip out of my system, and failing that, I'm going to have to set up an anonymous blog just to scream and shout and rant and rave on.

Failing that... I may need to be taken out the back... Old Yeller style.

The Told-You-So's

For the last couple of weeks, I've noticed it has been getting more and more out of hand. But, being that I've been tired and sore, I've allowed it to slide. Every day that passed, it got worse and worse, and eventually, yesterday, I decided enough was enough.

I'm talking, of course, about the front and back lawns. The last time they were done was late October, but obviously, where it's been winter, the growth has slowed. Until the randomly warm/damp weather of late February/Early March which forced it to grow like, well, grass.

Yesterday, it was due to rain, so I decided - in my wisdom - that first thing, to beat the rain, I would battle the green stuff.

However, yesterday, I was tired and sore - but the grass NEEDED doing. People, however, suggested I DON'T do it. Some of you lot that follow me on Twitter could tell I was ouchie, but I didn't listen. I couldn't, really. If I had left it, the rain would have soaked and flattened the grass, and it would have taken ages to dry out again, while growing even more. The longer I left it, the harder it would be.

As it is, we only own a crappy little Flymo. The "blades" are just toughened plastic, so hitting anything thicker than a Hairy Spiders Kneecap tends to shatter the blade. It doesn't DO long grass. Hell, it doesn't DO longISH grass. So I have to use the strimmer first (some of you over-seas sorts call it a weed-whacker I think), which takes a while and is pain-inducing.

So, at half seven, I fill up on painkillers, give them half an hour to kick in a bit, throw on my boots, stick in my earphones, and get to work. I decide the front needs doing more as, after all, people can see it. It's not a huge garden - maybe fifteen to twenty feet square, with bushes down one side, a flower bed down the other, and "the bit under the window" that is perpetually dry on account of the balcony above it.

Strimming takes about 45 minutes. Twenty minutes in, I was hurting and sore and tired. But I pushed on. Once the grass is taken down a few notches, I rake it up - another job that effs me up. That takes a while to do as well, and now my work is being punctuated by chatty neighbours. Stop, earphones out, gossip, say bye, earphones in, continue.

Every time I stop, however, I feel the insidious pain creeping further into my body.

While talking to the lady next door, she tells me "you look like shit, why don't you stop" and we laugh and joke, I tell her it has to be done, I NEED to get it done and push through... She knows I have health problems, but doesn't know the details. She can see the Strimmer/Flymo combo is time consuming, and offers me the use of their Big Petrol Mower that seems to be some kind of beast in the future.

So, I carry on with the front garden. Mow the lawn, rake it up, RE mow the lawn, rake it up, grass done. But garden not complete. Now, considering I've only been out there for about ninety minutes, I am properly exhausted. My whole body is crying in pain, but I'm not finished. Now for the hedge which is growing out of control - people are having to walk on the lawn to get around it, as it's growing over the path.

The hedge trimmer is quite heavy, and I have to go a bit at a time as I am struggling to hold it up. Twenty minutes later, I have a trimmed bush and a path people can walk along.

Am I done yet? Am I f$ck.

NOW all the edges need the grass pulling up, and the flower bed has to be de-littered. Thanks to the construction of Long Riding, the wind is channelled along it, blowing leaves and rubbish as it gusts. All, apparently, across my garden. So Autumns leaves are scattered throughout the flower bed, as well as roaming grass and a creeper-type-weed, all which has to come out.

I lower myself to the ground, and spend the better part of an hour crawling along the flowerbed to remove everything that shouldn't be there.

NOW comes the clean up.  All the lawn cuttings, all the trimmed bush bits, all the stuff off the flowerbed, plus all the other rubbish.. Another half hour of working.

Finally, and possibly the most stupid part of it... I need to relocate Bethys tree from the porch, back to the lawn. It's not the lightest thing ever, but I managed to lug it to it's spot in the middle of the garden, rearrange some pots of plants under the window, and, finally... Done.

