Forced into the 21st century.
And who's fault is it anyway?
When one is living with a long term debilitating illness, it can become difficult to find much pleasure in life. All the things I used to do for fun are either no longer possible or they just fail to bring me the joy they once did.
I'm the first to admit that I have never been one to treat my body as a temple. I would think nothing of downing an entire bottle of wine before heading out to the pub and drinking several pints of premium lager followed by a few double Jack D's. Then there would be the days where I felt invincible and would carry on drinking the saucy stuff back at home, whilst simultaneously cooking up anything that could remotely be considered edible after deep frying it and sloshing it onto a plate for my inebriated self to devour like a starved pig. You would be forgiven for wondering how on earth I found any joy in any of this and with the wonderful tool of hindsight I wonder along with you. I would often wake at odd hours wondering where I was, what I'd done during the preceding hours and whether or not it would be appropriate to show my face in public ever again.
Yet for reasons I still can't fathom I continued wth this behaviour for many years, often alienating friends and family because I believed I was having 'fun'. Reliant on government benefits it wasn't as if I had the spare cash to fund this lifestyle and I occasionally found myself in the position of not having the money to top up my electricity and gas meters, so I would sink into various depressive states blaming everyone but myself for my predicaments. This is difficult to write about in hindsight - a glowing bright light shines on just how desperate my life was during that time, but it's important to look back in order to make sense of the here and now, and how my past behaviours and reactions to those behaviours impact me in the present.
If I knew then what I know now, would I have led my life differently?
There are thousands of detailed studies on the Internet that suggest alcohol and lifestyle choices, such as poor eating habits and lack of exercise may potentially increase our chances of developing certain cancers, including breast cancer. Alcohol in particular would consistently factor in these studies as a major kryptonite. Of course, the more I researched the information available to me the more I began to blame myself for openly inviting Lenny into my life. Not only had I held the door wide open for him, I'd highlighted the route with my sedentary lifestyle and taste for bad foods. What on earth did I expect?
The most evil, confusing thing about cancer though is that there are thousands of patients every year who have taken great care of their health throughout their entire lives, eating their broccoli and cabbage, drinking their kale and wheatgerm juices, walking and swimming regularly and never smoking or drinking alcohol. Yet they find themselves sat on the opposite side of the table to the scary docs with serious faces being told 'I'm so sorry, it's cancer', with their lives about to change forever. Which throws the question of whether I would have lived my life differently straight up into the air. Of course, my life was a trainwreck whether I'd developed cancer or not but the real question is 'did I do this to myself?'
I'm yet to figure out the answer.
So here I am today, currently on palliative pain management, which mainly consists of large doses of morphine together with Naproxen, a strong anti inflammatory medicine and regular 4 hourly paracetamol. Sometimes I add Gabapentin to the mix which acts very well on nerve pain. The most surprising of these is the efficiency of paracetamol, when taken regularly it significantly improves the effects of morphine to the point that when I miss a dose it's noticeable. These two meds together are magical. Who would have thought that the humble paracetamol would prove to be so beneficial?
The downside to these medications, or perhaps the upside is that I'm no longer able to consume even the smallest amount of alcohol without feeling the following day that I've been to an all night rave. Back when I was young and carefree I was able to cope with feeling as though I'd been hit by a truck after raving the night away because of course I'd had fun before the storm hit. It's like being whacked in the face with a wet haddock when you develop the mother of all hangovers after a single glass of wine. There was a long period when the very thought of alcohol would trigger the onset of nausea, but following a visit or two from a dear, long term friend i found I was beginning to enjoy the taste again. It's a shame that my body doesn't enjoy it quite so much. I'm currently still at war with this, I'm angry that my disease has the capability to strip me of the simple enjoyment of a glass of wine with my dinner.
Somewhat on a parallel to this, I've also found that by spending time doing the things that I enjoy on the days that I'm feeling strong enough, I pay a considerably high price for my indulgences. I love to shop. What woman doesn't? I'd go so far as to say that I spent many a happy hour or two on what most would describe as the mundaneness of grocery shopping, searching the shelves for items that were new to me, covering every department at least twice. As for shopping for pleasure I could pound the high street for an entire day, pausing every so often for a pick me up cuppa.
