Perspective

This week’s task was to take a previous piece of work and change the perspective, so I went with the piece Floating and changed it from 3^rd to 1^st person:

Whoa my head.  Darkness.  My head’s spinning.  My eyes are closed.  I open them.  That’s a mistake.  My head hurts.  My eyes hurt.  The room is spinning.  I open my eyes.  It’s not my room.  I’m dizzy, floating.  I can’t keep my eyes open.   Floating.  People are talking at me.  I don’t know them.  I don’t know if I respond.  I close my eyes.  It hurts to keep them opened.  Floating.  I feel myself moving out from where I was to someplace else.  I open my eyes.  I’m in the same room.  I haven’t moved.  I’m alone.  The people have left.  I close my eyes.  Floating.  I open my eyes and my brother is with me.  He’s talking to me.  Floating.  There are people busy about me.  Floating.  I open my eyes again and my parents are there.  My mum is crying.  Floating.  I’m alone again.  Where did mum go?  Floating.  I’m alone.  Floating.  People are talking again.  Floating.  I’m in a room I don’t know.  I’m in a bed.  It’s not my bed.  I hear the beep and buzz of machines.  I feel wires and tubes.  Floating.  More people I don’t know.  They’re wearing green.  Floating.  I’m alone.  I’m in a hospital bed.  Floating.  Someone is talking to me.  Floating.  My parents are back.  Floating.  Alone.  Floating. Why am I in hospital? My mum is talking to me.  I respond.  I don’t know what I’ve said.  She’s crying.  Floating.  I open my eyes again someone is talking to me.  She’s telling me to drink.  She’s dressed in green.  I do.  Floating.  The woman is back.  Is it the same woman? She’s telling me to drink again.  I do.  Floating.  My parents are there.  My mum talks to me again but I don’t understand why I'm in hospital.  Floating.  I’m told to drink again. I ask what’s happening.  Floating.  I’m alone.  I look about the room.  There are a lot of machines.  Still beeping.  Buzzing.  Floating.  I drink.  I ask what’s happening.  Floating.  My brother is back.  I ask him what’s happening.  He tells me I had an operation.  Floating.  I ask a woman why I had an operation.  I drink.  Floating.  My parents are back.  They tell me I had an infection and needed an operation.  Floating.  A man is there.  He’s a doctor.  He tells me I’m lucky to be alive.  Floating.  I ask for water.  Floating.    I ask for more water.  My head is starting to become clearer.  The doctor comes back and tells me that I’ve been there nearly two weeks.  I sleep.  My family are here.  They tell me I had an infection in my leg.  I sleep.  I drink.  The doctor is back and tells me he removed an infection.  That it was caused by me squeezing a spot.  I sleep.  I drink.  I start to stay awake for longer.  I start to drink more.  I start to become aware of the things around me.  I start to realise I can’t feel my legs.    

Insignificant vs Significant

This week we had the challenge to write two separate pieces.  The first was to detail an insignificant moment, the second the opposite and have it as a significant one.

The Spot

Elbows above his head and against the wall, they held Dave up as he let the ropes of steaming water rinse the last of the soap from his hair.  Enjoying the torrent as it ran down the back of his neck and shoulders and into the tray below he stood for a few minutes working up the courage to welcome the day ahead.

Finally he turned off the taps and ran his fingers through his hair to drain off any excess water before stepping out of the shower. 

He lifted his towel and began to dry himself off as he moved into the bedroom to begin getting ready for another long and tedious day.

Sat on the corner of the bed he lifted his leg to dry between his toes.  He worked the towel between each toe and made a mental note to buy some Athlete’s Foot powder. 

As he continued to towel off he noticed a swell of angry skin on the inside of his thigh.  A spot he realised.  A spot on his inner thigh.  A spot that looked ripe enough to squeeze. 

There was something very satisfying about squeezing a spot.  He couldn't quite tell you what it was but it was something he just couldn't leave alone.  It was maybe the slight mix of pain and pleasure, at the release once the flesh had burst and he expelled the yellowed infection from his body.  Whatever it was, it always felt good to pop a spot that was ready to yield to a bit of pressure. 

He used his thumb and forefinger to test the amount of pressure needed and his leg flinched in spite of himself.  This would hurt.  He could leave it a while longer.  No.  He knew it was there now.  He needed to squeeze it.  It would hurt.  But only for a few moments.  Then there'd be the release.  The satisfaction. This was a two handed job. 

With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand he used his left hand thumb to attack the beast from all sides. 

Sure enough there was pain.  A sharp pain.  He changed direction.  More pain.   Just slightly he moved direction again but with that change of force the flesh gave way and the yellow green pus seeped out and onto his leg. 

He used the corner of the towel to mop his thigh clean and massaged the area around the now open pore to ensure that the pustule was fully drained. The pus gave way to blood and Dave continued to mop the area dry until the pore closed in on itself and all that was left was a raised mound of flesh where the spot had been only moments before. 

With satisfaction Dave finished drying off and continued preparing for work. As he left his bedroom he threw the used towel in the laundry basket at the top of the stairs. 