It's taken almost three hours, which in the grand scheme of things, 180 minutes is not that long. And considering I was going to do the back garden as well... I conceded defeat, there is no way I can do the BIGGER garden now. But it was only three hours of work. Three. My body should be fine.

My body, however, thinks it has just run a marathon, with bricks and pain and nasty. I am in agony. I take another handful of painkillers, and collapse on the sofa. Every part of me is hurting - from the base of my skull down to my fingers and toes, and everything in between. My body is pulsing, throbbing. I just want the pain to go away - even a little bit just so it's not quite so intense.

All I did was some bloody gardening. As a kid, I spent every moment of daylight working in my grandparents garden... Digging, cutting, lifting, spreading, cleaning... I wouldn't mind if I was old. My elderly next door neighbour spends day after day in her garden, trimming her perfect lawn, digging and planting her perfect flowers, sweeping and mopping her perfect patio... She suffers no ill effects.

So why me?

Moving off the Pity Bus, I spend the day pretty much flopped out, taking pain killers are regular intervals, reading, Tweeting, Facebooking... Generally doing nothing in a hope the pain eases.

Twilight (the time of day, not the wanky vampires) rolls around, and there's a knock at the door. It's next doors eldest son. "Mum says you want to borrow the lawn mower?" he says to me. Ooh please, I reply, but not at the moment - can't do it now. "That's OK, mum said you were suffering - I'll jump over the back fence with it and do your lawn for you. Won't take ten minutes." And without another word from me, he dashes off. "Er, OK" is all I can say.

Now, usually, I cannot accept help from anyone. Anyone. I don't know why, and I know I should, but I can't. He, however, didn't really give me much of a chance to reply. So, I stagger through the house and get into the back garden. He's at the fence, lowering a beast of a lawn mower into the garden, then jumps in. "It won't take long!" he says before firing it up. It's a petrol mower, and apparently, long grass doesn't deter it.

I'm a little worried - while the garden has been neglected for a few years, last year I got it looking nice, with a nice lawn. It's still quite wet underneath, and from previous experience, mowing wet grass means tearing it up.

Off he goes, churning through the jungle and, thankfully, the grass is CUT not torn. He runs around, emptying the collecting box a few times, then goes over it again to pick up any bits he may have missed, and job done. Ten minutes.

It would have taken me all afternoon, especially feeling this way.

I thank him profusely, but he won't have it. "Mum said you needed a bit of help, so there you go. Let me know if you want it done again!" And he and his mower and off over the fence once more, like a green-fingered super hero...

The final punchline to the story?

The alarm went off at 6am. I struggled to roll over in order to shut it off. I struggled to sit up. I struggled into the bathroom...

Today, I am in agony. It took me an hour to get my socks on. The laptop is too heavy to lift to my lap. I am blogging this in sections - it's taken me almost two hours to write...

Today is not a good day. Those of you that warned me off gardening, you were right, I was wrong. I am suffering.

Random 0dds & Ends

It occurs to me while chattering away on Twitter, that I have a few loose ends that I have never tied up, finalised, continued with or anything else...

I'm not sure why - I think I get posts done, keep things up to date, then end up needing a break from the world of Online and hide out in a book or something, then sort of... forget... where I left off the tale.

Not that they are particularly thrilling tales, and there is even a good chance that I HAVE in fact finished with the punch line, ended the tale of Mirth and/or Woe, but forgotten I have done so... Which means that you could be reading the same information twice.

Shocking, I know. That's what happens to the sleep deprived.

Which leads me nicely to Point #1:


The Not-So-New Sleeping Patterns
As you may recall, I am a proper insomniac. Not someone that has a rough night and cries to the world how they had SUCH bad insomnia the night before.

I am talking days, weeks, months, years of getting by on snatches (heh) of sleep here and there, so at the start of January, I started Sleep Restriction Therapy. Basically, I FORCED my body to stay away until ungodly hours, then got up before the crack of dawn even started to crack. After a week of sleeping for the allotted time, I was allowed to add an hour. Then after a week, add an hour, and so on.

