Results tagged “pain” from Looking Up

Yes, people.
It's that time of year when I drag myself screaming (but not kicking) to the National Wheelchair Tennis Championships in Gloucester, just so my serve can fall apart, I can buckle under the pressure of playing in public, and come home full of frustration and remorse at losing to people I know I should have beaten. And all for fun.

That's the trouble with tennis. At some point in the first few goes, you hit the ball well. By accident, it may be, but it doesn't stop the brain from setting that as the benchmark by whihc all future shots must be judged.

At least when I played football, it was a fluid situation, where I could run around lots and show willing, even if I was having a bad game. And I could always hurl myself enthusiastically into a tackle to win the respect of my team-mates.

But in tennis, you're all alone. In fact, it's worse than that. You have yourself for company, and that's often the most difficult person to win over.

At least it's a different kind of pain, for a change. And it's all for fun. Wish me luck.

Analogy time:

In my mind I can see a huge, bad tempered bear.
 (my pain)
I shoot the bear with a tranquiliser dart.
 (I go to bed)
This makes the bear angry.   
 (Getting out of my wheelchair and lying down makes my pain worse)
The bear flails around, tearing at the dart with an angry paw.
 (I flail around, massaging my lower back with an angry paw)
Eventually the bear passes out.
 (Eventually, I fall asleep)
The bear wakes up with a sore head, and eats a jar of honey.
 (I wake up with a sore back and eat toast and marmalade)

So here is where my pain and I diverge. Clearly, I'm more Paddington than Pooh.

A day spent at R's school on the weekend, attempting to improve the very limited outdoor space they have available...

I found myself, pruning saw in hand, clearing self-seeded Ash saplings from around the perimeter. This is the first time that I've undertaken any major pruning/tree related activities since my accident, and I must admit that it felt good. Yes, I have pruned a tree since, but this was clearing undergrowth, and altogether more physical.

One could see an irony in the species of tree I was cutting, as it was an Ash tree (Fraxinus Excelsior, to be precise) that I fell from back in 2005. But I didn't feel any sense of revenge, just as my love for trees has not been diminished by the role that a tree played in my dramatic change in circumstances. I did feel a sense of relief that I am excused the job of grubbing out the roots, especially as ash can be particularly obstinate when it comes to removal.

So there we are. A week before my 5th accident anniversary, and I was back among the trees, albeit in a very modest way. But like many things that would be easier for a non-wheelchair user, I felt an enormous sense of achievement. And for once, I didn't sense a feeling of awkwardness from able-bodied people around me. People just ignored me and let me get on with it.

Tomorrow is the actual day of my accident in '05. Yes, April fool's day, of course. And what have I learned?

I've learned that, as a species, we have an astonishing capacity for adapting to change.

I've learned that it's possible to overcome almost anything with the support of a loving family and friends.

I've learned how to write. Haven't I? One door closes, another opens, etc.

I've learned that most of my favourite foodstuffs are on the top shelf in the supermarket.

I've learned that chronic pain is, well, a chronic pain.

I've learned the true value of the NHS. The foundation of which remains the pinnacle of Government achievement in the UK.

And, I've learned that play isn't about physical aptitude, it's about imagination. And there's nothing as warming or fulfilling as making your child laugh.
 

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've spent the last week surrounded by technological innovation, blue-sky thinking and a new attitude to mobility. All will become clear in the near future, I can assure you.

What I have found is that there are days when just meeting someone for lunch and a couple of hours of chat can leave me so exhausted that I have to lie down. This isn't everyday, but nor is it predictable.

And yet on other days I can work all day and then play tennis until 10pm in the evening.

I suppose I can't really ignore the fact that I am weaning myself off amatryptyline at the moment. It is a slow process, with a drop of 5mg per week, but while I have been taking it for neuropain, it is an anti-depressant. This leaves me with a nagging twinge of anxiety that it has been slightly insulating me from the 'life's a pile of poo' vibe that can come with grey weather, neuropathic pain and impaired mobility...

OK, so now to the pants: It was something Rob Brydon said on a TV panel show, where he described getting undressed, finishing with a flick of the foot and catching his pants on his head. You'd want to hear a "Ta-Daa!"

Anyway, I found myself with a pang of grief, because I could almost feel the whole movement. As is often the case, it's not so much the stairs or problems with public transport that cause a feeling of sadness. Rather, it's those moments of frivolous spontaneous movement that are so fondly remembered. And so keenly missed.

As the other half of the globe slides into 2010, we have returned to the grey skies and near sub-zeros of Blighty. We touched down in Heathrow at about 5am this morning. No one in their right mind flies into Heathrow at 5am on the 31st, so we had the place pretty much to ourselves.

It was to ourselves, too. By way of a contrast to Sydney, Melbourne, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong, Barcelona, Rotterdam,Isle of Man, even Gatwick, London City and anywhere else that I may have forgotten, we were given the opportunity to make our own way unassisted from the plane all the way through several miles of empty corridor with a wheelchair user, a sleeping four year old and four items of luggage. I was reminded if yet another reason why Heathrow is my least favourite airport.

