6 Go Crazy On A Socially Distanced Adventure…*

* a very dreadful homage to all things Enid Blyton to hopefully offer some light-relief in these challenging times….

The 6 DNTW’s have been holed up together under one roof for less than 72 hours and the wholesome, ruddy-cheeked (feckless) children are clearly feeling the strain. As are their parents.

After a mere 2 & 1/2 days of home schooling, Mr DNTW’s could be heard enquiring at what age teachers are legally allowed to retire and Mrs DNTW’s is contemplating ingesting the hand sanitiser that her very lovely, witty and glamorous (also childless therefore explaining the non-haggard visage and aforementioned glamour!) friend sent her in the post because she has read they contain alcohol.

In a time of national emergency surely it is obvious that both should be drunk not rubbed on one’s hands?! (In the interests of health and safety please don’t!)

Mrs DNTW’s knows she should be very grateful that she has thoughtful and lovely friends who think of sending her such precious things like alcohol flavoured hand-gel in these desperate times but right now she is wondering if she can drink the contents as they do in fact contain actual, REAL alcohol. She also feels it desperately unfair that Mr DNTW’s has refuted her suggestion of sacrifice that she consumes hard liquor and remains 70% proof at all times because apparently an alcohol content above 66% is necessary to effectively kill off bacteria and she is trying to protect herself from the dreaded “C” word so in turn she can nurture her family.

Unusually given the vocabulary of child number 2, it is not that ‘c’ word that she is worrying about for the time being, nor is it the BIG C but it is definitely a very unpleasant C which shall not be mentioned herewith 🦠

It is likely that Mr DNTW’s is not thinking of the health and well-being of his wife in pouring scorn on her proposal but is rather more concerned he will be asked to aid in the SPAG (spelling punctuation and grammar for those not in the know) work that has been set as part of the home-schooling curriculum by actual teachers who are laughing delightedly and rubbing their hands with glee hand-gel at those contemptuous parents who spout such nonsense as:

“huh! 6 weeks off in the summer! They should know what hard work is really like!”

In her defence, Mrs DNTW’s would very much like it to be known that she has never been one of those smug and belittling folk. In fact she thinks that anyone who has voluntarily and willingly decided, (not to mention paid out horrifyingly large sums of money for the privilege of doing so) to nurture and cherish young mind’s – other people’s children (Sartre’s quote “Hell is….?!”) – should probably be sectioned canonised.

Mrs DNTW’s has tried to instill a respect for authority, foster a love of learning and an oasis of peace and tranquility in the classroom that was once her dining room.

In truth she wasn’t very successful imparting these qualities to her older children in the past so it is unsurprising that the younger ones reject her request to answer the register, greet her politely with “Good morning Mrs Definitely Not The Walton’s” and yell “Oi Karen and BOOMER” at her periodically. Mrs DNTW’s wonders whether telling her precious off-spring that they will enjoy working in 45 minute blocks with 15 minute movement and snack breaks might have been a tad ambitious and perhaps it should have been the other way around.

After Mrs DNTW’s has spent 20 minutes surreptitiously consulting her phone for an explanation of fronted adverbials, preposition and sub-clauses, she wonders whether she ever learned anything at school all those years ago.

She and child number 4 finally crack on with the questions relating to the Harry Potter themed English work and she has been designated scribe because Minx’s hands are tired, despite the fact she has only held the pen doodling. Mrs DNTW’s is dismayed to find that they are only on question 4 and they have already spent an hour arguing over whether Hermione would have had an easier time at school if she had learned early on about the beneficial properties of argan oil and serum for frizz-prone hair.

Child 3 has left the room and embarked on his designated movement break, disparagingly retorting that it is his right to leave after 45 minutes whether he has finished his French set piece or not.

His movement break seems to have incorporated a trip back to the bedroom on to his X-box and when subsequently summoned to return, his dulcet bellows of “I just need 5 more minutes to finish this match” ricochet off the walls from the 3rd floor all the way down.

This prompts Child 2 who is “self-studying” in his room to angrily fling open the bedroom door, music blaring from the dark, fetid cave-like dwelling to announce he cannot possibly get anything done with such inconsiderate shouting around him and he needs to assume a horizontal position on his bed, encased in a furry dressing gown until at least an hour of order and tranquility has been restored. Fortunately Mrs DNTW’s is wise enough not to engage in that battle and beats a hasty retreat.

Child Number 1 who actually left school several years ago and under usual circumstances would be at work, is also now confined to barracks until further notice. He chooses this time to grace us all with his presence and wonders down to the kitchen, bleary eyed, whereupon he opens the fridge door and gazes in forlornly until the beepy noise kicks in. With much dramatic sighing on his part, there is opening of multiple cupboard doors, also the freezer and trips back and forth to the garage for essential supplies. Mrs DNTW’s informs him that “no we don’t happen to have any lovely part-baked rolls, fluffy pancakes, nor lashings of beer, ginger or otherwise” to meet his brunch criteria.

Children 3 and 4 return to the dining room class-room and survey the bits of paper, pencil sharpernings and crumbly bits of broken rubber that seem to be peppered about the place despite Mrs DNTW’s not having witnessed any usage of items that would give rise to these annoyances. Mrs DNTW’s sighs and wonders weather by some form of stealth osmosis her dining room is absorbing waste matter from the many dormant class rooms scattered over the UK, indeed the rest of the world as the “C” word holds us all in captivity. In fact come to think of it, she notices that the room seems to be giving off an aroma most usually associated with the lingering scent of school dinners, pine disinfectant, sports lockers, lynx and farting. She makes a mental note to add Febreeze to her online shopping order which is scheduled in the earliest available slot, 9 week ahead.

Perhaps Child 1 is responsible for the odours as whatever he is doing in the adjacent kitchen (the door between is firmly closed) requires a lot of banging of saucepans, running of taps and occasional expletives.

