Results matching “spike” from Looking Up

alternative title: Another unwelcome visitor...

Yes, after five years of hassle free bladder management, I write this coming off the back of bladder infection number 2 in the last two months.

This one was much less severe than the last, so I just felt pretty rubbish, had a fever off and on,  increased neuro-pain for two days and yet another course of anti-biotics. I'm hoping this'll be the end of it all for a while.

While lying on the sofa, I found myself projecting forward and taking some comfort from the thought that,

'this too shall pass'.

This idea, much loved by Persian Sufi poets and others (most recently the band OKGO), can sometimes help me to see beyond those times when pain has moved from musak to  virtuoso performance. These are the times when everything else gets blocked out, when it's easy to feel like my entire life is dominated by pain. Times when I forget that I am not wincing through every waking moment.

But it does pass. It gets better. I am mostly happy. I do have a life, I do have a wonderful family, I am a father and we do have fantastic, loving, supportive friends.

So now it has passed, it's time to enjoy a little more of the simple pleasures. To start with, I'm going to have a glass of Rose, as I've just spent the day in a t-shirt! Hurrah for the false summer of late May that is inevitably followed by three months of drizzle.

And I'll leave you with another simple pleasure, achieved with two yogurt pots and a whole heap of talent:

After a long absence, and barely a passing blow on the last couple of visits, the weekend saw the dramatic return of my old mate Spike. This time he came equipped with knives, needles and cattleprods, and visited upon me a pain much worse than I have felt in several years. Oh yes, Saturday night was exciting. I even got to go to my local A and E by ambulance. What fun!

It all started at about 6pm, when the neuro-pain in my legs began to flare up more than usual. It had been above average all day, but this was something special. When the pain gets abnormally bad, I know that something's not right.

The body seems to find a way of letting one know. Some people with spinal cord injury will find that their spasms get worse when something's wrong, but as I don't get spasms, my neuropathic pain takes the role of messenger. With gusto.Then I began to shiver. Sure enough, I had a fever.

As I learned when I was in the hospital during my rehab, the fever is the first thing that must be tackled. So off came the clothes, down went the paracetamol, and I took to the sofa to wait for things to settle down enough for me to be able to work out what was wrong.

But things didn't settle down. Instead Spike arrived, all fanfare and razzle dazzle. He went to work with enthusiasm, and like a player returning after a long lay off, he seemed to have something to prove and made sure to let me know he was there. What started in my legs moved up to my lower back and kidneys, with the shivering getting worse. Soon the pain was so bad that I couldn't talk.

After Penny had a reassuring phone call with the good people on NHS Direct,  An ambulance was dispatched, and I was taken to my local hospital. By this time things had settled down, and I was able to give them a full case history, impressing staff with my knowledge of my own 'health issues'.

After the labs came back, they had a diagnosis. It was one that many SCI people will be familiar with- UTI or bladder infection. Yes, after five years infection free, I have a UTI. I am lucky. Some people spend most of their time battling with UTI's.

I have always been pleased with my track record, to the point that I am deeply superstitious about which type of catheter I use. Here's a bit more of a tour of my bladder from a previous posting.

This next bit carries a warning. Those of you who have sensation below the waist and may be squeamish, look away now...

A couple of weeks ago, I had a little difficulty emptying my bladder. When it is very full, there can sometimes be a bit more resistance when inserting a catheter, and this is what it felt like, but no matter how much I tired, I couldn't get the thing into my bladder. After a few minutes, I gave up and withdrew the catheter, only to find that the last centimeter of the tip had folded back on itself, and was pink with blood.

When things like this happen, it's strange, but the first reaction is to feel a bit light headed with panic and brace oneself for the inevitable pain to follow.  I know I can't feel it, but my subconscious is still engaged with my lower half in the same way that it was before my accident. This is important to me, it makes me feel, well, still connected.

Anyway, as with any damage to the urethra, it healed up very quickly, and the next time I took a leak three hours later the blood had gone. But obviously the damage had created the conditions for a UTI to take hold.

The next fortnight I had an upset stomach, lots of nausea, a lack of energy and a general feeling of things being not right. I put it down to a gastro bug, and would never have thought of a UTI, as my urine wasn't cloudy or discoloured or stinky. Yep, it's keeping an eye on these sort of things that makes spinal cord injury such fun.

So there's my cautionary tale. I have learned a lot this weekend.

I have learned that I am not immune to bladder infections.
I have learned that they are very unpleasant.
And I have learned that Spike is still a part of my life, but his visits are more likely to be timed to coincide with some other problem. He's only here to help, to let me know something's wrong. Still, he could try just a little itch or a tickle...