When I started on Midnight-0600, my body decided to start going a bit wobbly. For the most part, it didn't mind too much having six hours of sleep, but every few nights, I would wake up in the early hours, and stay awake. So far, I have YET to manage seven straight days of 0000-0600 and staying asleep.

Don't get me wrong, I am MOSTLY sleeping straight through every single night which is amazing for me, but I think my body Circadian Rhythm is pretty much happy on six hours a night for most nights.

In order to test this theory out, the last fortnight I have been surprising my body with extra sleep. OK granted, I've been poorly and exhausted on and off, but none the less... A nap during the day, going to bed at, say, half ten in the evening, sleeping till 7am...

For the most part with the ODD exception, my body goes to sleep and stays asleep. Compared to someone that would go to bed EVERY night, doze off, wake up for a few hours, doze off for twenty minutes, then be awake for the rest of the day...

Sleep Restriction DEFINITELY works. I am still staying up till midnight on MOST nights, and still get up at 6am pretty much every morning, but I know if I want an extra hour or two here and there, I can - AND I sleep!


The Finaceé And Her Medical Woes
Kellie is a poorly girl, but is an improving poorly girl. Waaay back when, you may remember she was having weird stuff go on with her heart, then her Triglycerides level went past high, past stupidly high, hit the stratosphere of WTF High, and kept going. Case in point: a "Normal" person with a "High" triglyceride reading would be looking at 5 or even 6. Kellie was rocking a reading of 20.8.

The doctor even asked how she hadn't keeled over dead from a Heart Attack or Stroke.  Oops.

So they started her on meds, and every now and then, throw a battery of tests at her. She's had cardiac tests and Xrays and has a blood test every 4-6 weeks. The doctor started her on Statins which, as we are now learning, is a shitting horrible drug.

On the flip side, her levels have come waaay down, and now she's only... 8-9. Still in the realms of Stupidly High, but the doc has started her on a new stronger statin. The downside of this, is they are making her poorly - physically and mentally.

On top of this fun ride, Kellie also has problems with her Hands, Hips and Knees - pain that looks, sounds and reads like Arthritis, but no doctor has yet to say "It is Arthritis" and have only done a blood test to check for it.

She went to see the doctor last week, and he has given her another tablet to take which I THINK Is called Naproxin, maybe. It's sort of like a Super Ibuprofen. Downside? It will dissolve her stomach or something. So she has an additional tablet that will stop her insides melting. That one begins with an L. Oh here it is... Lansoprazole.

After one day, her hands hurt MUCH less. After a few days, only being busy made her hips and knees ache - ache, not hurt. So they are definitely a win.

However... This means that Kellie now takes enough tablets to choke a junkie. And more than me, which makes me chuckle no end.

She is, however, still having her funny heart turns, but we are pretty much convinced that is related to the high triglycerides in her body. One thing at a time. We're not happy with the statins (I say "we" but I mean "I") as they cause all sorts of nasty problems, but we're seeing how things go with her levels before we march back to the poor doctor and ask for new meds.


The Blinding of Yours Truly
Back last summer, my dear son tried to blind me, and if you read 0ddness back then, you may recall I was not a happy camper.. I spent ages trying to get a doctor to listen to me that there was something in my eye, then had to deal with needles, scraping the surface of the eye, drops, cream, fine pliers, rolled-back eyelids and eye-patches. 

Not to mention the hilarity of everyone on the planet that I have ever taken the piss out of.

Since then, and waiting the "allotted" time of 5-6 weeks, I started using my contact lenses again, but for some reason, the "poorly" eye wouldn't settle with the lenses. I kept trying and trying, to no avail. Eventually, I gave up and waited till I could see the optician for his take on it.

So, with my appointment booked, I strode in and told him what the buggery my son had done to me, so after a normal eye test, he focuses on the bad eye.

Now, considering the eye was injured at the end of August, and "sorted" a week later in September, and then given 5-6 weeks of "getting better" time with drops and cream, I was a little surprised and equally miffed to be told that it was still healing - healing slowly, no less - and that it could still be a couple of months.