This reminds Mrs DNTW’s that she has not time-tabled any musical activities for her sweet darlings and after briefly contemplating hunting down the old recorders and music books, she gives her head a wobble and reminds herself why she hid them in the first place. She decides that an afternoon of listening to Billie Eilish over and over again with a running commentary from the Minx detailing the video montage and seven gazillion You-Tube quips will serve this purpose perfectly. Child 3 can make do with revising his spotify play list.

After what seems an age but in reality is only another 45 minutes, the children are getting fractious and Mrs DNTW’s is feeling mutinous as she made the rooky mistake of opening the door to let the scrabbling dogs into the class-room – (what fun my darlings, we can do a live biology/veterinary course!) and caught the scene of utter carnage and devastation that was once her kitchen but is now a scourge of dirty cups, burnt bits on the hob, crumbs everywhere and judging by the greasy paw prints on various surfaces, Child 1 has left the butter out which the bl**dy cat has taken advantage of.

Dismissing the class, she briefly contemplates hauling Child 1 back downstairs and bludgeoning him with a rolling pin until the sanctity of her once pristine kitchen is restored but decides actually that some TIME OUT from her children and some vigorous scrubbing might be good for her blood pressure and rising feelings of wanting to puncture things (including people) with sharp objects.

Verily as she has cleaned down the last surface and re-stacked the dishwasher so that it contains more than one awkwardly loaded frying pan, 27,000 cups and glasses (so the off-spring had indeed previously been hoarding them in their bedrooms after all!!) and single spoon, her little urchins meander their way back into view and piteous cries of “we are starving/going to faint with hunger and die of thirst” reach a crescendo.

Equilibrium restored, Mrs DNTW’s tells her children she is just putting the finishing touches to home-made chicken noodle soup which WILL BE DELICIOUS and nutritious.

The steely glint in her eye almost but not quite convinces the heckling mob not to argue with her on this matter. Protestations are stared down (Paddington would have been impressed at the hardness of stare) and Child 1 dishes out Tiger Bread with lashings of dairy free spread that should have fed the family for a week and been usable to rustle up a couple of cakes (for the home economic lessons naturally!) but apparently merely only feeds a man-child in the last month of his teens. This causes such a cacophony of noise and uproar that Mr DNTW’s appears from the garden looking concerned, holding something that looks suspiciously like it should have belonged in the clean laundry cupboard and possibly masqueraded as Mrs DNTW’s favourite face muslin.

At this point of reappearance, Mrs DNTW’s suddenly realises that Mr DNTW’s has been suspiciously absent for his part of the educational responsibilities of the morning and her voice reaches that steely tone when you are not quite sure if she is spitting a bit whilst talking (Mr DNTW’s is standing the requisite 2 metre distance to comply with BoJo’s social distancing policy so can’t be certain) Mr DNTW’s acts afronted and tells her he has been cleaning up the garden doing vitally important repairs and necessities that form MEN’s WORK and in fact she should be responding with gratitude and affection. Oh and could she possibly wash his trousers because he had forgotten when he embarked on the pressure washing etc that he was still in his favourite ones and not his old man’s saggy bum, paint-stained jeans. Even the children realise this was a mistake of epic proportions given her current frame of mind.

Lunch is served, after hands have been scrubbed red raw for the umpteenth time, in something of an orderly fashion. Perhaps the jewels of her eyes are cognisant that Mum is not to be trifled with for now. There is the merry clinking of spoons in bowls and Mum tries not to think too hard about her lovingly purchased-month-by-month flatware, in terms of economic-chippings-to bowl- basis for it is not really the children’s fault, she supposes, that she seems to have raised a gaggle of baboons. Clearly it is their Father’s.

The lively chatter around the table turns to afternoon activities. Mum thinks that it will be delightful and heart-warming to get out for a family walk, thus sticking to the new government rules of one daily activity in the open air, en famille and exercising the pooches all in one fell-swoop!

Mum is proud of her genius and plans to allow electronics to be used for the purpose of identifying flora and fauna in the fresh, sun-light filled air, thereby covering science AND exercise in one. Whilst mentally patting herself on the back, she cajoles the children to find suitable foot-wear and coats. The children are stunned that Mum has agreed that electronics can be taken on the trip and haven’t yet figured out that Mum has no intention of letting them listen to music with gratuitous swear-words and You-Tube clips of Yoda from Star Wars giving advice on sticks, bushes of love and Sea Gulls Stop It Now! (If you have a moment look up Bad Lip Reading quips like the gem below;it’s worth a giggle in these troublesome times)

Child 4 notes that it is sunny and despite living in Northern England and there having been a hard frost on the ground when they awoke in the morning, appears in Daisy Duke style shorts, flip flops and a crop top. Mum manages not to swear and instructs child to return to bedroom and re don the sensible leggings she had on earlier. They compromise on the crop top under a wooly jumper and weekend trainers.

Child 2 appears in joggers, 7 layers of tops, winter coat with a furry lined hood and furry boot style slippers. Mum asks him to take at least 2 layers off and put on sensible foot wear.

Child 3 is nowhere to be found and when roared for, appears from the back of the car where he has been patiently sitting, wobbly of lip and wild of eye given the baying mob that are his family yelling in such unbecoming tones. Meanwhile the neighbours are wondering if contacting the police on 101 for an ASBO constitutes a genuine emergency in the grand scheme of things, especially given the “C” word crisis.

Child 1, in spite of being the oldest, is rushing around the house, whipping the dogs into a frenzy of excitement by hurling various toys at speed and excitedly yelling for them to retrieve. The dogs are delighted that FINALLY they are being given the attention they deserve and that everyone else seems to be joining in with the shenanigans, given the through traffic that is going on with various children traipsing up and down the stairs. The cat merely narrows her eyes witheringly and hopes they will all leave very soon so she can regurgitate the grass she has eaten on the parents bed. She is feeling a tad queasy since ingesting the butter.