Floating

Dave was floating again.  His head swam.  His eyes were closed but he could feel himself drifting.  Floating.  He opened his eyes.  It hurt to do so.  He was in a room.  Not his room.  His head hurt.  He closed his eyes.  He floated.  He opened his eyes.  People were talking at him.  He didn’t know the people.  He didn’t know if he responded.  He closed his eyes.  Floating.  He floated out the room.  He opened his eyes.  He hadn’t moved.  He was alone.  He closed his eyes.  Floating.  He opened his eyes.  His brother was talking at him.  Floating.  He opened his eyes.  People were busy about him.  Floating.  He opened his eyes.  His parents were there.  His mother was crying.  Floating.  He was alone.  Floating.  People were talking again.  Floating.  All of his family were next to the bed.  He was in a bed he realised.  Floating.  He was alone.  Floating.  He was in a room he didn’t know.  In a bed he didn’t know.  He had wires and tubes attached to him.  Floating.  More people he didn’t know.  Floating.  He was alone.  He was in a hospital bed he realised.  Floating.  Someone was talking to him.  Floating.  His parents were there.  Floating.  He was alone.  Floating.  Why was he in hospital?  Floating.  His mum was talking at him.  He answered.  She cried.  Floating.  He opened his eyes someone was talking to him.  Telling him to drink.  He did.  Floating.  The woman was back telling him to drink again.  He did.  Floating.  His parents were there.  His mum spoke to him again.  He couldn’t understand why he was in hospital.  Floating.  He was told to drink.  He asked what was happening.  Floating.  His brother was there.  He asked what was happening.  Floating.  He was alone.  He took in the room around him.  There were a lot of machines.  Beeping.  Buzzing.  Floating.  He drank.  He asked what was happening.  Floating.  His brother was back.  He asked what was happening and his brother told him he’d had an operation.  Floating.  He asked a woman why he’d had an operation.  He drank.  Floating.  His parents were back.  They told him he’d had an infection and had to have an operation.  Floating.  A man was there.  He was told that he was the doctor.  He was told he was lucky to be alive.  Floating.  He asked for water.  Floating.  He asked for more water.  His head was becoming a bit clearer.  The doctor came back and told him he’d been there almost two weeks.  He slept.  His family were there. They told him he’d had an operation because of an infection in his leg.  He slept.  He drank.  The doctor told him he’d removed the infection.  The doctor told him the infection began because he’d squeezed a spot.  He slept.  He drank.  He started to stay awake for longer.  He started to drink more.  He started to become aware of things around him.  He started to realise he couldn’t feel his legs. 

Micro-Fiction

Our most recent task was to write a piece of micro-fiction.  This was something I wasn’t familiar with.  Basically we were to write a complete story that had a start, middle and end in less than 150 words.  Now I read epics.  I very rarely read anything less than a 500 page novel so this was completely alien to me.  That said, having spent a bit of time researching the subject and reading some examples it’s certainly something I’m going to be spending some time on in the future. 

I came in with 113 words in the end and the tutor was very complimentary with my submission.  My original title was Lunchtime Pleasure/Shame.  He suggested I simplify it. 

Lunch

Sat on the corner of the bed he pulled on a rolled up sock and reached out to grab the other which had been discarded with haste.  He slipped into his shoes and stood to fix his trousers and tuck in his shirt.  As he looked into the mirror to fix his hair he noticed his lips were rouged and engorged where she’d playfully bit down on them.  As he knotted his tie he heard the water stop.  He quickly left the money on the sideboard and made his way to the exit.  As he closed the door he checked his watch.  ‘Still time to grab a sandwich to eat at my desk’.

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I also had a quick attempt at Nano-Fiction (under 50 words).  I’m not sure how original this is, but it made me smile:

As their eyes met across the street Ben stopped in his tracks.  This was the woman he’d spend the rest of this life with he thought.  That was when the bus hit. 

TV Challenge

The next task was to write a scene/episode from a TV programme.  I think he wanted us to write something outside of our comfort zones.  Using other people’s characters, creations, voices.  I’d originally gone with a French TV programme but realised that as I read the subtitles the dialogue wouldn’t come across as natural as I thought he’d want so  I chose the BBC’s Outnumbered.  The tutor liked what I submitted, but then admitted that whilst he was familiar with the concept of the programmes premise he wasn’t familiar with the characters so I’m not sure how I actually got on. 

Outnumbered

                “Bu, but, but if Noah brought only two of each animal onto the ark and they had babies, then those babies would have to have babies with each other.” Karen said into the phone, “but that would make them brother and sister. You can’t have babies with your brother.  I saw it on the news.  That man went to prison.”  She paused to hear a response on the other end of the phone.

                “I know they’re animals but they’re still not allowed to do it.  And if, if, there were only two dogs then how do we have lots of different dogs?

                “No it doesn’t say that he brought two types of each dog.  Just two dogs.

                “I don’t believe you.”

                “Who’s Karen talking to?” Sue asked as she walked into the kitchen.

                “Dunno” Pete responded as he turned the page of a workbook he was marking.

                “Who’s on the phone?” Sue called over to Karen as she sat next to Pete at the table.

                “Matthew”

                Sue and Pete gave each other quizzical looks “Who’s Matthew?”

                “Who are you again?” Karen asked, “he’s from an insurance company.  Wants to talk to you.” Sue shook her head and gave a waving gesture to indicate she didn’t want to talk to him. “No she doesn’t want to talk to you.  But what about the dove? If Noah sent out the dove did the other dove not get lonely? Did it already have babies before the other one flew off? No, don’t go, we’ve not talked about the fish yet.  What happened to all the fish once the floods went? There must have been loads? Oh, ok, bye then.”  Karen hung up the phone.  “He was nice, but he didn’t seem to know a lot.” She skipped out the kitchen and headed upstairs.