However, this is a tale of MY life, which means there's always a punchline.

If it is not healed within the next two-three months, I will have to go and have bloody surgery on it... They will remove the damaged area, and allow THAT to heal back over. EYE SURGERY. Because of my own flesh and blood.

Should it come to surgery, that is exactly all they will find of him too - a little flesh and blood.


On Achieving Gainful Employment
As seems to be the punch line for me, things never ever seem to go according to plan. Back in August/September, I enrolled in a training program in order to get a Work From Home type job. I would have meant a company route calls to my phone, I do the Customer Service for them, and put in X many hours per week on a flexible basis.

I had to pay out of my own pocket with ZERO help from the government, for exams, courses, background checks, a new birth certificate (as clever-bollocks that I am, I lost mine) and everything else. I was quite happy I could not only do it, but do it well.

I was delayed a few weeks thanks to the Blinding Incident, which meant I missed getting onto the course I needed, which meant I had to wait for another with evening slots to appear. Despite assurances from various "high ups" involved, no such course appeared. Christmas sailed by, New Year came and went, but no evening course.

Since mid-February, I've not even had my emails returned asking what is going on, when will a space open up. Which means that plan - to get BACK to working, to earn actual MONEY - is very rapidly dying and soon to be buried. Unless someone there actually replies to me.

I am not, however, holding my breath. I am also trying my hardest to not get angry over it. We couldn't really afford the outgoings to get the introductory courses, exams (which I passed with 95%) and all the other crap, but instead considered that we would get it back once I was working... So, because of that, we are out of pocket by a fair amount.

Water under the bridge, maybe, but it still pisses me right off.


The Roast Breakfast
Do NOT be fooled into thinking I have forgotten about this.

Despite being called Mad, Mental, Crazy and similar, I will be cooking AND eating a full roast dinner for breakfast, probably during the Easter Break now. The weekend I was going to perform this miracle was the weekend everyone decided to be ill.

Including me.

So I sort of skipped it and didn't bother with it in the end. It was all Kellie could do to eat a single slice of toast, and the thought of food entering my body made me want to heave, so I figured it would only go to waste ;)

Watch this space.


On De-Fattising Myself
Yes, I was on a diet. Yes, I was doing very very well on said-diet and, Yes, I lost an awful lot of weight on said-diet.

But.

Again we meet our old friend The Blinding Incident. After being spiked in the fricking EYE, I couldn't go out as, to be honest, for the most part I could see precisely sod-all. Plus with a sore, angry eye, I didn't want to go out and "be seen" with a gross, watering eye that I could hardly see out of.

Secondly, around this time, there was a lot of gross brown stuff hitting the fan - I never really went into it, because the parties involved are petty and childish and would have used my personal site as ammo and stuff - which while I don't care what people throw at me, it would have been others upset.

Couple with trying to work through a course to get a job (*mutter grumble*) my free time dropped away like that door on a gibbet. I ran myself down, and found myself exhausted cooking the healthy dinners, and shopping all the time for healthy stuff.

Then, my Birthday Weekend rode around, and all attempts at being a good dieter went straight out the window. And I never went back outside to pick them up. After the birthday, we were still trying to get into the Back to School routine, then Xmas was coming, and one thing after another rolled up to greet us.

Looking back, 2011 was pretty damn shit. The last thing on my mind was dieting.

So yes, the diet is "on hold" at present, which means, I am not dieting, which means the weight is creeping back on. But, once I have been to see the specialist, once I can get things better arranged for me medically, then I will be restarting. And losing the weight.

And becoming a slimmer sexy beast ;)


So there you have it... Several loose ends, tied up neat and tidy-like. I am sure there are more, and I am sure people will remind me when they think about them. But until then, I disappear! 

I'm Not Dead*

You may be forgiven for thinking that your favourite blogger has fallen down a deep dark well and shuffled along to a slightly warmer, more lava-and-demon-filled existence, but you would be wrong.