Mr DNTW’s is BUSY doing things that involve removing all the shopping bags from the car, re-configuring seats to get the wheelchair, dog-crate and all children ensconced within. Not for the first time he reflects that he could have had a rather nice sports car for far less aggro & probably money too. He reminds himself that he is #truly blessed# & living his #bestlife though.

Everyone is now settled in the car. Although there were fisticuffs over the calling of shotgun, Mrs DNTW’s resisted clipping child number 2 round the side of the head (what would the neighbours think?!) and fought her corner so he resorts to sitting in the back, flicking his siblings randomly to annoy them and plotting 17 different ways to disembowel his mother.

Mr DNTW’s goes to start the car. However in a bid to be more ‘eco aware’ the family have recently purchased a hybrid vehicle which is still plugged into the outdoor charge point so is going nowhere. Frankly perhaps their green credentials might have been more impressive if they had resisted the urge to procreate all together but as Mrs DNTW’s is fond of saying “that ship has long since sailed!”

Sighing with effort and exhaustion from his earlier MEN’s work and the ear-splitting levels of bickering about who is breathing whose air, who has more leg room and other such scintillating snippets of conversation, MR DNTW’s climbs out of the car & disengages the charger. Having returned, clicked the seat-belt & started the engine, Mr DNTW’s is alarmed by the frantic arm waving exhibited by his good-lady wife (she is now on her mobile phone) and wonders whether she is demonstrating one of the latest on-trend dance crazes or having a fit of the vapours, when he realises she is indicating that he has left the hatch open on the side of the car where the charger had been connected. With bad grace he exits the car again to close the hatch.

Sarcastically asking the tribe if we can go now, Mr DNTW’s realises he has left the dog poo bags in the kitchen drawer so bad-temperdly goes back into the house to retrieve. When he returns, the car smells of farts which all are blaming on the poor dogs whilst Child Number 2 sniggers.

The engine is once again switched on and the family car begins creeping down the drive. Mum has now finished her phone call and asks if anyone brought the dog lead. There is an awkward silence. Mr DNTW’s is muttering viciously & attempts to re-enter the house, having forgotten the house alarm has been set. He finally emerges complete with lead, muzzle, dog-treats, gaffer tape, rope, Stanley knife and vaguely serial killer-esque grimace.

The DNTW’s collective make it onto the road and drive to the very beautiful, natural park for their uplifting outing and commune with nature. By the time they arrive, one of the dogs has been car-sick and 2 of the children are no longer speaking. At least this means it is relatively serene…. for the time being.

The dogs are let loose from the lead & promptly spot a RIVER. This is indeed a most excellent adventure and before Mrs DNTW’s has time to enquire whether anyone remembered to pack a towel, the dogs are happily wading in the shallows, ignoring the human’s instructions and proving that the doggy obedience training classes they attended really were a waste of time. Mum is reminded that there is NO SUCH thing as a BAD DOG only a BAD OWNER. She also reminds herself that since she failed dismally to train the children, it is hardly surprising that the dogs are feral and witless too.

Not THE river but a fab great big puddle anyway!

After 5 minutes of walking, child number 2 moans that he has had too much fresh air, he is hungry, he is thirsty, he is tired and he doesn’t understand why he had to leave all his bl**dy gadgets in the car, especially as all of nature is just 💩.

Child number 1 is as excitable as the throughly bedraggled and soaking dogs and has been reminded by his father that if he too enters the river, he will have to walk home. In his underpants.

Child 3 steps in something unpleasant. So does Child 4. There is much wailing; not just by Mum. The wheelchair wheels are also covered. Dad begins to wonder if nature is taking the proverbial. The dogs, now muddy as well as wet, debate rolling in the thing that their humans seem to be covered in. It might be fox 💩 which is definitely a favourite.

Child 2 asks whether he can buy a drink at the shops. And an ice-cream. Mum tuts and reminds him they are “socially distancing” and will not be frequenting the shops, especially as this does not constitute essential supplies. She retreats when he withers her with laser-eyes.

Child 2 asks if they have at least bought a picnic with jam sandwiches and slabs of cake, plus fizzy pop since this is what all good books detail as “essential” picnic food stuffs. He is unamused when Mum explains that the daily exercise allowance rules expressly forbids such tomfoolery in the time’s of the “C” apocalypse 🦠

The walk continues, punctuated by Mum’s squeals of delight that she has spotted a white flower, a yellow one & a big, twiggy-blossom-covered bush. Unfortunately, despite balancing on one leg, leaning precariously at an angle and dancing widdershins round a fallen log, she has no internet coverage and is therefore unable to identify any of the pretty flora.

It is fast becoming apparent that the children are merely a hares-breath from shoving one another & possibly their parents as well, into the river. The lovely walk turns into a break-neck speed hike back to the car in an effort to get the whole farcical adventure over as quickly as possible.

All breath a sigh of relief when the car is in sight, apart from Mr DNTW’s who realises that transporting this motley crew home, will render the previous days car-valeting that he spent many hours performing and perfecting, null and void. Ah well, when he gets home, as Mrs DNTW’s has had a lovely afternoon off, she can resume educating their precious darlings whilst he gets out his stellar assortment of cleaning products and cloths, especially the very nice, soft one he found in the clean laundry pile …..

There’s a worm at the bottom of???…:🐛🌹

I’m sitting on a train heading to ‘that there London’ (AGAIN!)* and I’m feeling rather queasy…. in fact it’s entirely possible I may lose my breakfast…. and it’s absolutely nothing to do with the hot chocolate with enormous whipped cream topping…. mainly consumed by Minx anyway. True story.

I’m not travel sick and NO, before any one asks, I’m definitely NOT pregnant! So what’s the reason behind the dodgy tum?

A phone call I’ve just taken from one of our lovely children’s community nurses (CCN’s).

Before I continue, I want to make it clear I can’t fault our fabulous community team in anyway. They are truly awesome & go above and beyond to support and assist, buoy me up & go into bat for us when necessary. But today….. after the obligatory hello’s and chatting, 3 very ominous little words came out of the CCN’s mouth:

I’ve been thinking…..”