I have, from time to time, received complements about my coping and adjusting to life as a paraplegic. On some occasions, the complement has contained the statement,
"If it happened to me I wouldn't be able to deal with it the way you have."

And, I'm sure I would have had similar thoughts had it happened to someone I know. The thing is, you never know how you will cope until you have to. I spent far too long lamenting other setbacks in life that now pale into relative insignificance.

But what I am staring to appreciate more these days is not the 'heroism' of the individual, rather our phenomenal ability as a species to adjust to almost anything. Given enough time. Medicine now affords us more time to physically adjust, and our bodies adapt to sensory, circulatory, even fundamental skeletal changes. But we also have in us the ability to get used to profoundly different circumstances, to adapt psychologically.

Yes, I still spend a part of every day wishing I hadn't fallen from a tree and broken my back, and I'm sure that I always will. But when I look back to 2005, I find it staggering to remember how I felt then and how much time I now manage to spend feeling some kind of happiness and fulfillment.

No, it's not all the time, and certain things (oh, hi Spike) really do get me down. But on balance, I finish most days ahead on points.

I am truly grateful to all my family and friends for getting me this far, but I'd also like to thank all of my predecessors going back into that huge, Darwinian ball of possibilities that led us to this point. And to acknowledge the contribution of all of those people and animals that have gone before

...of the accidental variety.

Some can be helpful, such as coffee and a deadline.

Others? Well, let's just say the jury's out. It would seem less fortuitous to have a late night visit by me old mate Spike last night. Enough to make me reach for half a vitamin Z, but all that did was make me too dopey to reach for t'other half.

And so I enjoyed a night of squirming semi-consciousness punctuated with stabbing pains down both legs. As a result, I have spent most of today in a state of tiredness, and managed little more than pumping up the tyres on my wheelchair and roasting a chicken. Luckily I was awake enough not to roast the tyres and pump up the chicken. But it isn't this peculiar combination I am referring to..

No, it was the altogether rash decision (considering my dazedness) to watch a particular film tonight. I am referring to the rather fine 'Gonzo-The life and work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson'.

Rest assured, I am not about to start collecting guns or adding magic mushrooms and peyote buttons to my recipe for roast chicken. It is more a nagging sense of gloom at the state of things. The film's very fair comparisons between the presidencies of Nixon and Bush Jr. are very well observed, although in truth it wasn't fear and loathing on the campaign trail which did for the former, but rather straight forward investigative journalism by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman.

As for Bush, while Jon Stewart must surely take a smidgeon of credit for helping to depose the psychotic idiot, there is a nagging feeling that we are lacking a voice infused with enough piss and vitriol to resonate with the kind of rage that should be present. For while Dr. Thompson would still have been just one small, quirky, counter-cultural voice, at least he wouldn't be waiting, doe-eyed and innocent, for the next Whitehouse visionary to be hamstrung by the system.

And, once you clear away the alcohol and drug-fuelled fog, the man could write, too. For anyone who hasn't read it, I would heartily recommend The Rum Diary. It offers an insight into the writer before the legend was born.

So, this is my point. In case you haven't guessed it. I am now tap-tap-tapping away through my own, far less glamorous haze of a double drop of Tramadol and a small glass of whisky, waiting for sleep to claim me and reset the pain clock. And wondering if this is the beginning of another period of closer 'friendship' from Spike, with his love for surprise late night appearances.

Tomorrow is another day, and I'm sure all will be well in the world once more. Well, once I get over being woken up by an eager and well rested 4 year old bouncing on me and pelting me with soft toys, only to discover the hangover I have already prepared.

Last night I decided to reset the clock, having had three nights of poor sleep due to the intrusions of my mate Spike. This meant hittting the sleepers, which had the desired effect, but unfortunately leaves me blundering through the day today as if I am underwater.

This is not altogether 'a bad thing'. At least not for me. For those who received overlong and extremely garbled e-mails from me this morning, it is probably a bit annoying. And for this I apologise, but the trouble is, the inner workings of my mind today look a bit like this:



I set off with good intentions, it all goes a bit blurry in the middle, and if I manage to achieve anything, then I'm delighted...and that's just trying to make a cup of tea.

On the other hand, I have been reminded of the joys that await me with the forthcoming start of a new football season. While I know there is every likelyhood that by April I will be disillusioned and bitter, but the thoughts and aspirations of one man seem to make it all worthwhile. How many premiership managers could deliver this interview...