                “Ben’s very quiet” Sue observed as she looked over at him working on the computer. “Is he watching videos of animals trying to kill each other or looking up information on how to make a bomb?

                “Ben what are you up to?” she called over.

                “Homework.”   

                Pete lifted his gaze from his “Homework?” he questioned, “since when do you do homework?”

                “Since Miss Jenkins started subbing his maths class” Jake piped up from his corner of the room. Ben blushed slightly and pretended he hadn’t heard what was said.

                “Oh” responded Pete with a knowing grin.

                “Oh? What’s oh?” asked Sue.

                “Nothin’, most boys do Miss Jenkins’ homework” Pete responded casually.

                “Why’s that?”

                “She’s... a good teacher.  She... she gets results.” 

                “She’s fit” Jake called over smirking as he saw his dad squirm in his chair.

                “Oh god no, please tell me Ben’s not at that stage already? He’s only in year 8.” She said in a quieter tone so that only Pete could pick on what was said.

                “Looks like it” he responded with a mix of pride and fear in his voice.

                “You’re going to have to talk to him.”

                “No I’m not.  He’s not there yet... he’s, he’s just at a point where he’s appreciating the female form and to be honest I can’t blame him.”

                “What you mean?”        

                “Well... Miss Jenkins is kinda...”

                “Kinda what?” Sue asked with a hint of tension.

                “She’s just one of those teachers school boys can appreciate...”

                “She’s mega fit” Jake called across the room “and wears low cut tops.”

                “She wears low cut tops?” she quizzed Pete “is she allowed to wear low cut tops?” a hint of anger in her voice.

                “Well she adheres to the schools dress code so...”

                “Is it just the school boys who appreciate her?”

                “I’ve seen dad looking” Jake added seeing where this was going.

                Pete shot Jake a look and tried to appease Sue “everyone looks.  It’s natural to look... she’s very...”

                “Very what?!”

                “...easy to look at?” Pete tried.

                At this Sue got up and went to leave.  “No don’t be like that...! It’s not like you’ve not looked at other people...”

                “I’ve not looked at people that are meant to be educating our children!” Sue spat back.

                “You’ve looked at me... It’s not like I’m acting on anything.  I just appreciate...”

                “Appreciate her what exactly?”

                “Her way with the pupils?”

                “What’s that mean?”

                “Well... it has Ben doing his homework...”

                She didn’t know what to say to that but he had a point she supposed.

Dinner

The next assignment was all about writing a conversation in which lies were told, but not in an explicit way.  Not in a way that used the whole ‘he lied’, ‘she lied’.  My story became more about half truths than full blown lies.  I submitted:

Dinner

As she climbed into bed he could smell the scent of his musk on her.  The smell of dried, mingled sweat.  She hadn’t even bothered to shower before coming to bed.  Hadn’t bothered to hide the fact she’d been with another man.  It didn’t worry him.  In fact he was pleased for her but at the same time it niggled at him how lax they’d become about the whole situation.

                “How was your evening?” he asked as she leant over to peck him on the cheek.  A trace of cologne filling his nostrils as she did so.  It was a familiar scent.  Not one he himself would wear, but one he favoured on others from time to time. 

                “Oh not too bad.  The food was good.  Went to that new place in town, you know the one that used to be Ricardo’s? Smith’s it’s called now.  I think it’s named after the chef.  Some guy that worked in all those top places in London or somewhere.  It wasn’t bad.  But it’s no Michelin star.

“The cocktails were good though.  Will definitely be going back for the cocktails.  The wee waiter that made them was so cute.  He’s only about twenty but he was doing the whole Tom Cruise routine.  Really took me back.  We should go some night.  You’d enjoy.

“The girls were asking for you?”

“Really?” he asked, “who was out?”

“Julie and Lynda” Gemma told him.  “Lynda’s pregnant.  That’s why we went out.  She’s over the moon.”

“That’s brilliant news” he said with a smile, knowing that they wouldn’t have stayed out too late.  That she’d have had the rest of the evening to spend with this new man.  And it was a new man, unless he’d suddenly changed his aftershave brand.  “I thought you said they’d given up hope?”

“We all thought that.  After that last time she’d said she couldn’t put herself through another course of IVF but they tried again and she’s now fourteen weeks.  The twelve week scans were very positive so they’re slowly sharing their news.  She just couldn’t keep it from us any longer and when we started eyeing up the cocktail menu she just blurted it out. We hadn’t even a drink in hand to toast the news.  But we made up for it.  Hehe” She chuckled.  “They’ll make great parents.  Talking of which, how were the little terrors?”

 “They’re fine” he said with a sigh, “Olive’s definitely becoming a teenager.  She was online chatting most of the evening and when I asked about her homework she slammed the door in my face.”

“Yeah, she’s been acting up the past few days with me too.  I suppose we were like that at her age. I’ll have a word.”

“We weren’t! We didn’t have mobile phones and the internet.”

“You’re right.  We were worse.  We’d chat on the phone when allowed or if it was free.  Used to listen to the next door neighbours on the Party Line and then tell each other what the scandal was.  Remember when we found out about Mrs Beatie and the butcher and it got out? Remember the trouble you caused?”             

“True”, he mused.  They’d listen to whatever snatches of conversation they could and then run round the block to each other’s houses to whisper conspiratorially about what they’d overheard.  He supposed they had done their fair share of homework avoidance and gossiping.  