There are many, many ways these oh so innocent musings could be interpreted; For example, Mr DNTW’s will tell you that hearing me utter them strikes fear, dismay and unease, swiftly followed by him sighing and asking “what do you need me to do and how much is it going to cost?!” I am after all rather partial to a bit of DIY and a Pinterest protégée. 😊

Sometimes the brilliant ideas I have are a little bit far-fetched and carried away. Sometimes it might be said I’ve been a tad over-enthusiastic about both our capabilities and availability of resources but generally speaking, they turn out alright & even the ever-doubtful Mr D usually stands back surprised and pleased with the ultimate effect. Who knew I would so successfully convince him that ‘lagoon splash’ paint would look strikingly effective on the garden fence; so much so he is insistent that we do the new panels in the same shade? Anyway I digress.

So back to the vomit-y inducing words of the CCN this morning. Alas, she was not debating with me the intricacies of distressing furniture versus sponging it, nor musing the right colour of blinds for the bathroom window (things currently being mulled over by yours truly… 1st world problems and all that) No.

Apparently her week’s break away from work, exploring the delights of Scotland had induced a light bulb moment in regard to G Man’s frankly grim surgical site which still hasn’t healed post op from June. Further more, recent swabs (I’ll spare you the ins and outs) have shown G-Man has a really nasty staph infection in the site itself.

Staphylococcus bacteria live harmlessly on our skin most of the time but if they get in to cuts or bites, it can potentially lead to very serious, systemic infections.

It’s not something you want to under estimate; a seemingly healthy individual can deteriorate rapidly and the threshold for hospital based treatment and admittance to prevent sepsis is low.

He’s already been on a strong course of antibiotics but it’s not really showing much of an improvement and I strongly suspect that given we have just finished a course, after a few days off, we will be right back to square one.

We are already mindful that any raise in temperature, the smallest signs of being unwell or the operation site looking worse, means rapid access to our local children’s ward for proactive management. Frankly brilliant though our local hospital is, I’d rather stay away, thank you.

So I too was eager of ear to hear the CCN’s revelations, albeit I did remind her that time off from work is *supposed* to be a break and flattered as I am that my urchins were on her mind, she really needs to get out more!

Whilst ‘distressing’ the furniture might currently be occupying my mind, it’s fair to say that the words she uttered after the ubiquitous ‘I’ve been thinking’ were very distressing to yours truly: ‘what did I think about larvae therapy?’ 🤢

My first thought was that I tried very hard NOT to think very much about larvae at all really. I tittered on nervously on my very crowded train & asked hopefully if I had misunderstood her words and she actually meant ‘lava’ therapy or even ‘lather’ (better yet, lager therapy?!😉) but it was an empty, clutching at straws kind of a query.

I suppose it’s logical really. I remember in history covering this ‘delightful’ subject when we explored medicine through the ages. Even Casualty (the TV program not local A&E!) devoted part of an episode fairly recently to the magical, restorative properties of maggots thriving on poorly healing wounds. Gip. 🤮

And there’s no doubt that some of the more far-fetched/rumoured old wives tails do have their foundings in facts, even if the science side wasn’t necessarily quite understood back in the days of old.

In the more (allegedly) evolved and enlightened world we live in now, with the widespread and ever-growing concerns about antibiotic resistance and in combination with our fears of pollution, climate change & such like, it makes perfect sense to consider a more holistic, natural approach. I just wish it didn’t have to involve my family…

My stomach churned uneasily as she continued to extole the virtues of our mealy-mouthed little fiends friends. I squeaked a bit, giggled nervously & blew my cheeks out a lot. By this point, even though I was trying to be discreet, it seemed half the train carriage were eager to learn more about the source of my discomfort and I don’t think I was imaging the gimlet eyes of those around me boring in & edging closer as I listened, equal parts intrigued and revolted.

As the CCN warbled on, she attempted to persuade me that they are in fact the insect equivalent of being on the Debrett’s honours role. Allegedly their pedigree from back in the day boasts something to do with the making of Princess Diane’s wedding dress (I’m not ashamed to admit I did google trying to find the somewhat tenuous connection but I think that was a family of the Silk-worm variety) no less. Clearly my non- committal “uh-huh” demonstrated my ongoing ennui with the subject matter.

The CCN remained undaunted and in a bid to reassure me she wouldn’t be rocking up at the house with an old ice -cream tub full of wrigglies that she had collected from around the neighbourhood, she continued to outline that IF (& I have to stress, it really feels quite a bit IF…. I know, I know, I need to put my big girl pants on 🙄) we went down the larvae debridement route (posh hey?!) the larvae would be teeny, tiny little things encased in a perforated tea-bag like structure that she would apply to the skin…..for a week….. 😬. If this was supposed to make it more palatable, I can’t say it worked…. certainly don’t want to get one of these mixed up with the Earl-Grey & PG tips of a morning….would definitely count as a rude awakening!!

So I have been left with the task of doing some further research and seeing what I think before we proceed further. Ultimately I know I should be very grateful for anything that *hopefully* prevents the need for surgical management and I know that it’s quite an expensive ‘last hurrah’ so I guess it’s a case of Hobson’s choice really isn’t it?

All together now, I await your rousing chorus of “there’s a worm at the bottom of the garden and it’s name is Wiggly Woo, please!

* As usual it’s taken me a while to finish this post, rudely interrupted by hospital appointments as I was, so it’s now afternoon….& I’m still feeling icky!!

Relentlessly Relentless….

blog picture June 2018 final draft 3

Who cares for the carers?

There are many days where I feel like waving the white flag of surrender. I give up. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. Substitute your own personal favourite motto for when the 💩💩 just keeps on coming and you really don’t want to face it anymore.

As a rule, I am not a woe is me kind of a gal but there are limits and even for the Queen of “the glass is half empty, therefore there’s always more room for wine” claimant, sometimes I just don’t want to play anymore.