A funny night. After playing tennis for the first time in two weeks I spent a disturbed night, first with a headache but then woken up by my old mate Spike. It's been a while since last he visited, and I lay there knowing that it was time to reach for vitamin Z.

But then something unexpected happened. I fell asleep again. This is the first time that I have ever managed to do this without some chemical intervention. I put it down to complete exhaustion, but it's definitely something to draw a little optimism from. That said, my subsequent dream had me trying to drain my bladder with a snooker cue while sitting on a trapeze. Extremely disturbing.

 If I were to draw a graph of my battles with Spike, it would show a steady decline in frequency of visits, so something's talking him out of dropping by.

On the same subject, there is yet more research published this week that relates to my every day. This time it is on the subject of pain and pain management.

With this and previous medical  revelations, I just need to come up with a good recipe for coral and blue M&M soup. Mmmmmm, yummy.

Not a great morning. Sitting on the bed getting dressed when I get yet another jolt of pain in my legs, and I find myself talking to it. Much of my outburst is made up of expletives, but the bits in between are something like, "Come on, get on with it. " For the pain comes in a wave, beginning with a hot itch and building up to a burning stab before subsiding.

I wonder when I started talking to my pain? I think it has been going on for some time, and obviously the worst attacks come in the form of my nemesis Spike. The fact that Spike has a name suggests some kind of dialogue, but he's the off the scale, knock myself out, serious badass pain. How long has the everyday, annoying, distracting pain been part of the conversation.

Next question, is the demolition of my beloved Arsenal by the evil Manchester United last night contributing to this mornings pain levels? And could I sue?

Sadly, while my Corinthian romantic side says "no," it may be time for Arsenal to look again at the wages policy that prevents them from negotiating United/Chelsea-sized salaries for new players. It saddens me that those two teams in particular have cherry-picked just about every player that makes a name for themselves at a premiership club- Ferdinand, Carrick, Rooney, Teves, Berbatov, Van der Sar, Joe Cole, Lampard, etc.

I'm sure that money was a big factor in the choices made. And Arsenal are not perfect, with the signing of young talent nurtured by other clubs. I could go on with this stuff for pages, but I'll start to sound like one of those people who phone into the endless hours of talk-radio. And, if I'm honest, it's all rather boring.

Still, it does show that pain can take many forms... and I bet the players of Corinthian F.C. would have played through them all with gritted teeth and a sporting smile (not easy).



 

It is often said that the sense of smell can be the most effective for memory recall. This is attributed to the fact that all the other senses translate a signal which is then interpreted by the brain, whereas the olfactory cells react directly to molecules that they are in direct contact with, and as such the pathways are more direct-you are in touch with what you can smell, if you like.

Also, the reason that you no longer notice a smell after a while is that the cells actually get burned out, which is why olfactory cells are replenished frequently. This is why these cells are seen as a useful area of research in stem cell therapies, especially as the cells could be taken from the olfactory areas of the recipient themselves, thus avoiding any issues of cell rejection.

My point? Well, this morning I made the decision to jettison a bottle of aftershave from the back of the bathroom cabinet because, even after four years, the smell of it transports me back to the spinal unit, and my rehab. Not transported in an 'ah, I remember' kind of way, but more a lurching feeling in the pit of my stomach, something akin to a mild panic attack as I reconnect with a terrifying period in my life when I was stuck in bed and the idea of ever getting up again seemed inconceivable, and shaving every other day became really important in maintaining a hold on my body and my previous life (in which I rarely shaved every other day).

The use of aftershave helped to mask the, erm, day to day smell of the spinal ward, as well as being a luxury, an unnecessary and therefore very necessary frippery.

The two conclusions I reached this morning were:

a) I didn't really need to be reminded so viscerally of my time up at Stoke Mandeville,

and:

b) At any given time in my life, I am probably much closer to that time (and a sense of my mortality) than I find it comfortable to acknowledge.

As many of my fellow SCI-ers will tell you, in order to function on a day to day basis we build up a protective layer of self-belief that we are getting on with things and that our lives haven't changed that much, and that anything's possible, even in a wheelchair, and walking's overrated, etc.

But it only takes one really bad day, or a health setback, or a visit from Spike (or his equivalent) for the full reality to come storming back to centre stage demanding our full attention. And I ceratinly don't need to keep an invitation bottled and waiting in the bathroom cabinet...

I've suddenly realised that I have made no mention on here about my reading at the very wonderful Stoke Newington Bookshop.

This is not because of any emotional trauma involved, causing me to blot it out, but rather the distraction of my floundering sporting career.