Once I had demonstrated that I could transfer into my own chair and negotiate the step down from the plane onto the tunnel, all the ground staff mysteriously melted away. It frustrates me to feel that I need to consider making myself appear less 'able' in order to secure what comes easily from ground staff everywhere else in the world. I know Heathrow is supposedly the busiest airport in the world... not at 5 am on the 31st of December it bloody isn't.

Yes, it's the rich contrast of summer sunshine and winter gloom that makes returning to these shores such a delight. At least my absence worked wonders on the form of my beloved Arsenal. I now have a month's worth of Match of the Day to watch.

Another on the plus side, jetlag could result in me being the most wide awake I've been on New Year's eve in many a year. With this in mind, may I take this opportunity, through the haze of too  much coffee and pain relief (13 hours in an airline seat is not exactly a joy), to wish everyone who's not there yet all the very best of everything for 2010.

And those of you who are already there, sitting around with your beer and flip-flops, the echoes of a firework spectacular still ringing in your ears? Stop smirking.

First, plenty of the best of the season to one and all. Here's to lots of excessive eating and drinking, the bare minimum of family spats and a complete ban on "I wish it could be Christmas every day."

It still feels wrong (no, not the Wizzard track. Well, that too, obviously) to be celebrating Christmas when it's 28c outside. But I'm doing my best. Once the stockings are full and the kids are in the full throws of a feeding frenzy under the tree, I'm sure I'll feel the gnarly hand of Christmas Present upon my jaded, cynical shoulders. Can one have cynical shoulders?

Idle ponderings. I apologise in advance, but a drop in barometric pressure has caused a flare-up on the pain front which is doing battle with a little too much Tramadol for incisive observation.

 Idle ponderings I have on a daily basis, but the one that sits foremost in my mind came while we were driving up to the Illawarra Fly. Looking at the power lines that stretched up the mountain, I got to wondering why we don't incorporate cable cars into the power lines. Now, obviously, there would have to be a trampoline embarkation/dismount system to eliminate the risk of earthing the lines and frying everyone on the national grid, but I see this as just details...

On that hearty note, I wish you all a fabulous Christmas and a very happy 2010.

...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.

Ouch.

Lots of media stuff about various advancements in the search for a fix for spinal cord injury.

First we had the Blue Rat, a breakthrough in the initial treatment of spinal cord injury with some interesting side-effects. It could make a visit to a spinal unit even more surreal.

Then we have a new development in the 're-wiring' of damaged spinal cords. This one highlights the complexity of repairing such fundamental nerve damage. Just getting the nerves to re-grow has been a huge challenge, let alone directing them to make the right connections.

And why laid low? Well, because while all of these developments are being discussed, I am wrestling with what could best be described as a bad week, pain-wise. This is partly because I didn't stand in my callipers while we were away and stretching out my hip flexors again causes a referred pain. Then there is the low-pressure weather system and its impact on my neuro-pain.

And, of course, there is the random, kick-a-man-while-he's-down pain.

All of which throws the cut or not to cut discussion back out there. Now I'm not saying that there is a cure for my condition coming down the line any time soon, especially as my cord and the channel that it's supposed to glide in are so messed up.

But the thing is, cutting the cord is just so, well, final. And with no guarantee of any improvement, the decision is clear. For now. But one can't help but wonder.

Otherwise, the week was pretty good, all in all. We survived R's Pirate birthday party on Sunday without tantrums and all the kids seemed to enjoy themselves. But I can't help but wonder whether the start of school in September will spell the end of Pirate parties and the intrusion of Barbie or worse. Bratz? Not in this house. No way. Not ever. Like I have any control in this?

The only dodgy moment came at the end of the day when I got out of my chair to discover that the backside of my trousers was covered in red. After an initial panic that I had suffered some kind of internal collapse, it turned out to be the legacy of a blackberry that had missed the pot and dropped between my legs while we were brambling earlier in the day. That's the trouble with having no sensation below the waist. The second time in my life that I have suffered a major health scare due to a fruit of the forest. Still, it could have been worse. What if I had sat on a pineapple all day?

Investment.
As in: "Investment - £92 per one-hour treatment session."
This bargain price is for a treatment in which the 'practitioner' wafts their hands around in a very scientific manner and thus resolve problems in my electro-magnetic field.

This service is also available remotely over the internet. I kid you not. This is despite claims on the same website that modern technologies are responsible for emitting frequencies which are screwing up my waves in the first place.
Oh, and by the way, "it should be noted that your perception or belief system is adjunct to the genetic and cellular make up, and can affect and influence the outcome." So you've gotta have faith (Sorry George).