The neighbour having an affair was the biggest scandal to hit the street.  The town.  Everyone was talking about.  It was his fault.  Not that Mrs Beatie ever found out it was because he’d been listening in on her.  Now what would have been a major scandal back then was everyday life to them now.  No, he corrected himself.  No one was having an affair.  They were just living their lives. 

“Grace may be coming down with something.  She had a bit of a temperature so I gave her some Calpol but I’m wondering if she’s just making her symptoms sound worse to get out of school again.  Tomorrow’s Wednesday so it’s her PE day.  I’ve left her kit bag next her school bag, make sure she doesn’t leave without.  Don’t want another note back from school.  Oh and Libby may or may not have lice again.  I saw her scratching.  Can you do the needful?”

“Can’t you? I hate the smell of that stuff.  It stays with you all day no matter how many times you wash your hands.  I did it last time.”

“No, I did.”

“You did and she still had them and I had to follow up behind you.”

“See, exactly, that’s why I shouldn’t do it, you’ll just have to do it again anyway so there’s no point in the two of us having stinky hands” he grinned as he snuggled into her.  “Anyway I’m out early in the morning I have that breakfast meeting at eight.”

“Humph, ok” she conceded, “tho next time it’s definitely your turn.”

“Yeah, yeah” he smiled.  “I was thinking of heading out on Friday if you’ve nothing planned?”

“You planning on coming home?”

“Probably not” he admitted, “Brian has tickets to some opening of something, there’s a party afterwards.  Could be fun.”

“Yeah no problem, I was planning on taking the girls out shopping on Saturday anyway, so we could maybe make a whole day of it, go to the cinema and grab some food whilst out.  So no need to rush to come home.  I’ve made some dinner plans for Sunday evening myself if you don’t mind.

“How’s Brian anyway? He still with Trevor?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.  You know what they’re both like.”  They both chuckled at the thought.

“I’m shattered” Gemma said as she wriggled into her comfy spot on the bed.  “You reading for a bit longer?”

“No, gonna finish up, I’m tired myself and I’ve a long day tomorrow.”  He closed his book, marking the page he’d left on, leaned over to turn off the bedside lamp and moved into a more comfortable position beside his wife.  “Love you” he said as he gave her a final peck goodnight.

“Love you too” she whispered and he knew she meant it with all her heart.  It was left unsaid who Gemma was having dinner with, but that suited them both.

What's that coming over the hill?

So in the first lesson we were tasked with writing ‘about a song’.  That meant anything.  We could literally write about a song, write about the meaning of the song or just take inspiration from either the title, theme or lyrics.  I think the tutor just wanted to get a feel for how we write.  I took inspiration from the title and submitted the following:

What's that coming over the hill?

Oliver shook Sophie awake. They'd been asleep for hours and the world about them was asleep too, but without having to say a word Sophie knew why she'd been roused from her slumber. 

It had been the same the night before. It had been the same the night before that also. In fact the past week had seen the same nightly routine. 

It had been like that since they'd come to this place. 

She too heard what had originally woken Oliver.  His eyes widened with fear. A reflection of her own, they had the same eyes she knew. She too was scared of the noise.  He climbed up onto the bed with her and they hugged each other tight.   

The sound was from the unseen monster. They could hear it getting closer, a deep grumbling growl, like the angry dog Sophie had once tried to pet when walking through the park.  Only this dog was ten times as angry and by the sounds of it ten times as big.  Sophie knew all about monsters.  Her father would tell her stories about them coming in the night and stealing naughty little children away. 

During the day that was ok because during the day Sophie was a big girl.  She was four years old and knew that no monsters would come for her.  She was too big and brave for such things and could ward them off with her fairy wand.  She knew all the spells.  But delighted in telling her brother, who was half her age, all about how the monsters would come and get him.  He could barely talk but believed every word his big sister said.

But now, for the fourth night in a row Sophie too was scared of the unseen creature making sounds as it approached looking for children to steal away in the night.  She reached for her fairy wand, which she kept safely hidden under her pillow, but she couldn’t feel it.  It wasn’t there.  Maybe it had fallen out of bed.  She wanted to search the floor for it.  But Oliver clung to her for dear life.  She tried to reassure him.  To peel free so that she could feel across the floor but it was no use he wouldn’t budge.  All the while the monster was getting louder, closer.  She knew she needed to find her wand to wish the monster away.  It had worked the previous nights.  She knew it would work tonight, if only she could find it.     

“Oliver let go, I need to get my wand.”

“Ugh, ugh” he clung tighter.

She hugged him to reassure him and spoke gently into his ear “I need to find my fairy wand.  The spell won’t work without it. You’re safe here in my bed.  The monster won’t know to look for you here.  Let me look for it.”

She crept down on to the floor and started to feel around.  The floor was a mess of toys.  She found lego and toy soldiers.  A Barbie doll and even a hair clip she thought she’d lost but there was no sign of the wand.  She thought about turning on the light for a better look but knew that that would only attract the monster so she had to stumble across the floor in darkness.

Oliver started to whimper again.  She had to stop him.  Had to quieten him down before he started to cry.  Before he woke their parents.  He’d woke them the first night and her mum had told her father off for telling them about monsters and told him to wait until they were older.  But Sophie was old.  She was 4! She was a big girl and needed to know all about them. She promised she wouldn’t get scared.  She was scared.

