A green week

Someone had (kindly) offered to help me, but I wanted to get on with it to give myself something to do. It’s kind that someone wanted to help, but I’m not an invalid. It’s my garden. I have a mediocre immune system. I’m physically and medically allowed. I can. I will. So I did…

I just chopped, and chopped and chopped.

I started with an overgrown wilderness. What the photo doesn’t properly show is that things were so overgrown that I couldn’t access my shed without a battle, and that my washing line was more of a feature for the things to use as a climbing frame, rather than for me to dry my clothes.

All the chopping was quite therapeutic. I hacked away, filling my garden waste bags. I have now filled six (a man down the road guessed 13, my friend scoffed at 6 and guessed 2 – I’m more with the neighbours guess)… I’ve done 30 minutes here and there because I’ve had my nose in a few good books this week, so, all the while I’m in the garden, I’m missing out on valuable reading time… But, also, if I went at it like a bull in a china shop, I’m not so sure I’d enjoy the process.

I have had some tough stuff to hack through. I was chopping away, wondering who I could ask to come with a chain saw. The most obvious person I could think of was one of the recycled teenagers where I get given copious tea, or, a vague acquaintance who I know possesses a chain saw. Hopefully the vague acquaintance won’t forget, and will come with a chain saw to chop through the big branches.

For the smaller branches, I have treated myself to a saw-knife-chopper-thing. Well, my brother bought it for me because I used a gift card that he gave me to buy it.

This knife-saw-chopper seemed a little safer to use than a bow saw (which you apparently use for gardening) and I figured that it might come in handy for other things. I’m not too sure what those other things might be, but, it seemed more value for money than a bow saw that I hopefully wouldn’t need after this job has been done. It’s actually quite sharp and easy to use but it won’t cut through those big branches!

So, after a week, what do I have to show for my hard work? I have this:

 

 

5 tactics to living alone

These are some strategies that I have fine tuned over the last year. It might just demonstrate how lazy I am…

Cooking for one is a bit boring. In the ideal world, I would have a servant who comes and cooks my dinner for me. But I haven’t got one, so I have to compromise and pretend that my microwave is my servant. If I cook a meal (for example, a curry/casserole), I do it in the crockpot, ladle it up and freeze it (home made ready meal). If I make a pie, I cut it up, and freeze it. If I cook a chicken, I freeze it to reuse it. I freeze a lot of things because it’s cheaper to buy in bulk than it is to buy small amounts. It’s much more cost effective (and kinder to your health) than eating from the Chinese take away each night.

Cleaning is a chore. I keep my cleaning to a minimum. I don’t spend an entire day, once a week, cleaning. I spend 10-15 minutes, once a day, on one room. I have a rota. For example, Wednesday’s are the day I ‘blitz’ the kitchen – I wipe the microwave, brush the floor, put things away and make sure nothing stinks in the fridge. I’m not a dirty person, but I can be messy; if I knew that I had to clean the entire house in one day, I wouldn’t. Then I would have a rat problem or something.

Loneliness can be tear inducing. I get lonely, sometimes, living alone. That’s when I put on the trashy DVDs, I do a chore, I do something I enjoy, I pick up my phone, or I log into Skype. It’s important to have a ‘backup’ for those lonely pangs. If I didn’t have these backups, I would probably go home to Nanna and Grandad or take up alcoholism as a new career path. I also talk to Henry Hoover, if I feel exceptionally lonely.

Being a slob is so much easier to hide when you live alone. There’s no one to ‘out’ you. If you want to only clean your bathroom on a Tuesday, and don’t mind bathing in your own leg hair stubble, no one is going to know. If you don’t want to do your laundry, you won’t have anyone shaming you for being a slob, or complaining that you’re not doing their laundry. You just have to make sure that no one finds out. If your laundry or rubbish is spilling into the street, you could run the risk of being exposed. If you have visitors, it might be wise to close a few doors to deter access. If you have guests, you might want to buy some new mugs so you don’t serve them tea from saucepans. Or, try and make yourself look as though they’ve interrupted you mid-chore buy strategically putting the washing inside the machine and leaving a hoover in the middle of the room.