So why today? It’s been a busy week – nothing new there. Multiple appointments – again lather, rinse, repeat. Certain “dark forces” (bear with me, having to be slightly obtuse so it’s not too outing; a story for another day!) have done their level best to floor us as family and put up barriers; as my Dad would say: “same sh*t different day.”  Nothing especially jumps out as being out of our ‘norm.’

Actually, the straw that broke the camels back today is really rather ridiculous –  especially since I’m a grown (loosely termed since I barely scrape 5ft 3″) woman.

I don’t know about you but for me, it’s often the little things that tip me over the edge and today was no exception: there were NO apricot danishes left in a certain food establishment that prides itself on offering not just any old danish…. and boy did I have my heart set on that danish.*

You could in fact say I had built that particular danish up to be the highlight of my week (I know I know, I need to get out more!) and I was relishing scarfing it down with my mid-morning latte whilst staring daggers at my ever-increasing piles of paperwork that needs to be set light to dealt with and some of it rather urgently (anyone thinking I might be procrastinating by writing a blog post instead of dealing with said paperwork, that’s an affirmative!) particularly if I intend to throw my own kind of shade back at the dark forces. They might be putting up barriers but I’m packing TNT, a demolition ball and an AK47 to pulverize them. Ok perhaps I should STEP AWAY from the caffeine….my over active imagination, key-board-warrior-esque approach and twitchy eye suggest that caffeine, my drug of choice, has been consumed in too vast a quantity.

Whether it was the *slightly* murderous deranged look in my eyes or the muttering  sotto voce of curses questioning the parentage of all food halls connected with this particular establishment that caught the attention of the lovely man on the bakery counter, I can’t be sure but clearly sensing something was amiss from the plethora of delicacies in front of me, he tentatively asked if everything was all right.

Resisting the urge to scream out in the style of Ross from Friends a la “My Sandwich” sketch (you young things aren’t likely to be familiar with that gem so let me share it here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tqmXTYa3Xw) and without resorting to tears either (the struggle was real people!) I managed to convey my deep disappointment that there were no danishes of the apricot variety to be seen.

And then, as if by divine intervention (ok, I’m waxing faaaaaaarr too literally, all that caffeine has really done for me today!) the dear, dear bakery man, (alas I did not find out your name in the ensuing rush of emotions that came over me!) uttered those most blessed of words: “not to worry, I’m just about to put some out!”  Yes! Fist bump, air horns and angels singing the hallelujah chorus; the gods and goddesses and the high priestess of bakeries had smiled righteously upon me.

I must confess it felt like there was something in my eye. I’m thinking that as my salivary glands went into over-drive, some sort of neurological spill over occurred to cause watering?

But the thing is, I’m a firm believer in taking your pleasures where you find them (erm just to caveat, legal ones, I’m definitely not advocating lawlessness or reckless criminality!) because being a parent is at times bloody hard work.

Being a parent carer is even bloody harder, thankless work and as far as I can find, there’s no resignation clause and as for the pay? Well if you are “lucky” enough to qualify (there are certain criteria and the person you are caring for has to have significant needs taking up significant amounts of time) for carer’s allowance, do the maths –  you don’t even get minimum wage for the hours you put in. Oh and no matter how many people you provide care for, you only get a single carer’s allowance.

When you multiply caring for 3 children and an 18-year-old who all have varying medical/social-emotional needs and complexities, there really aren’t enough hours in the day. I go to bed every night with a to-do-list that grows ever longer. For every 2 things I manage to tick off during the course of the day, I seem to have added at least another 5.

It plays on my mind that I have dropped the ball somewhere; have I requested everyone’s medications from the GP and arranged for them to be sent to the pharmacy? Do we have enough feed/containers/giving sets/dressings/lotions and potions in hand to get to the end of the month? Have I transposed all of the appointments that crop up into my phone calendar so I can plan everything round them in the weeks ahead? And woe betide if any of those appointments were only given to me over the phone and I don’t have an actual letter to cross reference and double-check with –  will I get the right child to the right hospital/clinic/specialist on the right day and time?!

I’m not ashamed to say I take a concoction of various medications every day to help me manage one way or another; be that for my severe depression, anxiety and inability to sleep or for the acid reflux that plagues me and the dodgy back/neck/shoulders and most   recently, excruciatingly painful sciatica (so many carers suffer with joint/muscle pain and problems as result of the physical demands of caring for a loved one with mobility difficulties) I’m acutely aware that these are a crutch for want of a better word. In an ideal world, it would be far better to tackle the sources of the problems permanently. Even better in some far off utopia, it would be to put provisions in place to be proactive instead of reactive. To prevent the aches and pains and feelings of isolation, despair and all the affiliated emotions and physicality’s that go along with being a carer.

I learned to my cost (and that of my families, not to mention the NHS etc) that if we carers don’t put protective measures in to fortify ourselves it all comes crashing down.

I am not unique. As a member of support groups such as SWAN UK –  http://www.undiagnosed.org.uk I read far too many comments from parent-carers who face battles similar or even harder than my own.

On other forums I’m a part of in relation to education, health and social care there is a generalised resignation to the fact that accessing support, working WITH organisations or professionals instead of the THEM and US facade is a constantly uphill battle; at best a ‘sorry there’s no money in the system’ approach to outright horrific accounts of utterly despicable, underhand tactics designed to deprive the most vulnerable members of society from the most basic, fundamental human rights and discrediting, even slandering or making false allegations against those who have to pick up the mantle and strive on their loved ones behalf. Probably best I don’t get started. I can feel the vitriol rising and that won’t help the acid reflux!!

Next week from 11th June to 18th June inclusive is Carers Week in the UK.  You can learn more here:  https://www.carersweek.org  It is estimated that in the UK there are 6.5 million carers and that figure is only certain to rise as we face an ageing population who are living longer, an NHS that is under resourced, over stretched and a welfare system that has been not so much stripped back as hacked to death and lord only knows what, if anything will be around in future times to help and support those most in need.