She went back to comfort her brother and after a few minutes he calmed down.  It also sounded as though the monster was going away again.  Maybe he’d found a child to steal away.  She’d thought that before.  On previous nights but he seemed to come back.  To patrol.  Sometimes he’d get close and then disappear from hearing only to come back again.   She had to find her wand. 

Oliver had fallen back over to sleep so she left him to it and rummaged around the room once more.  She’d had it the previous nights.  It had done its job and kept them safe but she couldn’t find it now. Now that it mattered.  She could hear the beast approaching again.

She saw a light through a gap in the curtain.  She froze.  Had it found them? She knew it had a light.  She’d seen it before, like a torch beam that would turn and come back again as he searched for naughty children.  But this light was different this was dull, but starting to brighten.  After a while she realised it was morning.  The sun was coming up.  This was the light she saw.  This meant they’d be safe.  Everyone knew that monsters only came when it was dark.

She got up into her bed and snuggled next to Oliver and went back to sleep. 

When she awoke Oliver had already gone.  She found him out watching television whilst mum was making breakfast.  She also found her wand.  It was sitting on the kitchen table.  She’d forgotten to bring it into the bedroom after all.  It was lucky she hadn’t needed it!

After breakfast they were going to go to the beach.  When they were ready she took her dad’s hand whilst Oliver ran in front of mum.  They left the road and took a shortcut up the hill and across the field.  The farmer was there in his tractor ploughing the earth.  He’d been working the ground the whole time they’d been on holiday.  He was friendly and would sometimes stop to talk with their dad.  He’d drive up and turn the tractor off because it made such a roar when he was using it.  It was a familiar roar, but she just couldn’t place it.  Today he just tooted his horn and waved.

Creative Writing

Again I’ve neglected this site. I was frustrated with lots of things out of my control and didn’t want to sound all negative all the time.  But I’m back (for the time being anyway)!  I’ve been doing a short creative writing course.  It’s interesting and I’m getting things out of it, but I’m probably enjoying the course more for all the wrong reasons.  I’ll not go into it all, but needless to say I’m enjoying the trek to college each week even if I am getting soaked in the rain due to the lack of reliable transport.  Going to pop some of the work I’ve done onto here.  It’s not great.  Some of it I like, some I don’t but it’s a start. 

It's been a while

It’s been a number of months since I’ve updated this blog.  There have been a number of reasons for this.  The main reason is down to the fact that the whole car issue was up in the air and I didn’t want to moan and groan about the open-endedness of the whole saga!

The car sat for 6 months on a parking lot whilst faceless members of the healthcare profession decided whether or not I’d be allowed a simple adaptation to my wheelchair.  Thankfully it now seems as though everything is now back on track and I’m going down to the car company on Friday so hopefully everything goes well and there’s no more hiccups.

Oddly enough today is the anniversary of my discharge from hospital.  A year has gone by and whilst quite a lot has happened I’m not really that much further on than was on the day that I left.  Hopefully this time next year I’ll not be saying the same thing!!

Limbo

The cogs are in motion.  I’ve been emailing and phoning and doing everything possible to find out what the holdup is with regards to the modification needed on the chair to enable me to drive with it and today I finally got a phone call back.  It’s still not sorted and may not be sorted for a while, but I’ve been assured that wheels are in motion.

It seems that just before I made my request a claim of some sort was made and now the hospital trust want to ensure everything is above board when it comes to insurance purposes and in the meantime I, and other people in similar situations, have to wait.

I wonder what’ll happen if they decide against the modifications on the grounds of insurance? Will I be able to take them for diminishing my quality of life? It seems, for the moment anyway, that the actions of one have had major consequences for the many (well, few).

At the moment I can’t make any plans.  I can’t move forward with getting back to work as I’m reliant on access to the car.  It’s tough, mentally very tough, my life is in complete limbo and in the hands of faceless lawyers who, I am sure, do not and could not appreciate what a car means to someone in my situation.  

Pissed

Pissed.  Seriously pissed.  I’ve done everything I’ve been told since entering rehab! I told the staff what I needed and they told me how to go about it.  I told them that I needed to be able to drive.  They told me no problem.  They came up with the drive from wheelchair solution.  They even filled in the forms for motability for me.

I’ve previously mentioned the confusion over the branding of the chair.  I thought that things were now sorted.  All I needed to do now was put everything in writing and get the modification for the chair approved.  I was told that this was just a formality.

I sent off the email and got a phone call today telling me that the modifications cannot be approved.  That all such modifications are on hold as someone has taken up a legal case, I assume they had some form of accident.  

I don’t know where this now leaves me.  I explained on the phone that it was the Trust staff that directed me down this current route.  That it was them who filled in the paperwork and made recommendations on chairs and vehicles.  She's going to get back to me.  But in the meantime, my life again is up in the air!

To top things off I’ve had hiccups for the last 2 hours! Not happy! 

Nothing’s ever simple! AKA RIP Dead Man's Chair

Got my new chair yesterday! So happy! The old one had just been doing my head in in recent weeks.  I’d had the engineers out so many times with bits and pieces changed.  It not only was the ‘Dead Man’s Chair’, but it had become the ‘Chair of Frankenstein’.  It had been patched up and taken apart and brought back to life with bits and bobs added and removed.  It had just become a farce.  But I can breathe a sigh of relief now as my new chair is here and going smoothly.

Well, I say going smoothly... the chair itself is working but there are now problems with the car.

The ‘Chair of Frankenstein’ was a Pride Quantum Jazzy 1420.  That’s the make and model.  That’s the chair that I chose and made sure would work with the tie down system used for the car before agreeing to both the new chair and the car. 