Lists sometimes save my bacon. Now I live alone, I don’t have Nanna and Grandad making lists and doing the lists for me. I have to write my own lists and complete my own lists. If I run out of loo roll, it’s only me to notice, and it’s only me to fix this problem. If I see a job that needs doing, no one else will notice and no one else will do the job. Therefore, if I don’t write my own list, I don’t remember what I have to do or buy. It’s a bit embarrassing when you only have kitchen roll to offer your friend when they ask to use your loo. If only I wrote loo roll on my list…

Green fingers

I, to a certain extent, have an interest in gardening. I like to grow vegetables that I can eat. At the moment, my garden is a bit of a wilderness. It’s only a small garden, but it’s big enough for me, my interests and what I want to do.

As horrified as people may be, I want to get rid of everything – and I mean, everything. The only plants that I want, are the ones that I have planted in pots. I don’t want to keep things that “look pretty” and I don’t want to keep things because they produce beautiful flowers. I want things in my garden that I have chosen and that I can grow in pots and bags. I want to be able to move things around in the garden, and I want to be able to access my washing line. Currently, my washing line is being assaulted by the overgrowing bushes and plants and is an anchor point for many cob webs. I can’t even get in and out of my shed without being harassed by the overgrowth!

I have plans – albeit, simple and boring!

• I’m going to clear it all, with the exception of what I’ve planted (along the right wall in the growing bags).
• I’ll get a longer washing line and “rewire” it to create more space to hang more stuff outside.
• I would like to put a deckchair in the corner (bottom left of the picture), with a little paddling pool that my next door neighbour has kindly offered me (so that I can sit there and use my BBQ).
• I would like to hang bunting and solar panel night lights around the garden.
• I would like to get a new shed door sorted out.
• I’ll clear my shed of all the cardboard rubbish that I have stored in there from when I moved in.

I have the rest of the summer to crack on with this job. I’m thinking “an hour a day…” – but there are other circumstances which might not permit this plan. Still, it’s something for me to work at and plan.

I am open to suggestions as to how my garden might be improved – so long as it’s not “you should keep [x]”. I don’t want to keep anything that I haven’t put there. I’m also open to tips on how to make sure things don’t grow back – I’ve heard that salt is good to kill off plants and weeds, and that beer attracts the slugs…

Best tip ever: pick up the phone!

I’m not a great lover of picking up the phone to deal with serious issues, but I’ve had to do a lot of phoning people in recent weeks. I’ve had to make phone calls to chase things up. I’ve had to make phone calls to provide information. I’ve had to make phone calls to obtain information.

When making these phone calls – especially to the big companies – I phone between 2:30-3:30pm (when the school run’s being done) or between 5-7pm (when tea’s being cooked). That’s greatly eased my hatred towards making these phone calls. But, some of these phone calls have been quite beneficial to me!

First of all, I’ve managed to get my gas and electricity cheaper by giving them up-to-date meter readings. My monthly payments have been cut by £30/month – which, during these times, is desperately needed!

Second of all, I’ve had to chase a government department about giving me some money. I haven’t been all that impressed that I just get told “soon” and “you’ll hear something in the post”. But, now, I have someone else chasing them on my behalf. I should get some money next week.

Thirdly, I have had to phone the hospital to find out when all my appointments will be over the next five weeks. After being told “we’ll tell you on Monday” (on my first trip), I decided that wasn’t good enough. I’ve got other things to plan. I’ve got people to work around. I have a social life to plan. So I phoned back and spoke to someone that actually cared that I have a life. They posted me a sheet of paper with my provisional dates on.

Fourth, and finally, I made a phone call to my bank who told me that I’ve been collecting rewards and that I have over £40 of these rewards. I’ve decided to save them until Christmas. Not to buy Christmas presents, but to buy myself something pretty. I think by Christmas I would have earnt it!

 

Dos and Don’ts of Dating

I’ve been single for a very long time now, but I have a vague idea of what does and doesn’t work in the dating world. My dating experiences were over ten years ago, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that some methods simply aren’t going to win a woman (or a man!). Just because I’m not dating, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t been meeting people and making friends. I have a vague idea of how it works.