That is not to say, of course, that I feel like I've been splattered at the bottom of aforementioned Deep Dark Well. This week has been, for want of a better word, shit. Nothing in particular has happened, but physically - and as a knock-on effect, mentally - I've been a bit crappy.

Sunday, my last post, I had had a busy week, over-done it and was suffering. If Sunday I felt like death, by Monday lunchtime, I had died, been risen in a voodoo ritual, and then stomped to buggery. I could barely function, my brain was doing it's own thing, I had a bastard of a migraine brewing, and it was all I could do to have a sandwich at lunch.

I'm never off my food.

By the evening, Kellie gets in and sends me to bed. 7.15pm, I am told to go to bed and to stay there. I lay down, feeling like hell, but fully expecting to not sleep. I don't remember much. I woke up at half ten the following morning.  I still felt crap, and my head was still splitting, but fifteen and a bit hours of sleep had improved me a little.

However, by Tuesday evening, my head was ripping itself in two, but with Kellie off at her mums again due to the continuation of the re-plastering, I put the kids to bed early, and then I went to bed to chill out and read.

Wednesday morning I felt horrible again, migraine still in full effect, shipped the kids off to school, and stayed on the sofa. I managed to do some laundry, and I managed to get some housework done, but ultimately, I stayed put. By the time Dom & Molly were in from school, and Tam & Jaysen were bought home, I could hardly walk and talk. I managed to give one of them some money to get dinner from the chip shop, and I passed out on the sofa.

Next thing I know, it's half six and Kellie is home. My head is a little better, but it turns out Kellie has a blinding headache too... Very strange... We've both felt on and off the last few days, so can only assume it's a virus or something that is making us feel worse than usual.

Thursday I was still a bit fuzzy headed, but by Friday, the pain was gone.

Thank f$ck.

Physically, I am still hurting and properly tired. All-over-properly-tired, but I've been doing my best to push through it. I popped into town yesterday to get five items, but ended up meandering around like a leaf on the wind for an hour. There were lots of noisy people, all pushing and barging, and I couldn't concentrate on going from A to B, so was out for ages and knackered myself.

And now, tonight/this morning, my body clock is being a bastard. We went to bed just after midnight, but then I woke up just before three after shitty dreams. I couldn't get back to sleep, so half an hour later, I am on the sofa reading for half an hour... I go back to bed, still can't sleep, so half an hour later, I am dressed and back downstairs.

We've a busy few days ahead of us now, so hopefully I will continue to function... Hopefully!


*Yet

End of the Rope

At the end of my rope is a strange saying, and one that a lot of people seem to bandy around an awful lot. "Oh I'm at the end of the rope with my job!" they will cry, and then proceed to remain in said-job, not saying nor doing anything about the problems they perceive they have.

"Oh I'm at the end of the rope with these kids" they will moan, and proceed to allow them to carry on doing the same stuff they have been getting away with for days and weeks at a time. Money problems, attitudes, other people - an awful lot of people will say this saying over and over again, but they throw it around as much as they "hate" this or "hate" that.

You don't hate it, you just don't like it. Quite a difference.

As Inigo Montoya once said, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

But I digress.

When I say I reach the end of my rope, I mean just that. If I carry on, I will fall. You may have noticed, that since Thursday morning when I was "whining" about how rough I felt, I have all but disappeared off the face of the earth. One lovely lady on Twitter chased me up to make sure I was OK, but other than that, my contact with the online world has been limited to hiding on WoW, saving Azeroth. My Twitter and My Facebook have both been neglected because I've just felt too crappy.

So let me retrace my steps... FYI: Long Post, ranting and pain ahead..

Last week, I felt shit. Proper, sat-on-the-path-and-stepped-in shit. My hands hurt, my legs hurt, my joints hurt, my neck and shoulders hurt. I hadn't really done much, but I felt crappy. Wednesday morning I got out of bed and nearly fell back into it, not because I had done anything, but because I hurt so much.