I asked for the same chair when it came to my new chair.  I’ve got the same chair.  Except that on the order form that the hospital used it’s now known as a Pride Quantum 1420.  The word Jazzy has been removed.

The car converters contacted the Wheelchair Services team as they have to get permission to make modifications to my chair.  It’s standard procedure.  It’s nothing to worry about.  This is unless the tie down system is approved for the Pride Quantum Jazzy 1420.  Wheelchair Services cannot find a suitable tie down system for the Pride Quantum 1420 and therefore can’t approve the modification.

It’s the same bloody chair! I had the guy from Wheelchair Services out yesterday along with the suppliers of the Pride chair and the Pride supplier confirmed that I was correct that it was the same chair, that it’s simply an issue of some rebranding within the company and that it would be fine (and correct) to use the approved tie downs.  Wheelchair Services need to have this in writing before proceeding.

The best thing about it is, is that once they’d left I’d not only noticed that the user manual refers to my new chair as being a Pride Quantum Jazzy 1420, but the chair itself also has the bloody name emblazoned along the back of it!

World Book Night - Part 2

World Book Night turned into a book day for me.  The night part was something it turns out I wasn’t to be part of. 

It was an interesting day.  At first I thought the task of distributing 48 books would be daunting.  By the time I’d separated out what I'd already promised and what I needed to randomly hand to strangers, 48 books really wasn't that much at all.

When I’d gone to my local Waterstones to collect my books the nice and friendly member of staff I spoke with informed me that they were hosting a World Book Night event on the Saturday evening and that I should call in.  It sounded good, I selfishly thought it may be a chance to grab a few free copies of other books on the reading list.  I called round a few friends and made arrangements to change our plans so that we could attend. 

When separating the books I kept some in reserve for the book event and along with a friend took the rest to the local farmers/cultural market. 

I’m used to approaching random people these days.  I’m usually asking for some assistance, but when people see you with something in your hand they automatically become suspicious.  Some automatically told me that they weren’t interesting in anything religious.  My book was set in a Monastery, but didn’t think that counted, so told them it wasn’t.  Once past that most were receptive.  Some had heard about the event and seemed quite pleased.  Others bemused.  Some just not interested at all.  But it was quite a nice experience and over all too quickly.

When it came to the event in Waterstones things didn’t go as planned.  I’d arranged to meet some friends there.  When I arrived one of my friends told me that he thought the event was upstairs and he couldn’t see a lift anywhere.  We asked a member of staff.  He seemed bemused and ran off upstairs to find out.  When he returned he told us that the event was indeed on the first floor and that they didn’t have access to a lift during the weekends as their lift access was in an adjoining office building which was closed at the weekends.  He whimpered an apology and then he left us to it.

I was slightly in shock.  The girl I’d spoken to on Thursday was clearly aware of my chair, but hadn’t thought that it might be an issue.  We were still waiting on another friend to join us and as it was cold outside I told my friends we’d wait inside.  After about 10 minutes a lady came and introduced herself as the manager and apologised, again explained the situation about lift access and told us that she was embarrassed.  She was embarrassed? I couldn’t even begin to tell her how I felt.  What I did do, though was tell her that it was her staff who’d originally informed me of the event and invited me along.  They were aware when informing me that I was using a chair.

At this point, as way of an apology and my inconvenience, she offered me a £25 gift card, which I of course took, but it did still put a bit of a downer on the night.  My friends obviously didn’t get to the event in the end as they came with me to grab some food.  The food was good and the company was good but at the same time I was still aware that we should have been elsewhere.

All in all though it was a good experience and one I’d offer to partake in again.  

Space Mountain

These past few years have been a bit of an invisible rollercoaster.   There are dips and dives. There are long, slow periods when you’re making your way uphill with not much happening knowing that eventually you’re going to come crashing down at full speed and whilst you’re eager and excited to get to those adrenaline rushed moments, you’re never quite ready for when they happen.

My hospital stay was like that.  First there was the long climb up whilst stuck in bed then a few loop the loops for physio and the rest of rehab.  Then there was more climbing whilst waiting on accommodation.  When that was sorted there was a quick dip until we then realised that there was a problem with the equipment ordered.  More waiting.  When that was sorted it was a full on drop until, again, we started climbing when the care package wasn’t in place. 

My original plan/hope was that when I’d get out of hospital I’d have a few months to myself and then get back to work.  It’s what I’d fought so hard for when I was stuck in bed.  To be back to work.  To get back to my normal life.  When I got out of hospital I realised that work would need to be on hold until I had a reliable mode of transport.

The type of car I need doesn’t come cheap and it’s not money I would ever have, which means I had to apply for funding.  I began this application process in February 2010.  It’s a very long and slow process. 

I’ve been living day to day with the knowledge that I can’t get back to work because I don’t have a car.  I don’t know when the car will be ready so I don’t have to worry about getting back into the routine of work. 

Since getting out of hospital I’ve been slowly making my way uphill on the rollercoaster and within the past few weeks it’s been spinning out of control, rushing down the tracks at full speed and I’m doing my best not to empty the contents of my stomach along the way.

The car has finally arrived.  I’ve not yet received it, but was fitted for my hand controls the other day.  It’ll be ready in a few weeks.  I was ok with that, as I knew I’d still not be able to drive it until my new wheelchair was ready, more climbing.  But no.  That was just a small hump on the tracks.  My new chair should be here in 10 days! By the end of next month I should hopefully have my new chair and my car.