Bitching to my face about my friends, including ones they’ve never met, as subtle as they think they’re being, is not the way to melt my heart. It makes me think “wow, he’s so sweet, looking out for me” … “STFU you twat.” All I see is a jealous, immature wombat with no sense of what they’re talking about… I get drunk? My friends aren’t forcing alcohol down my neck. I fall down on a walk? My friend didn’t push me over. My friend didn’t come to my aid with the antiseptic and the plasters? She’s my friend, not my nurse maid and guardian. If they can’t say anything nice about my friends, they shouldn’t talk to me at all. Shh now.

Judging the way I live is not a desirable trait that I want in a man. All I’m doing is looking at the clock, wondering when you’re going to get out of my house. I’m also making little hints like “I really must cook my dinner” and “I’ve got to wash my hair” and “I’m so bored of your company right now, I want to put pins in my eyes”. So what if I have a day’s washing up in my sink? So what if I have laundry on the airer in my kitchen? So what if I have a mountain of cow dung in my living room? It’s my house. It’s not as though I’m serving them dinner on a plate that has just been used to culture gas gangrene causing bacteria. How I live is my business, no one else’s. Hence, I live alone.

Instructing me on how to drive is more likely to leave them stranded on the side of the road (while I laugh my head off), rather than me looking at them though dewy eyes. I have been driving for a number of years now. Unless you’re my father, or you’re life is in danger, if you’re in my car you shut up. I only let my father keep his instructor hat on so I don’t get put out for adoption; I’m 30 now, what if no one wants me?! I don’t need to be told “you can go now” – I am familiar with how quick the cars are approaching the roundabout. I don’t need to hear “just remember there’s a tree right in front of you” when I’m parked in the supermarket car park. And, I really don’t need to hear “it’s a national speed limit, you can do 60” when I’m doing less than 30 mph along a single lane, twisty, windy road where I can’t see what’s coming at me and I have a tractor in front of me. I don’t need a narrative from said passenger on what other drivers do that annoy them (as a passenger) while I’m driving (when I’m not doing these things) while they conclude with “that’s why I always do the driving”. There are a lot of places that I travel to that aren’t even on a bus route.

Complaining about my ‘hospitality’ isn’t going to fill me with desires of  being their wife. If I provide someone with clean bedding on the spare bed, and if I have teabags, cereal, bread and milk in the house (Claire – I always have eggs 😉 ), then I think my guests are living the live of luxury. If they want a cooked breakfast, they can provide the ingredients and cook it themselves. If they want coffee, they can walk down to the local shop and buy a jar (if I have forgotten to buy something I don’t drink). If I don’t have almond milk in the house, then don’t scoff at my ground almond alternative. And, if my pillow cases don’t match the duvet set – who cares? They’re sleeping in the bed, not parading it at an exhibit. It baffles me, because I receive no payment for letting them stay the night yet they expect to be waited on hand, foot and finger as though they’re in a 5* hotel…

I don’t get turned on by people who look down their noses at me. I have plans. Perhaps my plans aren’t as grandiose as their plans, but I have plans. Perhaps my garden is only very little, but it’s good enough for me. Maybe I don’t have a drive-in, drive-out driveway, but I feel that my car is somewhat secure in the parking areas around my house. The park doesn’t represent a low-income area, the park represents a place for children to play. Vans don’t represent an area of rogues, vans represent an area of grafters. My peeling border that runs along my walls don’t represent that I have no pride in my home, it represents that I moved in less than a year ago and still haven’t decided on a decor scheme. My yale lock on the back gate doesn’t indicate a high-crime neighbourhood, but that I can’t be bothered to fix my shed door and I have to keep my bike safe to keep my insurance valid. My dreams of having stairs into my loft doesn’t represent that I can’t afford a bigger house, it just simply means that I dislike ladders and have an entire level of my house I can’t really use until that is remedied.

Sexism doesn’t really get me hot under the collar, either. My blown light bulbs aren’t because I’m a woman and I can’t change them – they’re because I haven’t been to B&Q to buy new ones (and yes, I know which ones to buy). I don’t need a man to offer to check my levels on my car “while I’m visiting” – I know where everything is, and what I have to do; I don’t think my refusal warrants a follow-up question of “when did you last check your levels?”. Only my father and my grandfather are permitted to ask those questions. I don’t need to be assigned the cooking and cleaning roles while receiving “help” on “manly” tasks – I can use a hammer (and smash it into their skull) and I know how a screwdriver works. I can even use a drill. If I ask for help, I ask for help. My requests for help aren’t “please come and do it for me”. If that’s what I wanted, I would have stated it in the first place!