But for now anyway, I have taken care of myself by refuelling with a double shot, fully caffeinated (you don’t say?!) latte and a belly full of apricot danishso I’m bouncing off the walls all fired up to tackle the paperwork and smite those dark forces with a mother’s wrath.

*If anyone suddenly feels the need to shower me in delicious pastries of the apricot kind, you know, I’ll happily take one for the team 😉 Or tell me your own personal sanity savers and maybe I’ll see what else I can try!

A picture paints a 1000 words?

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When you look a this picture, what do you see?

A smiling girl (admittedly that’s probably stretching the use of the word ‘girl’) and her dog? A woman who looks tired, definitely in need of a bit of slap (literally and figuratively?!) and probably some air brushing?

This picture is so bittersweet in so many ways that I *almost* can’t bear to even share it.  My beautiful dog Buddy is in it and he’s no longer with us, departed over the rainbow bridge to be with other furry friends. It makes my heart ache all over again but he still brings warm thoughts and a semi smile to my face nonetheless. The power of canine love.

But what this picture represents is so much more than the image at face value.

Just over one year ago this picture was taken in the reception area of a psychiatric hospital. I was suicidal and had been admitted two days previously having reached crisis point and having made the decision to end my life.

Even trying to write that phrase feels unreal and melodramatic.  Like a bad soap opera or overly prosaic novel.   This stuff doesn’t happen in the ‘real’ world. Except it does.

I don’t know if it was a surprise when I eventually confided in some of my closest friends about what I had done and what at times, it feels like I still intend to do. In some ways reaching that point was a huge shock, even for me.

If there is such a thing as a poster girl for depression, I’m not certain mine would have been the picture used (hopefully not this one anyway…it’s not my best side!) I was and still am (usually) a glass half full type person – I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – a glass half full means there’s still plenty of room for more wine!

See, I crack jokes, talk a lot, especially when nervous, I smile, put make up on, clean clothes, prepare meals, answer phone calls etc etc so how can I be depressed? And therein I think lies the crux of it: what does a depressed person look like? What image does someone who has reached the end of their coping skills project?

I wouldn’t dream of speaking for others who have gone through and continue to battle their own demons. But in my experience, depression is such an insidious thing. So even if you seem to be the life and soul of the party, the one that is strong and capable, dependable and reliable, it doesn’t mean you can’t experience the gnawing, dragging, emptiness. The feeling that it’s all too much, no way out, nowhere else to run to.

Too much effort, too much expectation, everything from getting up, dressed, one foot in front of the other a herculean effort. But it doesn’t mean you don’t keep DOING all those things. Sometimes the doing of all those very things is one of the ways you keep some kind of a handle on it, albeit a wonky one.

So it doesn’t in any way seem surprising to me when I read accounts of how someone has gone about their day-to-day life, seemingly taking it on the chin, even appearing to have a great time attending events, get togethers, nights out….and then they end it all.

The shock and grief to their nearest and dearest must be bitter, unpalatable and shrouded in disbelief.  There must be soul-searching. What did they miss? What clues didn’t they pick up on? How could they let their friend/partner/family member down so unreservedly? Why couldn’t they be stopped from choosing this final absolution?

And anger, only natural too. Rage at their selfishness; that they left everyone in this mess, they stopped trying. Took the ‘easy’ way out.

All these things run through my mind regularly, over and over, like a fuzzy old-fashioned film negative.

I feel burdened by the weight of other people’s expectations of me and the damage that would ricochet through our family unit if I achieve my objective. I once had a crisis mental health worker give me the statistics of how many young people go on to take their own lives in the event that a parent ‘chooses’ to commit suicide. Harsh and horrifying and heaping on the guilt. Crafty, effective move that was.

Perhaps because so often my every day life involves meetings with professionals in relation to the needs of our 4 children, it is so important (to me) that my armour is in place. Keeping up appearances, stopping them from defining me as *that* mother, that weak, special snow flake.

The vast majority of professionals we deal with have been nothing but supportive and helpful, even sympathetic but there are always a few, (ironically the ones who in my view have most failed our wider family), who would like to define our ASD child’s difficulties by my ‘shortcomings.’

The fact of course that respite care was proffered but never organised, dangled like a mesmerising carrot for so long, just out of reach; the fact that our child required appropriate specialist schooling and wrap around care, the inevitable self harm, suicidal idealisations, violence against myself and our other children, the regular police involvement, ambulance call outs, CAMHS care and so forth, all accumulated into some persistent, momentous ball of hell unravelling at lightning speed had nothing to do with my break down at all. I’m *just* that sad and pathetic and attention seeking……

Mental health is still, despite the (much-needed) increase in awareness and highlighting by people like the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, Prince Harry and high-profile celebrities, radio presenters and such like, a taboo, a dirty little secret.

Admitting that you have mental health difficulties, at least to me, feels a bit like shouting out the word VAGINA (or other awkward word of your choosing that doesn’t tend to come up in day-to-day conversation!) on a megaphone, naked on stage to a silently packed out Wembley arena, being globally transmitted by multiple satellites……

I can only speak for myself but having chatted to other friends going through similar concerns, I know they too feel a sense of shame, being perceived as somehow weak and feeble, lessened.

One of the most crucifying  experiences I had in the latter months of last year related to the ill-health of our youngest son. Due to severe gastrointestinal difficulties culminating in losing 5 Kilos in a 4 month period, an extended hospital stay and the insertion of a naso-gastric feeding tube, the lead paediatrician (also our regular consultant for both G-Man and Minx) called a multi-disciplinary meeting to discuss both children’s health concerns (they share many similar aspects) and a plan going forward.

Present at the meeting (in addition to the consultant) were an Occupational Therapist, Physiotherapist, Dietician, Speech and Language Therapist, Community Nurse, Student nurse, Ward Sister, Disability Children’s Team Social Worker, Paediatrician, myself and Mr DNTW’s and a few others I can’t recall. I think the only person who wasn’t there was Uncle Tom Cobley*

The consultant outlined the various medical difficulties, asked professionals for observations and then having brief knowledge of our background family situation asked for us parents to outline relevant events over the year.