That means it’s time to think about work.  But now, anytime I think of that, it’s a whole new rollercoaster that, as exciting as it is to sit here and look at it.  I’m worried that I may not meet the minimum height requirement. 

By the end of next month I’ll have effectively been out of work for two years!  Everything about the job that I once did has changed.  The building, the computer systems, the name of the department, the people.  It’s going to be interesting. 

Losing a limb (not literally)

Physically speaking my paralysis has caused me the lose of quite a bit. For general passersby, there’s the obvious, my legs don’t work. I’ve lost the power of my legs.  But I’ve also lost other things.  I'm paralysed from the chest down.  So I’ve no control over my bowels and bladder but those things can be and are managed. 

Those that know me personally will be shocked, I'm sure, when I tell you that I’ll never have a six pack.  I don’t have control of those muscles anymore.  That said for those that don’t know me I didn’t have control of those muscles beforehand anyway so it’s no major loss.

But one thing I didn’t appreciate during my six months in physio was that for the most part I’ve also lost the use of my right arm.  Yes, I can lift it up and swing it about.  I can type with it I can do anything I want with it unless I want to do any of those things whilst moving.  My right hand controls the chair therefore I’ve no use of it when on the go.

I didn’t take this into account when in the hospital.  In the hospital there were automatic doors.  Food and drink were set down in front of you at the table.  In the hospital I never had to carry anything big, bulky or heavy. I never had to struggle opening a doors or doing shopping. 

Once I got home it became very apparent, very quickly how much I’d underestimated this issue.  Many simple everyday tasks become challenges worthy of entry to the Krypton Factor.  Cooking is probably the most fun and the most dangerous.  Lifting hot, heavy things from the cooker top or the oven becomes a chore.  It has to be done in stages and it takes time. Lots of time.

Everything takes time.  I’ve found since leaving hospital that even the most mundane jobs takes that extra bit longer.  There’s a skill and a knack to many things and whilst I’ve now experienced and mastered many of these challenges I’m sure there are still plenty to come across as time goes on.

One thing I have to say though is hands up to manual chair users! I don’t know how you do it.  I know I struggle with the use of only one hand when moving.  I know that your struggles are tenfold what I go through. 

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

“Do wheelchair users walk in their dreams?”

This was a question posed on a forum I've started reading.  It seems its a complicated question with no easy answer.

My own personal experience is that in my dreams I know that I use a chair.  That I should be in a chair.  That when I meet someone new in a dream I HAVE to explain myself to them.  To tell them I have an SCI and that I can’t do everything they expect.  But then further in the dream I can tell that they are looking, questioning me when I seem to be able to go up dream stairs or climb a dream fence.  It’s a dream.  I can do these things in dreams.  But at the same time I feel that to a point I’m being judged.  I’m aware of this in my dreams because I’m aware of this in real life.

People sometimes look at me and think there’s a fat person in a chair.  Too lazy to walk.  I know it sounds paranoid.  To a point there is a certain amount of paranoia involved.  But it’s true.  I know it’s true because the VERY FIRST TIME I ever left the hospital I bumped into someone I once worked with and that’s exactly what he thought.

The Occupational Therapists were asking if there was anything I really wanted to do or know when they had got to the point where they’d shown me everything they felt was important.  I’d asked about public transport and it was decided that it would be a good idea to try it out, see how comfortable I was using it etc.

The day came and we decided to try the train system.  There was a train platform ½ mile from the hospital so two of the OTs and I trundled down to the platform and onto the train.  It all went without a hitch and we got off at the city centre. 

On the platform however, I bumped into a guy I’d worked with many years previous.  He came over and said “so you’re using this thing now then”.  It was the way that he said it and the look in his eye that made me question.  That made me have to justify myself.  I stopped and told that that yes I was “using this thing now” and explained to him why.  He apologised, passed on condolences etc but I was still in some way shocked that he thought I was in it by choice.  He was the very first person I’d met on my first day away from hospital and he’d thought I was using the chair by choice.

At the time it did annoy me but I don’t really think about it now.  I’m only writing about it because I’ve been thinking about my dreams and wondering if this experience is the route of why, in my dreams, I feel it’s so important to justify my chair.

Homeless

Physio began on 20 January 2010 and I was medically ready for discharge on 12 April 2010.  The problem was I’d nowhere to go.

I’ve already mentioned that my previous apartment was unsuitable for my needs. I’d been made homeless.  But during my stay in the first hospital, on 24 July 2009 I received a phone call that would change that.  Or so I thought.

The housing association that owned my flat called me to tell me that a bungalow had become available just around the corner from where I’d been living.  That they knew they’d have to make some adaptations but that if I wanted it, it was mine.  I was over the moon!

Over the next couple of months the OT went out carried out a survey and made recommendations on what needed to be done.  A lot of the actual figures couldn’t be confirmed until I was up and in a chair but she’d based much of the recommendations on worst case scenarios.

I was told repeatedly that everything that could be done would be done by the manager of the housing association.  My family were told the same thing.  By December 2009 work hadn’t even begun on the property.  I chased it every now and then.  My family chased it and all we were ever told was that ‘these things take time’, that ‘it’s a long process’, that ‘although it looks as though nothing has happened, it has, paper work is going through’.  In December 2009 we had, however, verbal confirmation that the plans for the adaptations had been submitted to City Hall for consideration and approval.