That was six in the morning. I then spent fifteen minutes putting on boxers, shorts and a tee shirt. And, when I say "I then spent fifteen minutes putting on boxers, shorts and a tee shirt" please don't think oh he's so dramatic or anything. I hurt so much, THAT is how long it took to apply three items of clothing. I couldn't do my socks - my body refused to bend. At eight that morning, I managed to get one on, and the second one on by nine. Now, I didn't spend all morning trying to put my socks on, but I swallowed a handful of meds and tried, then tried a bit later, then had another shot.

And so on.

Thursday, because it was nice, because it was cheaper, and because it is probably better for me, I cycled Tam to school instead of sitting my chunky backside on the bus. However, my bike could use some work, but because A) I can't afford someone to actually do the work, or B) I don't know anyone willing to fix it's issues for free, riding my bike involves some effort.

Tam had to keep slowing down for me because I kept running out of steam. I took my meds about 45 minutes before we left, and before we even made it halfway, I wanted to cry. By the time we made it to school - 45 minutes later - I wanted to die. The thought of riding BACK just filled me with dread.

I got on. I almost fell off. I tried again, but my body refused to comply. Being that buses refuse to accept bikes on board, I had one option. Push it home.

So after a 45 minute ride, I then had an hour-and-a-bit of a walk back home. I got in, wheeled the bike through the house, and proceeded to launch it out the back door. I was hurting to the point I was crying without realising it, I was frustrated because I used to run cross country and was fit as anything, I was upset because I KNOW I am getting worse, and that bike was the current source of anger and hate and pain and frustration.

My bike is still laying on the ground in the back garden.

After taking more meds - probably earlier than I should have - I flopped on the sofa to chill out. I stuck Avatar on - the extended version (oooh flash!) and proceeded to pass out. Tiredness, exhaustion, too many meds - I don't know, but I didn't wake up till half two when Kellie rang to see how I was doing.

Friday the kids went back to their mums, and Tam was happy to take the bus to school Friday morning. I wasn't - I was pissed off I HAD to take the bus, but it was all I could do to walk, let alone drag my bike back in.

We were out Friday evening - being that it was James' birthday (36, though he will strenuously deny it) and a group of us were heading to the casino.

Now, before you happen to judge me (not that my regular readers will, but I'm feeling all stroppy, so..) we don't go to the casino very often. When we're there, it's for the laugh of it. We know the house always wins, we know there are no systems nor methods nor techniques to win, and we know that we're probably going to burn in hell for gambling (well, maybe/probably), but still.

Added to this, I can't gamble. I don't mean "I don't gamble" and I don't mean "I am bad at gambling" but literally, I can't gamble. We think it's one of my OCD talents coming out to play, but when given the choice of all those numbers, rows, columns, groups, and TWO colours, my brain shorts out and I just stare like that dead goldfish bobbing around in the water current.

So, I go to socialise, Kellie goes to win our fortunes. On the 50p bet tables. Give her a few years, and we'll be rich.

But anyway.

I felt like deep fried crap, but wasn't going to cancel. It was my friends birthday, I needed a night out, and it was a chance to catch up with people and pretend like I am a NORMAL person.

So, before we left, I dosed up on all my painkillers, AND took some flu medication for good measure as I feel all gross at the moment too. I don't know if I have something coming, something leaving, or it's just a mixture of all my aches and pains and general yucky stuff...

A few pints later, I was a BIT tipsy. Now, as a general rule, I don't get drunk. Kellie has never seen me hammered, James & Kerry have never seen me drunk, Ed & Les have never seen me drunk, and Kevin has never seen me drunk.

But, add shit-loads of pain, add pain meds, add cold meds, add a few pints on an empty stomach, and voila! Slightly drunk Dan. What doesn't help my case is two individual items that people see and assume "Drunk" where in actual fact, it's just me. They see me having had a few drinks, and just assume I am pissed.