It’s trite but during that account, it did feel like time stopped. There seemed to be a palpable and  collective withholding of breath as I relayed the events of significance. I did my best to remain factual, honest, hiding nothing but not (at least I don’t think) boring them to slumber and derailing the topic with a pity party for one.

I couldn’t make eye contact. I didn’t dare look up. My attempt to be detached failed. I cried; big, fat, salty tears of shame. And of course that always brings on the snot. So as I crumpled tissues and wiped and snorted my way through this hideousness, it brought with it crippling anxiety; the awareness that I had laid myself especially vulnerable to the people I need to work with for my children’s sake on a regular basis and I was in their eyes, at least to my thinking, diminished, fallible.

I must take pains to clarify that not for one moment do I think the consultant was doing this to be unkind or humiliate me. His request came from a genuine place: to what impact psychologically were (are) G-Man’s difficulties related to what is going on in his life and how as a collective could we address this for the best patient care.

It’s an ongoing situation. G doesn’t have an eating disorder; his medical ‘foibles’ are complex and require further investigation (even as I type a referral to Minx’s gastro team at GOSH is on its way), interwoven with understandable anxiety around food , the pain it causes and the bigger picture. He’s also under CAMHS.

That there has been a fall out from my ‘situation’ on all the children, there can be no doubt. Even now, if I am unwell physically or seem low the children are hypersensitive to me, like little meerkats on guard.  It will take time for that to subside and what I am beginning to realise, it may never go away entirely.

I’m still recovering if that’s the right word to use. I feel frustrated with myself and angry. There are too many should’s/would’s/could’s (which my mental health team would rap me over the wrists for) – unhelpful words those – and I suppose like the layers of an onion, or perhaps the facets of a diamond, (definitely preferable to root vegetables in my eyes!) are to be evolved and discovered in time.

Therefore, just as the 4 c’s in diamond terms are all important – cut, colour, clarity, carat weight –  we know there is no such thing as a flawless diamond; technically speaking even those given a flawless classification have the tiniest of blemishes or imperfections – (bet you will sleep better knowing that hey 😉)  Having a love of all things sparkly and glittery, I’ll happily compare myself to a flawed diamond (less of the rough diamond please).

Perfectly imperfect. Needing a bit of a spit and polish.

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  • Uncle Tom Cobley origin:
    “Uncle Tom Cobley and all” is a well used British expression to define (in slight derision) a lot of people. It’s akin to the expression “the world and its wife” and  comes from from a Devon folk ballad (Widdicombe Fair in case you are really interested!)  Uncle Tom Cobley (and all) is named as the last of a long (long!) list of men with a chorus ending Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

Comfortably numb…

Life, at the risk of sounding self indulgent and more than a little self pitying can best be described in the title above. At least for the time being and that’s ok with me. Comfortably numb sits comfortably. 

I have loved this amazing song for many years but, you will forgive me if I defer to the Scissor Sisters version and the soothing warbles of Jake Shears than the sanctimonious, anti-Zionist (read anti-Semitic no matter what he may say) Roger Waters opus. 

It’s a song I have sang along and danced to in the past. Briefly thinking on the lyrics only in so far as much as trying to remember them for appalling, impromptu karaoke. 

But of late, they are strangely soothing and a fitting discourse of this time in our lives.  

Urban Dictionary’s top definition: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Comfortably%20Numb

Doesn’t that describe the perfect “safe” place? Removed from the sharp stabs of real life, set apart from the disappointments, the difficulties, the knocks and the scrapes. And if that is so, then comparibly the edges dulled off the fun, frivolity, light and laughter?

Does this make me melancholy? I do not think so. Does it make me less able to participate, share, enjoy? Perhaps. Nonetheless I will gladly settle for this numbness. There is little that can surprise me or scare me in this half life. It allows me to maintain a sense of glass half full. 

I realised on our journey to hospital this morning that my benchmark for stress, nerves and worry is very different to what it once was. 

Not to take away from any parent/carer watching their loved ones suffer or go through scary, frightening procedures but this is our norm. Different child, different hospital but largely the same. 

Did I appear to the nursing staff cold, unfeeling? The soft “are you alright Mum?” after the anaesthetic had been administered and my not so little boy’s head gently laid back upon the bed, a kiss on his still baby-soft skin , barely registered. I was dry-eyed and calm. I have walked this walk, talked this talk more times than I can recall. Is that admission in itself shameful? Should I know, unbidden, which child, what number anaesthetic? Why? 

I find myself waiting, pausing for a beat, attuned for updates. News of medical tests, results, tribunals, social care, and so forth; the envelopes received with post-marks from various hospitals, the no caller ID flashing up on my mobile, the ping of an email: I am both strangely alert – a cat on hot bricks and yet not really surprised by the lack of information.  I’m a bit bored of it all. Blanketed by ennui. 

So for now I will embrace the numbness, float along. The bumps are smoothed out. Temperate but equally obdurate. 

Shiny happy people….

I’ve noticed a theme in many of my blog posts – the titles often spring to mind based around music. 

Although I’m not quite sharing the lyrical prose, more precisely the sentiment behind Shakespear’s line: “if music be the food of love, play on!” I think it’s apt that music evokes so many thoughts, memories, emotions (good & bad) nostalgia for the past, excitement for the future (nothing better than THE song of the summer fueling the count down to an epic, sun-drenched, sun tan lotion coconut wafting, possibly cocktail inspiring yearning). 