Victimising isn’t on the wish list, either. Yes, I’m going through a difficult time, but that isn’t an open invitation for them to decide what is best for me and what isn’t. It isn’t an open invitation for them to decide that I need looking after. I’m an adult – I have been for 12 years – I can make these decisions for myself. I don’t need wrapping up in cotton wool. I’m not broken.

Belittling my interests doesn’t give me butterflies in my stomach. Yes, I use Facebook. Yes, I use Twitter. Yes, I have a blog. Yes, I take a lot of photos. Yes, I own a television. Just because they adopt a social media free life without pictures and nothing to watch in the back ground doesn’t mean that they’re better (or worse) than I am. If I am “plain” or “boring” for using social media and “dull” for watching my television and “common” for taking pictures, than so be it. While they’re judging me on my interests, I’m also judging myself on why I’m friends with them in the first place.

Entry 42

As promised in Monday’s post, I am re-blogging to entries from Journal of the Nightmare Patient which I previously shared under my ‘nom de plume’. This is the second entry from my e-Book:

One infection clears up. The prospects of being discharged are promising. Then, another infection makes itself known.

The cycle keeps repeat itself, over and over again.

There’s no respite. None at all.

As soon as the doctors think that they are on top of things, something else comes along. We are constantly taking one step forward and several steps back.

I’m fighting a losing battle.

I’ve lost count of the number of central venous catheter’s or PICC lines I’ve had put in and removed as a precaution of being an infection source. Every time the doctors take one line out, some form of line goes back in a few days later before it has to come out because of an infection risk.

I feel alone. I don’t know whether I’ll live or die. I struggle to find anyone who understands what’s was going through my head. People are getting bored of me declining invitations to socialise. They’ve stopped inviting me out altogether now because my response are always the same: “no, I’m in hospital”. Most communication has stopped and they leave me alone as they carry on with their lives. But then there are friends, like Gazza, who I’ve neglected. Texting consumes effort and there isn’t much to text about. Phone calls are near impossible when my I feel so unwell and my signal is rubbish. Maintaining friendships has became difficult because I feel too tired to make the effort. But, I’m also looking after number one. I know I push  away the people who care about me because I’ve convinced myself that one day they’ll also get bored and forget about me. I don’t know how to get out of this horrible cycle.

I feel isolated. The cards of well wishes pile on the door mat from people who don’t usually give me the time of day. These well wishes are meaningless. Whenever I’m alone in this isolation room, I’m surrounded by these cards, but where are the visitors to keep me company? Despite offers of “if there’s anything I can do, let me know”, which seem to be steadily flowing in, very few have delivered on the “you could come and visit me” suggestion. The worst excuse for not visiting is “I don’t like hospitals”, which disheartens me. I don’t chose to be here. This isn’t a holiday for me.

I’m also worrying about my money… It’s an expensive luxury to be a patient. The sick pay has run out and I’m living on an incredibly tight budget.

Being a patient doesn’t stop the financial obligations. Being a patient doesn’t mean that everything suddenly becomes free.

When I’m in hospital, direct debits still have to be paid. While in hospital I have to pay to watch TV and access the Internet. I have to pay to read a newspaper. I still have to buy birthday cards and the toiletries that I need.

When out of hospital I have to pay my way. I can’t walk out of a supermarket with a basketful of shopping without paying. I can’t do activities which cost money for free because I’m sick and not working. It would be more economical if I had gone to prison – at least prisoners (apparently) earn money while serving their sentences so that they have some cash once they’ve served their time!

There’s also a battle for me to claim benefits while I’m sick because I can’t attend their appointments to prove that I’m sick. I don’t understand why it’s so difficult when there are so many people claiming a load of benefits, leading comfortable lives and even get a house chucked in for free if they need one! Benefits are supposedly available for those in need but I see that they’re more easily available for those who plan to never work and opt for the easiest way of life. I have to prove that I’m unable to work, and even then the benefit assessors haven’t accepted the many hospital letters that I’ve supplied them with. The work shy and lazy bums appear to be more equipped with the knowledge of how to claim every benefit that they’re ‘entitled’ to; I must have missed that lesson at school. Living on benefits shouldn’t be a way of life. Benefits should be capped. They should only be available for times of real hardship.