That said, I did find the experience quite disturbing. It was the inevitable flash back to school days. In particular I recall having to do live translations in Latin. And, by the way, this was in a state comprehensive.What was Latin was doing there (and no, Rushby-Smith, although double barreled, does not make me a Fotherington-Thomas.)?


Yes, I faltered. Yes, I went beetroot red. Yes, I mumbled into the book, and yes it went on for ever. But the funny thing is, no-one else seemed to notice. I even got a few laughs. In the right places. Not, "I'm afraid you'll never walk again." room erupts with guffaws. etc.

But the best thing was to receive genuine encouragement from other writers, and to see familiar faces from the neighbourhood, as well as a few from my past, including old friends and even my school music teacher. It must be strange for those I have lost touch with to suddenly find me in a wheelchair. Not on the usual list of,
" I see the old Barnet's on the retreat."
"You're looking well fed, these days."
"Still a Goth? In this day and age?"
"That rash never cleared up, then?"

Short of 'gender realignment', I think the wheelchair would be the most talked about change at a school reunion. Luckily, I have never been within a country mile of a school reunion, especially not one for my school, which would probably have to take place in Parkhurst.

Right, more coffee to get me through the fug of last night's sleeper. Old Spike dropped by again, last night. There are some old friends I could live without...

Of course I spoke too soon, as coverage of the Paralympics starts to gear up. Perhaps a concerted attempt to keep the two events separate?

Still, it's good to see the features in many newspapers, mainly from a 'human interest' angle- triumph over adversity, etc. I'm happy about the coverage in general, as this will be my first Paralympics since I broke my back. But then, the fact that I am suddenly more interested speaks volumes about how much of a presence the event had on my radar pre-injury.

That being said, I think my interest has been further kindled by my rubbing shoulders with actual Paralympians. The nature of disability sport making it seem more relevant to my every day experience. It's great that sports which are played by relatively few people around the world get to be seen on such a stage.

On the home front, P has been a Paris pour le weekend. This meant I was home alone with the nipper, and R has been very understanding, even if she has watched a little more television than usual. Ah, the cathode-ray-nanny. Possibly the only way to keep a three year old in one place without ropes,cages and other devices unpopular with social services.

I even relinquished my spot at the Emirates stadium for Arsenal's demolition of Newcastle United. I felt it was important to spend the time with R, and to prove to myself that I was easily capable of looking after her by myself instead of resorting to grand-parntal support.

Suffice to say, I woke up at four a.m. this morning as Spike decided to see if he could be of assistance, and wouldn't take no for an answer. An interesting proposition when it's impossible for me to disappear into an alcohol and sleeper fueled oblivion. I managed to avoid tears for the most part, but it was tough to wince and squirm in front of R, with her hugging me and saying, "Don't worry Daddy," over and over.

Without doubt, pain is the worst aspect of my spinal cord injury. It is debilitating, intimidating, and makes keeping a positive frame of mind extremely difficult. Bah.

On the plus side, I have discovered that the pain won't kill me, and that it subsides to mere irritation (eventually), so if I can cope with seven or eight hours of it, then everything's peachy. Good to know.

No pleasure involved this time. This week I found myself thinking back to the last time my old nemesis Spike dropped in to see what condition my condition was in.

"Did I hear you call?" Sure enough, no sooner had I taken encouragement at the extended break... Last night a stubborn electical jolt/itch gradually ramped up over a two hour period, until the disguise was thrown off, and,
"Surprise! Didja miss me? Didja? Didja? You didn't? Awww yer just saying that." etc.

I know he hasn't spoken before. It's not that I'm suffering aural hallucinations, it's just a literary device, OK?

Anyways, a sleeper and a large brandy hardly seemed to make a dent on my consciousness, and after alternating between rolling around and shooting things (computer games) for a couple  of hours, I ended up taking another half sleeper and squirming in bed until well past one thirty.

Looking back, it's all a bit hazy (hardly surprising). But it also makes me ponder a little on how deliberate amnesia seems to be a part of my toolbox.

When I'm on the up, I often give the  "just got to get on with it" speech, the defiant voice, the half-full version. I sometimes find myself alone after, wondering if I've managed to fully convince myself yet.

Then I have a night like last night, and the full weight of my disability and all the pain and frustrations and feelings of helplessness crash over me. Thinking back on what was going through my head last night, it's all a bit sketchy. Maybe just as well.

The effect of such a visit is that Spike seems somehow to leave nothing in his wake, and I know  that I now have a few low-pain days ahead of me.

The downside is that I also have to rebuild the platform of positive approaches on which I perch in order to keep myself somewhere nearing happy.