For those of you who are mere whipper snappers, Shiny Happy People was brought to us by R.E.M. (Have a google, promise it’s worth it) Apparently released in 1991 (now I feel REALLY old) the video even now brings back memories & the halcyon days of having learned to drive, gaining the first tastes of freedom as my parents allowed me to stay out at parties providing they knew where it was, if there was a responsible adult there etc) & the realision that I was on the cusp of adulthood, (although A-levels were less fun)  In my present frame of mind how over-rated THAT adult bit turned out to be…. but it would be wrong to be all doom & gloom & as a rule of thumb, I think those who know me fairly well would have, up until this recent blip (understatement extraordinaire) have considered me generally an optimistic, enthusiastic, life embracing & vibrant (not necessarily alcohol induced on the last part – stop rolling your eyes at me! 🙄) person.

Since I entered the hospital (spa) i’ve many time been asked about the Lisa of old by staff and inmates. What was I like before I crumbled? What did I do with time & to describe my qualities good and bad.

I think the person I used to be tried her best, be that whipping up cakes, volunteering for various jobs/school activities/charity work, getting Minx’s request for 10 different shades of nail polish on each set of hands/feet PERFECT, trying to interject exactly the right amount of enthusiasm & salient nodding to G-man’s newly created mind craft world number attempt 24598645 and basically, feeding/clothing & generally keeping on top of things as  best I could on the home/medications/therapies & ENDLESS meetings and appointments front. Any day we made it through with minimal maiming/moaning and a modicum of decorum, applied equally to kids, spouse or the fur babies was a day to be if not exactly celebrated, vaunted as a win won.

Most of all, I’d like to think I was a friend to many. One that could be confided in, counted upon; secret keeper, confidant, being around through the highs & the lows – proffering the cake & prosecco as needed.

I hope I have been a decent enough mother/wife/daughter/sister/auntie etc & been there for those in need be that family or friend.

I recall the old Lisa being terribly nervous but honoured to stand up & speak to a roomful of strangers at the Rare disease conference https://definitelynotthewaltons.com/2016/01/15/put-on-your-red-shoes/ and   https://definitelynotthewaltons.com/2016/01/20/d-day-red-shoes-part-2/to a room full of geneticists, high powered medical bods & patients & families about my family experience of raising an undiagnosed child.  

I attended workshops, coffee mornings, presentations & felt confidant enough in a subject that I was passionate about to make my voice be heard and counted. 

But that Lisa isn’t me, at least not now & doesn’t feel like it ever will be again. (Don’t you just love a pessimist?! 😳) 

Group workshops and therapy have tried to convince me she’s still somewhere there, buried under some rubble, a bit dusty, rumpled & crumpled but nothing that a quick febreeze and a dollop of self belief won’t sort out; however at this very moment, the disconnected, discombobulated partial person I am seems far removed from the one of old.

So that leads me on to my next party piece favourite, with a slight play on words; “if you’re happy and you know it…. take your meds.” Meds are my friend right now. I *may* have alluded to this once or twice (ahem) in the last 2 blog posts and I am quite certain there will be many readers out there shuddering at my cavalier attitude to essentially keeping the pharmaceutical industry in filthy lucre. But a valuable lesson I have learned in these darker days is that whatever gets you through is whatever you must do.  

The Doctors and nursing staff keep a careful and watchful eye on what you take as stated by the consultant and what is written up for PRN (as needed) and if you start getting a bit trigger happy on the prn front, they are not going to dish them out like smarties and are very keen that you try distraction therapies, chatting things over with your designated care-coordinator or even something as simple as a hot drink, walk in the gardens before willingly handing over the gooood drugs.

It is fair to say they leave you a little floaty, present but not quite there, comprehending of your surroundings & those of your fellow inmates but all the edges are softened, flattened & much less likely to leave me blubbering pathetically and hoping I’ve rammed enough tissues in my pockets before having to resort to wiping my nose surreptitiously on my sleeve (eewww). 

Today has necessitated plenty of tissues, prn & if I could pull it off pop star sun glasses worn at ALL times inside and out plus multiple avoidance, floor gazing & a pretense I’ve gone slightly deaf. 

Unbelievably, my 28 day (spa) hospital stay is coming to an end this Wednesday and despite feeling far from ready, able or even slightly like I can cope, the health insurance have not agreed to continue paying for care. 

Apparently after 28 days, I’ve had my lot & should be back to my usual, sparkly self. (Must make a note of that, can be my new daily personal mantra) 

My consultant did her level best to persuade them I am far from ready, she argued for day patient therapy & that was met with a resounding no. They even tried to secure me on-going therapy as an out patient since this should be covered under a separate claim area but apparently “the computer says no.” 

Since costs in a facility like this are in excess of £3000 per week, we are not in a position to stump up the moola for a continuing stay. 

Apparently the kids still need all their vital organs & my liver/kidneys will be more likely preserved in a prosecco/formalyhyde combo – pre admission obvs… haven’t touched a drop in here & even for the few days prior to admission – in fact still not entirely convinced that my significant jitter/tremor commented on during early sessions wasn’t down to prosecco withdrawal symptoms…. NB – entirely joking; despite my reputation as the lush of FB, I’m generally a one glass a night type girl and for clarification purposes, I mean a small, glass not one that can fit an entire bottle!! So purely on a practical front I can’t ebay anything off…

So what now? Well the consultant has asked for the crisis team from the NHS local team to review me urgently tomorrow & try & find me a bed in the local NHS hospital. 

The thought of having to go through this all again with new staff, therapists, teams etc is exhausting beyond belief & I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified. But my bigger fear is that there won’t be local bed space & I will be shipped off to Scarborough or such like; being this is more than an hour away from the family home & the logistics of trying to retain & build up some kind of relationship with my kids, puppy, not to mention hubby, this is untenable as an option to me. So I will be left with the only option to return to the family home. 

Do I feel ready? Hell no. Do I feel I can “cope?” Not even slightly. Do I still have as my end game the “plan” that put me in here in the first place as my intention? Without a shadow of a doubt. So back to the selfish, weak, feeble, ridiculousness  & all the other things I loath about myself it is then…

Meanwhile tonight I will cuddle G/man’s teddy that he gave me for support that bit harder & hope the combo of anti anxiety/depression & sleep meds I took will kick in asap….