Entry 23

As I promised in Monday’s post, I am re-blogging the two entries from Journal of the Nightmare Patient which I had previously shared under my ‘nom de plume’:

After my last entry, I gathered my possessions together. I made sure that I was ready to leave as soon as Nanna and Grandad arrived. I was determined that I would not stay in this hospital any longer. I don’t want to stay in a hospital where the staff have no respect for me as a person, and where I can’t be ill in peace. I don’t want to be somewhere if no one listens to my voice.

While Nanna spoke with the ward manager, and tried to reason with me, Grandad stayed by my side. I’ve cried hard today. I was quite distressed this morning. I couldn’t bear to be here for moment longer. Grandad took my bags, and took me to the car.

The ward manager tried to justify my experience during the night with the fact that I’ve been transferred to this ward on a weekend, and late in the evening. I’m sorry, but it isn’t an excuse for a shitty night.

Grandad drove me back to The Town Hospital. We went to A&E and I was taken to a side room to protect me from the other patients. The nurses learnt about my recent medical history and ensured that my IV antibiotics were administered in a timely fashion, and called for Professor Bertie, who was on call today, to come and see me.

Professor Bertie wasn’t happy that I had discharged myself from The City Hospital. Both he and Nanna pleaded with me to return. It was horrible.

Professor Bertie told me that without treatment I could be dead within six months. He was blunt. He was cold in delivering the icy truth. I suppose that he had to be.

I really didn’t care.

I really don’t care.

I didn’t want to return back to this ward. Instead, I spoke about biodegradable coffins, and cheap funeral arrangements. Nanna became upset. Grandad was searching for alternative solution; he asked about private care, but Professor Bertie says that isn’t an option.

I focused on my baby half-brother who was lying in Nanna’s arms. He is only a month old. If I were to refuse to come back to The City Hospital, by the time I die, he’ll be about six months old. He’ll have no memory of me. What about all of my other siblings? What about Nanna and Grandad? What about Dad? What about all the people that I’ll be leaving behind with only a memory that I once existed?

Facts and figures swirled in my head. Out of all the people in our country, only up to 150 of them are diagnosed with aplastic anaemia per year. I’m unlucky to be one of them. I’m in the minority group, yet, I’m never lucky enough to be in the minority group of lottery winners! No matter how the odds are stacked, I am the loser. With the treatment that I’ve been sent away to receive, there is a 70% chance that it might work – but the way that my luck is going, I am likely to be in the 30% group of it not working.

The thought that I’ll be leaving behind a memory of having once existed, returned to me. Do I want that memory to be one that I’ve fought against, or one that I’ve cowardly given into because I don’t want to stay in a place where I’m treated in a way that I don’t like? Do I want that memory to be one that the people who love me can reflect upon with pride in how I’ve fought, or anger in how I’ve given up at the first hurdle? Do I want the baby to know me or have to hear about me every now and again when I’m occasionally remembered?

They made it sound like a special favour when they told me that the bed at The City Hospital was being held for me. I had to make a decision, and I had to make it quickly. I feel emotionally blackmailed by the emotions in the room earlier. I feel cornered because The City Hospital is the only place where I can receive the treatment that I need. It feels that the only person watching my back is Grandad. Maybe he and Nanna are playing “good cop, bad cop”?

Reluctantly, I’ve come back to The City Hospital. I cried for the entire journey which disappeared so quickly. Unless I want to succumb to this disease without a fight, I have no other choice. I know that I’m not in control; this isn’t a decision that I’ve chosen to make but one which I feel I’ve been forced to make.

I’ve gone to bed without any dinner. The food doesn’t appeal to me, and I’m exhausted. I haven’t eaten anything today, but given that I hardly eat most days, it doesn’t bother me that much. The choice of food that I saw on my way to my isolation room didn’t appeal to me; it either looked very dry, or looked very watery! Thankfully Nanna and Grandad are “allowed” to bring me ready meals which can be cooked in a microwave while I’m a patient here.

Do I really need permission to eat food that I like while I’m in hospital?! Do I really need permission to have anything brought in from home??? This isn’t a bloody prison!!!!!