For one, when I am in lots of pain, I can't focus my words right, and I slur. I trip and stumble over my words and people just assuming I've had a couple of drinks at lunch time. No, really. Search 0ddness for "slurring" and I am sure something will pop out about it in relation to me being in pain.

Secondly, my movements. We left home at about half five, in a car, got to James & Kerrys and got in their car, got to the casino at about half six. And were stood up the entire evening. I can't stand up straight at the best of times, let alone when I have had a shit week. So I am not standing up straight. Slumped, slouched, fidgeting, leaning against things... You get the idea.

So, add some beers, see someone staggering and hear them slurring, Dan's pissed.  Granted, I was a bit drunk, but I was so far away from being pissed it's not even funny. The worst part is, these people have seen me drink PINTS of beer and be fine, then suddenly, I'm about to pass out I'm so drunk on a few!?

I know I know, I'm being all defensive and stuff. At the end of my rope, you might say. And the worst thing is, someone strongly denying they are drunk just makes it look like they are defending themselves even more about being drunk.

We got in somewhere around 2am, and being that I was "so drunk" I cleared up the carnage of destruction we made before we left with the ironing board, Kellies hair and make-up stuff, put dirty clothes in the basket, tidied up the washing up, sorted out a drink and stuff... THEN I went to bed.

Saturday morning I got up and my legs could hardly support me. I nearly fell on Kellie as I stood up. So I sat on the edge of the bed, braced myself and stood before heading downstairs, nearly falling arse-over-tit over Gimli, the black cat hiding on the dark stairs. For the most part, I chilled out Saturday, and Sunday, still in agony, I was planning on doing very little. I did a bit of washing up, then washed down the side-by-the sink. Then cleared the window ledge and rearranged the plant pots... Then cleared up some papers...

Three hours later, the kitchen is spotless, and I am fucked once again. So for the rest of the day, I've done nothing. Played a bit more WoW, watched some episodes of Monk, got the kids sorted for bed, watched a movie, and now, here I am, bemoaning my pains, moaning about me and myself.

But it's my blog, why shouldn't I. There are people out there - possibly even you reading this - that think my pain is over-dramatised, that I blow normal aches and pains out of proportion, that I make it up for sympathy, for attention, for someone to say "there there".

But I don't. And now, being that I am at the end of my rope, you can think whatever you like. I'm done with hearing back from people that you think it's all in my head. I'm done with your facial expressions when I say "I've not worked for years due to chronic pain"

I wouldn't even wish for you to walk a mile in my shoes. If you don't get it - don't get me - then so be it. There's the door. I'd rather you just wandered off into the night than fed me false pity. I don't WANT pity. I want to stop hurting. Next time you're complaining that you are in pain, think about that pain across your WHOLE body, and nothing you can do stops it. For days on end. Think about laying in bed wondering if you will feel better in the morning, but are happy when the morning comes, and it's just "the same" pain and not "worse" pain. Think about that half hour walk you took with your kids earlier - now consider that you will pay for that for the rest of the day, and all of tomorrow with pain. Think about that book you've just read - hell, think about that CHAPTER you just read - now try and remember what it was about, and imagine how it must feel to read something then have NO IDEA what you just read...

This week, I am going back to the doctors. I believe I have given these new meds sufficient time at a sufficient dose to help me out.

They haven't.

I am taking more co-codamol than I have in , well, ever. The Pregabalin is doing nothing. I am going to ask to be referred to the Pain Management Clinic and the CFS/ME Specialist. I need something to be done to fix me. I'll take "improved" over fixed. I'll take not wanting to cry when cooking dinner takes the wind out of my sails over anything. I don't care if I can't be "cured" I just want to be "better than I am" and not have hollow platitudes like "Mind Over Matter" and "Push Through It" and "Get Over It" thrown at me again and again.

I am, very literally, at the end of my rope. And unless I get a hand climbing back up, I'm worried I'm going to fall off the end*.

And with that, at midnight, I bid you all a goodnight**.





*No, this isn't a euphemism for offing myself.
**No, nor is this.
:)