Now, I'm lucky if I can make it around the supermarket without collapsing in a heap amongst the carrots and onions. My legs buckle under me feeling as though they weigh 100lbs each as I struggle to make it to the tobacco counter which signals the end of the shop. Very apt, as I'm gasping for a ciggy by this point. As far as shopping for pleasure goes, I've been forced as brutally as I was forced into menopause straight into the 21st century by my need to rely more and more on online shopping. I just don't have the strength and stamina to trawl the shops anymore.
It's all incredibly tiresome.
I feel I must mention here that if friends or family make the effort to come and visit me, it requires a Herculean effort for me to appear as well and active as I possibly can. Ordinarily, I spend the vast majority of my time in bed. I find this the least stressful way to live on a day to day basis. I have everything I need close by, I can stretch out and change positions easily to keep myself as comfortable as possible, my medications are all in a big box beside my bed, and of course when tiredness overcomes me I just lay right down. Lola is more than happy to curl up beside me and sleep the days away in comfort too, moving only when I do so as not to miss a trick.
When I have visitors I have to be up and about however much they insist that my staying put is not a problem for them. It's basic manners to at least give it my best shot. Who wants to spend their time and money visiting a lump of dough that's superglued to the bed? So far I've fared very well with these visits, convinced that I run purely on adrenaline, and I've mostly kept up banter and conversation without too many problems. Maybe my visitors would tell a different story, but I'm confident that I've never demanded too much from them. The way I see it is, whilst I'm still pretty much able to do things for myself I will try my utmost to remain as independent as I can. There's little point in becoming a whiny demanding diva during the few visits i do have as there will come a day when I'll be desperately in need of help from others. I'll save the Mariah Carey act for when that time comes.
Ultimately however, I pay a price. Whilst I'm mostly fine and chipper during each visit and the period immediately afterwards, I will eventually crash. And I crash hard. I'll be feeling uplifted from the visit and able to cope better with my life in general and then, as though someone has waved a magic wand immense tiredness will take over. I'll settle myself down for a nap fully intending to awaken refreshed after an hour or so. Instead, I'll finally rouse from a fitful sleep 11/12/13 hours later feeling like I've run 6 marathons, as tired as I've ever been. This in turn will completely demoralise me and depression will settle in for upwards of a week at a time. This is no fun. It can take me a good fortnight to feel able to cope with my life again, and I vow never to have guests again. Pain takes over more readily when my morale is low and I end up in a situation where lifting myself out of the black hole seems almost impossible.
I often wonder if I would be better off dead.
But - and there's always a but - I do eventually start to feel better. Lola is paramount in this process, her needs forcing me out of bed, her inquisitive eyes searching mine for answers as to why her human looks so sad. I've often read that those who believe cats have no soul need only to gaze deeply into their eyes to be proven wrong. I believe this entirely. The confusion and concern that I see in Lola's eyes both sadden me and spur me on to pull myself together. An animals innocence is a great leveller.
For the time being I try my best to remember as many good feelings and emotions that occur during the days which are less of a struggle, whilst although not blocking them out entirely as I recognise the need to acknowledge both good and bad, the bad times are stored away in my internal filing system, only to be brought out and examined when absolutely necessary. So far this works for me.
I've still not figured out the question of fault in this strange and frightening new world I've found myself in, and I wonder if the need to is really necessary. What good will it do in the grand scheme of things? It will change nothing that's already happened but there is a danger that my conclusion may just have the power to demoralise me further and that's something I can do without.
So I'm taking the easy option. I'm swerving the blame issues and concentrating my energies on the further exploration of The Apple App Store, a place in which I can lose myself for hours focusing upon furthering my freefall into the 21st century and all it has to offer me.
And downloading 'catch the errant mouse' games designed for cats with an interest in IT.
Well, I've got to keep young Lola in the loop too, haven't I?
