Monthly Archives: August 2011

(What’s the story?) Morning Gory

Last night I was in agony with my foot, to the extent that I genuinely didn’t know what to do with myself. It was happening within a depressive phase of my life with Bipolar, which made it all the worse. You can catch up with it by reading my last post.

Well, I took extra sleeping meds (within the dosage I’m allowed), to enable me to sleep through the pain. So tired I couldn’t sit up straight, me and the Black Dog curled up in bed, and fell in to the deepest sleep I’ve ever had.

I woke up this morning, hearing Bess (my darling little dog) having her fur cut. Honestly, you’d think a wolverine was being tortured, not a a little terrier having her tummy trimmed whilst being cuddled and kissed! I laid in bed, opiate lozenge in my mouth, and waited for Mum to come and help me up. I felt wide awake, and decided to sit on the landing floor to cuddle the now cashmere soft Bess.

All was fine – I was smooched on the nose, and I held her in my lap – then I tried to get up. Because I felt awake, I forgot that the sleeping meds (of which I’d had more than I usually do) are also muscle relaxants. I’d put my wobbling down to the state of my feet, but oh how wrong I was.

I turned to kneel and push myself up…one arm gave out from under me, I grabbed the chair in front of me – forgetting in my panic that it’s a swivel chair – it spun around, my legs collapsed, I unintentionally flipped over and ended up with my head hanging over the top stair.

Poor Mum was stricken. Luckily, as it was ending, Dad came back in from the shops and ran up to help. I sat up, knowing instantly that I’d badly hurt my left elbow, which is already constantly painful, and my left knee, which is my best behaved one.

I was quick to reassure Mum that I was fine – explaining what had happened with the bloody chair and my rubber limbs! There were a few tears as the shock hit me, but then Bess appeared.

She has no understanding of EB. To her, I’m just one of the pack; I give her treats, I play with her when I can, and I give extraordinarily good tummy tickles. She knows when I’m sad, and she’ll stand on my lap, with her paws around my shoulders to cuddle me. Her big liquorice nose snuffling in my ear, her soft whiskers on my cheek.

But as I sat, booing on the floor, she rolled her most treasured possession under my leg…a soggy, grubby, chewed up tennis ball. She wanted me, or Mum, or Dad, to play. And that stopped the tears, because I had to laugh. In the midst of packing for hospital and panicking over what I’d just done, there was a little furry ray of sunshine at our feet. Bessie’s tennis ball is her ecstasy, and she wanted me to have it too.

She was jet black as a pup, but now her Yorkie daddy’s genes have come through, and she’s mostly silvery grey (with a ginger ‘tache!). My little, scruffy Grey Dog chased away the big Black Dog today. He’ll sneak back, but Bess will be there, shining with love and silliness, and she’ll see him off again.

Yesterday, I felt lucky, but I wanted to give my parents their freedom. Today I feel that, once again, something saved me. Something kept me here. Being agnostic, I won’t rule anything out. But I feel that if I keep being saved, there must be something I’m meant to do. I just need to find out what it is.

So until the Black Dog comes crawling back, I’ll have a good think about what I’m here for. Playing with Bess is definitely one of my purposes 🙂

M xxx

My Bessie Bear, chilling in my room, with the tennis ball!

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About last night…

In around thirteen hours, I’ll be heading off to hospital. It might be earlier, if things get worse, but I hope not.

Really, I should be in St Thomas’ A&E now, but there won’t a doctor there who will know what to do with me, and I really don’t want to spend another night in the Clinical Decisions unit. One night, three years ago, with an elderly man snoring louder than I thought was possible, and a heroin addict throwing tables around because he wanted Methadone, Dad awkwardly asleep in an upright chair, Mum curled up like a cat at the end of my trolley. No, not again.

So in about eight and a half hours, Mum will call the specialist nurse and tell her I need to be admitted. She will start the arduous task of securing a bed for me to collapse on to, and the Specialist Registrar of my Dermatologist will ask Microbiology which antibiotic needs to be pumped into my bloodstream, to force the infection out. I’ll be begging them for every pain killer I can have.

I feel like a failure. I’ve always had a sky high pain threshold, eschewing pain relief in favour of distracting myself. Music and a good book are my preferred methods. But I have never known pain like this, and even my strong opiate pain killers aren’t really helping. The fact that I’ve cried with the pain has been my parents’ indication of how much pain I’m in.

My right foot has myriad ulcerated wounds on it, and some are on areas that were already severely nerve-damaged. Imagine how an ulcer on your tongue feels… Now imagine that ulcer is four inches long… And it has siblings, all over you tongue, cheeks, roof of your mouth and gums… Now imagine someone is pouring vinegar over them, and they are so deep you can sink your teeth right into them. You’re getting close to how this foot feels.

On top of that, my Bipolar Disorder has reared it’s head. It didn’t occur to me last week, when I was a cheery and getting lots and lots done, that I was in a manic phase. I just wanted to think I was happy. Well, I obviously wasn’t, because the Black Dog has its paws wrapped around me in a vice like grip. I was managing to tell it to shush and be a good doggy when I was with people, or chatting on line, but tonight it broke free.

To be clear, I don’t think I’m unlucky, or that I have an awful life. I am so grateful for everyone I have who, for whatever reason, love or like me. I have a home, food, clothes, luxuries like the Internet and my iPad. I have healthcare, and some health. I could have a far worse disability or illness. I do thank my lucky stars, for all the good things I have, and all the bad things I don’t. So what I said wasn’t for my benefit…

I sent a tweet in which I said I thought I should let the infection take over, finish me off, and then my lovely, wonderful parents could have their freedom. And I meant it. It wasn’t a cry for attention or help, it wasn’t that I wanted my ego massaged and to be told how great I am, it was, is, what I felt/feel is best. My mum was sat in front of me, still wading through my dressing change, and I wanted better for her. I wanted her not to have to worry, not to sleep on mattresses by my hospital bed. I wanted she and my dad to go to bed at the same time, to travel and have fun together. Without a bandaged burden to consider.

But, for some reason, they won’t let me go. And I can’t go without their help.

So you’re all stuck with me for now.

I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who sent kind and concerned tweets, who offered support and prayers (I might be a non-believer, but I do appreciate people taking the time and having hearts open enough to pray for me. I’m sending love and good wishes back to you). And though I don’t believe any of the nice things you said, and probably never will all the time I’m a Bipolar Bear, I feel incredibly lucky to have made such fabulous friends via Twitter.

I hope you all know how lovely your hearts and souls are.

With love and thanks
M xxxx

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