So, perhaps what's going on for the rest of the time is a healthy slice of denial? Hey, whatever gets you through the day...

I did have a bit of a dummy spit, didn't I? You know, all that stuff about Amazon reviews. It wasn't me, it was the drugs talking. OK, so the medication in question was a sleeping tablet, rather than a 'get the hump because no-one's reviewed your book' tablet, but there's not alot in it, I assure you.

This week I was measured up for my new tennis wheelchair, which will undoubtedly make me a fantastic tennis player. Next week I hope to be measured up for a new 'get filthy rich' wheelchair, or maybe even a 'don't need a wheelchair anymore because I can walk again' wheelchair.

Tomorrow morning I'm off to the BBC for a series of interviews for BBC local radio, starting with BBC Radio Leeds at 10.30. Could be interesting, especially as (now then, now then, guys and gals) Leeds is of course the home to Stoke Mandeville's own Sir Jimmy Savile, so I'm sure he'll come up in conversation, or 'chat', as I'm sure it's known in local radio argot.

Next up is BBC Southern Counties Radio at 11.30. Could be interesting, especially as the Southern Counties are the home of, well, Surrey and, er... Sussex.

Then, at midday I'm doing BBC Radio Bristol.
Obviously, I'm doing all of these interviews from BBC studios in London, rather than actually traveling to the regions. See, I've got all the lingo. I also have a horrible feeling that the wonders of digital radio could mean that it's possible to listen to local radio, even when you're not local. Now I'm sweating.

But before tomorrow comes tonight, and another bout of pain (yawn!), but this time rather than Spike, it's just the usual assortment of twinges that seem to come in whenever there's damp weather. All that "feel it in me bones" stuff seems to be true, bizarrely. Something about low pressure? I dunno, really. All I do know is that if all else fails, I could have a career as a weather man. By which I mean I could be kept in the garden, and wheeled in to see what the weather's like. If I'm wincing and swearing, then there's low pressure coming in, if I'm wet, it's raining, etc. These are the kind of helpful ideas that the Government could employ to get people off incapacity benefit.

Right, I'm off for some dinner, and then hurl this sorry carcass into the sack, so that I am in some kind of shape to dazzle on the airwaves, where I can shine. Remember:
 "Many a scarecrow serves as a roost for the enlightened crow."
I'm not really sure either, but it sounds good, no?

Yep, my old friend Spike has dropped by for another visit. So as I sit wincing and waiting for the sleeper to kick in, I thought I'd use this most inappropriate moment to log in and rant about the complete lack of customer reviews of my book on Amazon. (this is a real struggle. I'm even typing slurred now. apologies.)

It's not been a great week so far. Oh, the newspaper coverage has been great, and I may have scored my first commission to write some stuff, which is fantastic. But yesterday my daughter kicked me in the head (I was lying on the couch at the time. She hasn't developed a leaping roundhouse kick before she's three) and then I fell out of my wheelchair in the kitchen for no discernible reason. It just happens sometimes, even after three years in a chair.

And now? Well, my personal equivalent of Winston's black dog of depression is a bull-terrier of neuro-pain trying to gnaw it's way though my left leg. For those who are new to my story, I am referring euphemistically to the neurogenic pain that I live with since suffering a spinal cord injury. I do not have an excessively unruly and very hungry pet under the desk. Although if I did, I wouldn't know until I spotted the blood. At which time I would summon my daughter to dispatch the violent canine with some fiendish manouevre.

Of course, the ever reliable late season collapse at the Arsenal hasn't exactly buoyed my mood either. Still, transitional season, no-one expected us to finish higher than 7th, young team, etc, etc. (It's not even making me feel any better either.)

See, I knew this was a bad idea. Someone out there write me a review on Amazon, and end this awful drug-addled drivel.

Finally, a picture of happier times, at the book launch last week. And, by the way, I haven't suddenly remembered a bit I'd left out. I am in fact signing the thing. In long hand, and totally illegible too. Special secret training is given to Doctors and authors.

Message ends.

My specialist subject, obviously. Firstly, I should like to apologise if this gets at all disjointed but I am drinking whisky while I wait for a sleeper to kick in. All this would be great were it not for the bastard who insists on jamming a red-hot spike into my left leg every thirty seconds. He is actually called spike, and he is my old nemesis. His visits have been sufficiently infrequent of late, that he managed to sneak up and get me good for daring to even entertain the notion that he might have gone away, or at least mellowed. Now he's proper pissed off, and I am chasing oblivion by whatever means I can find.