And who's fault is it anyway?
When one is living with a long term debilitating illness, it can become difficult to find much pleasure in life. All the things I used to do for fun are either no longer possible or they just fail to bring me the joy they once did.
I'm the first to admit that I have never been one to treat my body as a temple. I would think nothing of downing an entire bottle of wine before heading out to the pub and drinking several pints of premium lager followed by a few double Jack D's. Then there would be the days where I felt invincible and would carry on drinking the saucy stuff back at home, whilst simultaneously cooking up anything that could remotely be considered edible after deep frying it and sloshing it onto a plate for my inebriated self to devour like a starved pig. You would be forgiven for wondering how on earth I found any joy in any of this and with the wonderful tool of hindsight I wonder along with you. I would often wake at odd hours wondering where I was, what I'd done during the preceding hours and whether or not it would be appropriate to show my face in public ever again.
Yet for reasons I still can't fathom I continued wth this behaviour for many years, often alienating friends and family because I believed I was having 'fun'. Reliant on government benefits it wasn't as if I had the spare cash to fund this lifestyle and I occasionally found myself in the position of not having the money to top up my electricity and gas meters, so I would sink into various depressive states blaming everyone but myself for my predicaments. This is difficult to write about in hindsight - a glowing bright light shines on just how desperate my life was during that time, but it's important to look back in order to make sense of the here and now, and how my past behaviours and reactions to those behaviours impact me in the present.
If I knew then what I know now, would I have led my life differently?
There are thousands of detailed studies on the Internet that suggest alcohol and lifestyle choices, such as poor eating habits and lack of exercise may potentially increase our chances of developing certain cancers, including breast cancer. Alcohol in particular would consistently factor in these studies as a major kryptonite. Of course, the more I researched the information available to me the more I began to blame myself for openly inviting Lenny into my life. Not only had I held the door wide open for him, I'd highlighted the route with my sedentary lifestyle and taste for bad foods. What on earth did I expect?
The most evil, confusing thing about cancer though is that there are thousands of patients every year who have taken great care of their health throughout their entire lives, eating their broccoli and cabbage, drinking their kale and wheatgerm juices, walking and swimming regularly and never smoking or drinking alcohol. Yet they find themselves sat on the opposite side of the table to the scary docs with serious faces being told 'I'm so sorry, it's cancer', with their lives about to change forever. Which throws the question of whether I would have lived my life differently straight up into the air. Of course, my life was a trainwreck whether I'd developed cancer or not but the real question is 'did I do this to myself?'
I'm yet to figure out the answer.
So here I am today, currently on palliative pain management, which mainly consists of large doses of morphine together with Naproxen, a strong anti inflammatory medicine and regular 4 hourly paracetamol. Sometimes I add Gabapentin to the mix which acts very well on nerve pain. The most surprising of these is the efficiency of paracetamol, when taken regularly it significantly improves the effects of morphine to the point that when I miss a dose it's noticeable. These two meds together are magical. Who would have thought that the humble paracetamol would prove to be so beneficial?
The downside to these medications, or perhaps the upside is that I'm no longer able to consume even the smallest amount of alcohol without feeling the following day that I've been to an all night rave. Back when I was young and carefree I was able to cope with feeling as though I'd been hit by a truck after raving the night away because of course I'd had fun before the storm hit. It's like being whacked in the face with a wet haddock when you develop the mother of all hangovers after a single glass of wine. There was a long period when the very thought of alcohol would trigger the onset of nausea, but following a visit or two from a dear, long term friend i found I was beginning to enjoy the taste again. It's a shame that my body doesn't enjoy it quite so much. I'm currently still at war with this, I'm angry that my disease has the capability to strip me of the simple enjoyment of a glass of wine with my dinner.
Somewhat on a parallel to this, I've also found that by spending time doing the things that I enjoy on the days that I'm feeling strong enough, I pay a considerably high price for my indulgences. I love to shop. What woman doesn't? I'd go so far as to say that I spent many a happy hour or two on what most would describe as the mundaneness of grocery shopping, searching the shelves for items that were new to me, covering every department at least twice. As for shopping for pleasure I could pound the high street for an entire day, pausing every so often for a pick me up cuppa.