Time passed, rehab had started and it was apparent that whatever happened the bungalow would not be ready for me leaving hospital.  Alternative arrangements would need to be found for the short term. 

This is where the Social Worker came in.  We’d have many conversations in the weeks and months to come.  Many heated conversations.  Many arguments and many laughs.

She was limited in what she could do.  She would liaise with the Housing Executive with the idea of suitable temporary accommodation.  But there wasn’t any.  Wheelchair accessible properties are few and far between at the best of times.  When there are some they’re not usually offered on short term lets.  She called round the local housing associations with the same results.  There was nothing out there.

Her other solution, which she pressed upon me numerous times over the months was a nursing/residential home.  I’d gone through this whole process to avoid such a place and now it was being suggested as the only place available.  I was going crazy.  I couldn’t go to one.  I wouldn’t go to one.  I’d worked too hard!

Going to a nursing/residential home meant I’d lose any benefits.  I'd be allowed £20 a week living allowance and would not be able to return to work as once I started earning I’d have to pay for the home and my wages wouldn’t go anywhere near paying the monthly rent there.  I’d be trapped in a room, not able to go out or socialise as I’d have no money to do anything.

IT WAS NOT AN OPTION!!!!!!!

It didn’t stop the social worker repeatedly telling me that it looked like the ONLY option.  We even visited a residential home at one point.  The place was nice enough and for the people it homed it was exactly what it needed to be.  But it wasn’t for me.  It wasn’t what I needed.  I needed my own place.  My own space.  My own home.

It was a very stressful time. Even with everything I’d come through knowing that come the 12 April I could be kicked out of the hospital with nowhere to go was daunting.  The nursing staff would tell me not to worry that although the social worker had to be seen to push me and free up the bed I’d be ok.  It didn’t stop me stressing though.  My discharge date came and went.  I was still in the hospital.  At one point one of the doctors, not my doctor, asked me if I planned on living in the hospital, that surely a residential home would be better than a hospital?  It wasn’t. 

The turning point came when the Housing Executive finally contacted the Social Worker to tell her that there was a possibility of two properties coming up.  One in North Queens Street, the other in the Short Strand.  Neither were areas I would have ever chosen to live in.  Neither were areas I’d ever thought about living in.  But it wasn’t a nursing home so I agreed to consider the property in the Short Strand.  It wasn’t so far from home and wasn’t on the news as often as it had been before so the area seemed to have quietened down somewhat.

The clincher here was that it was still being built.  It wouldn’t be ready until the end of May.  The doctors agreed that I could stay until then.  The end of May came and went and the building project was delayed a week here, two weeks there.  When I was finally given the green light that the property was ready it was mid June and I had to go and arrange flooring etc before any of the equipment could arrive.  There were then delays with the equipment.

I finally left hospital on 20 July 2010, three months after my discharge date and 15 months after initially being admitted. 

More than just weights

Physio wasn’t all about weights training.  When allowed there was also the plinth work.  The plinth taught me many things.  It taught me balance.  It taught me exercises.  It taught me trust.  Not just trust in others but trust also in myself.

This started off with me being hoisted onto the plinth.  In the first hospital this had been done a few times with four people to hand.  It hadn’t been at all successful.  Here I’d been sitting up in the chair for a while now and was ready to move to the next stage.  Here there were three people.  The second time we tried it there were two people to hand.  By the fourth or fifth time it was just me and my physiotherapist. 

Because my paralysis is from the chest I don’t have any stomach muscles to speak of so one of the first things I was taught was about balance.  How to sit up and not fall back/forward/to the side.  It took a bit of time.  It took lots of trust.  Once I was comfortable sitting and holding onto the bed we moved onto me sitting with my hands on my knees.  Then sitting with one hand high fiving.  Then two.  It sounds ridiculous.  It sounds simple.  But it’s not.  There were times I’d go to do it and fall right back.  Times I’d stumble.  Times I’d do it ten times in a row, think I’ve finally got the knack and then fall again.  But that’s just all part of the journey.

I was given exercises I could and should do with my legs.  I was given more weights.  I was given stretches.  I was given hope.

During these one on one sessions with the physio she got to know me.  She got to know that the map laid out for me wasn’t really what I would have liked or wanted.  She got to know my capabilities and at some point during these sessions we both realised I was capable of more than I’d ever been given credit for.

I don’t know who thought or said it first, but I know we got to a point where we both wanted to try more.

I didn’t like the idea of having to be hoisted in and out of bed several times of day.  I didn’t like the idea of having multitudes of carers to do it.  We thought we’d do what we could to cut down on that. 

We tried transferring from bed to chair and back again without the use of a board.  It was messy but doable.  We showed the results to the doctor.  She said no. 

We looked at ways in which I could hoist myself.  I practiced getting the sling in whilst in the chair.  Practiced getting the sling out whilst in my chair.  Practiced on the bed putting the sling in and out again.  It was only after I’d managed to master all of that, that we then realised that once the sling was attached to the hoist and I was in midair that I’d nowhere to go as there were no controls to move the hoist left or right once airborne.

We tried a few other things but the doctor shut them down thinking that long term they wouldn’t be healthy.  Looking back she had a point but at the time it was very frustrating.

Finally we got a new transfer board.  It’s worked wonders and made such a difference to my quality of life.  I don’t need a hoist.  I don’t have a hoist.  It was planned that I’d get one going home for emergencies but then it became an issue about money and I didn’t get one.  But I’m doing more than fine without it so no complaints here.