Now, I'm lucky if I can make it around the supermarket without collapsing in a heap amongst the carrots and onions. My legs buckle under me feeling as though they weigh 100lbs each as I struggle to make it to the tobacco counter which signals the end of the shop. Very apt, as I'm gasping for a ciggy by this point. As far as shopping for pleasure goes, I've been forced as brutally as I was forced into menopause straight into the 21st century by my need to rely more and more on online shopping. I just don't have the strength and stamina to trawl the shops anymore.
It's all incredibly tiresome.
I feel I must mention here that if friends or family make the effort to come and visit me, it requires a Herculean effort for me to appear as well and active as I possibly can. Ordinarily, I spend the vast majority of my time in bed. I find this the least stressful way to live on a day to day basis. I have everything I need close by, I can stretch out and change positions easily to keep myself as comfortable as possible, my medications are all in a big box beside my bed, and of course when tiredness overcomes me I just lay right down. Lola is more than happy to curl up beside me and sleep the days away in comfort too, moving only when I do so as not to miss a trick.
When I have visitors I have to be up and about however much they insist that my staying put is not a problem for them. It's basic manners to at least give it my best shot. Who wants to spend their time and money visiting a lump of dough that's superglued to the bed? So far I've fared very well with these visits, convinced that I run purely on adrenaline, and I've mostly kept up banter and conversation without too many problems. Maybe my visitors would tell a different story, but I'm confident that I've never demanded too much from them. The way I see it is, whilst I'm still pretty much able to do things for myself I will try my utmost to remain as independent as I can. There's little point in becoming a whiny demanding diva during the few visits i do have as there will come a day when I'll be desperately in need of help from others. I'll save the Mariah Carey act for when that time comes.
Ultimately however, I pay a price. Whilst I'm mostly fine and chipper during each visit and the period immediately afterwards, I will eventually crash. And I crash hard. I'll be feeling uplifted from the visit and able to cope better with my life in general and then, as though someone has waved a magic wand immense tiredness will take over. I'll settle myself down for a nap fully intending to awaken refreshed after an hour or so. Instead, I'll finally rouse from a fitful sleep 11/12/13 hours later feeling like I've run 6 marathons, as tired as I've ever been. This in turn will completely demoralise me and depression will settle in for upwards of a week at a time. This is no fun. It can take me a good fortnight to feel able to cope with my life again, and I vow never to have guests again. Pain takes over more readily when my morale is low and I end up in a situation where lifting myself out of the black hole seems almost impossible.
I often wonder if I would be better off dead.
But - and there's always a but - I do eventually start to feel better. Lola is paramount in this process, her needs forcing me out of bed, her inquisitive eyes searching mine for answers as to why her human looks so sad. I've often read that those who believe cats have no soul need only to gaze deeply into their eyes to be proven wrong. I believe this entirely. The confusion and concern that I see in Lola's eyes both sadden me and spur me on to pull myself together. An animals innocence is a great leveller.
For the time being I try my best to remember as many good feelings and emotions that occur during the days which are less of a struggle, whilst although not blocking them out entirely as I recognise the need to acknowledge both good and bad, the bad times are stored away in my internal filing system, only to be brought out and examined when absolutely necessary. So far this works for me.
I've still not figured out the question of fault in this strange and frightening new world I've found myself in, and I wonder if the need to is really necessary. What good will it do in the grand scheme of things? It will change nothing that's already happened but there is a danger that my conclusion may just have the power to demoralise me further and that's something I can do without.
So I'm taking the easy option. I'm swerving the blame issues and concentrating my energies on the further exploration of The Apple App Store, a place in which I can lose myself for hours focusing upon furthering my freefall into the 21st century and all it has to offer me.
And downloading 'catch the errant mouse' games designed for cats with an interest in IT.
Well, I've got to keep young Lola in the loop too, haven't I?
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