The whole thing sadly smacks of snake-oil. What is most irritating, is that someone has seen fit to contact me to offer this 'investment' opportunity. The website is littered with quasi-scientific language in a way that appears deliberately evasive. Of the many articles referenced, not one is from The Lancet, or The British Medical Journal. If this is such an effective panacea, then surely it should be scientifically evaluated so that it can be made available to everyone?

Ah, but it is scientific. As well as the healing power of random punctuation, the treatment  works by "overcoming long-term chronic and difficult symptoms; move you beyond your blockages; and enhance recovery."

Difficult symptoms? BLOCKAGES?

Yes. I've got difficult symptoms. Mainly paralysis, but also chronic pain. But I'm not sure that I'd call my 95% transected spinal cord a blockage. Would you?

On further consideration, I'd call it a misaligned Chakra for £92 an hour.

Tuesday's Times column was all about choosing a school.
 
We want the best for our daughter,  but sometimes I think that people have to high an expectation of what a school should provide. I take the view that as parents it is our job to supplement the education that she gets at school. If there are things that are important to us, then we need to make sure that those things are a big part of her life.

Things like art, dance, music, etc. come into this category, and in the past. people have taken their children to classes at the weekend to cover such things, but now there seems to be an expectation that such areas are covered by school. Personally, I think religion should come in this category too. It should be 'extra-curricular.'

The other side of R's education comes in the form of weekends like the last one, when we went to the Isle of Man to celebrate my brother's wedding. It was a fantastic event in an enormous tent in a field, and for three days R went feral. Although her city feet didn't cope with thistles very well, she adored running with the pack of kids, including two of her cousins. It all went a bit 'Lord of the Flies' at one stage, with several of the older kids sporting tribal stripes of mud on their faces. At least, I hope it was mud.

The real downside was that every trip across the rutted hard ground of the field resulted in a pain-based payback for me  afterward. Were it not for the extra weight, I am beginning to think that suspension on the wheelchair might be worth considering. All I need is a sponsorship deal to fund it...

Ah, coffee. I start the day with coffee (without it, I crash into things, stare blankly into space, put my shoes on the wrong feet, etc.).

But then during the day, I also like to go out for coffee.I mean good coffee. Proper, strong, frothy milk coffee. Not weak, watery drowned in frothy milk coffee as we have been swamped with in this country. How is it that we, who live 800 miles from Italy (surely the undisputed home of good coffee), and yet we have embraced the tall/grande/gigante/biggabucketa  coffee culture born in Seattle, some 4800 miles away. Do we like paying four pounds for a pint of foaming semi-skimmed with a hint of beige?

I am lucky, we in the Stoke Newington area have a few good places for coffee. I am also lucky that coffee can help to focus my mind of the task in hand, and I feely admit to using coffee as a performance enhncing drug when it comes to wriring.

However. There is a downside to my coffee habit. I am now certain that after the coffee wears off, my levels of neruopathic pain increase. Particularly the one that feels like someone is trying to cut my legs off with a blunt saw and a knitting needle, before giving up and just setting fore to them..

Last night, I had to take the big Z option in order to get to sleep. This works, but when I take the larger dose, I fell a bit 'underwater' the following day. It's not a totally unpleasant feeling, but it's not that conducive to writing. And co, there's the temptation to have a cup of coffee. I mean good coffee. Proper, strong, frothy milk coffee, etc.

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...

After frowning at some weeds in the front garden for the last couple of weeks, I decided to take some action. There are a load of tulips that come up each year, and they were being overwhelmed, so I started to pull the weeds up.

Before long I had to resort to using a trowel, and I suddenly realised that I was gardening. For the first time since my accident. It's not easy, as I have to lean my chest on my knees to be able to reach the ground, risking falling forwards out of the wheelchair. There is another added problem, as this technique only gets me to ground  level, and as soon as you start digging, you need to get lower still (and yes, I do know what a raised bed is, what with having been a landscape gardener and all). The added problem is that bending over like this stretches my 'snagged' spinal cord, and causes a fair degree of pain for the rest of the day. I draw you, dear reader, to this previous entry for a bit more of an explanation.

I think that I may have found another good use for what I call my 'shufflebum'. There are a couple of similar products on the market, but they are basically the same thing, which is a strap-on (oh, stop sniggering) cushion which protects the wearer's backside from bruises and dings. This is important for those of us who have lost nature's padding, and it is one of the most useful pieces of kit that I have, especially for camping, picnicking, going up and down stairs, and of course making hilarious 'strap-on' jokes.

As I may have mentioned in the past, one of the medications that I take to combat my neuropathic pain is Amitriptyline. This is a medication that was originally developed as a tricyclic antidepressant, but has been found to be effective in reducing the symptoms of nerve pain. I have been taking the stuff since I was in hospital, but I cannot honestly tell you if it's doing anything. So I have decided to creep up to the maximum dose, and if I find no improvement, I shall come off it altogether.

So, that's why I'm taking 100mgs of the stuff every night. Only thing is, last night I forgot on account of being feverish. I realised my mistake this morning and thought the best thing would be to take them straight away.

Well, that mental picture you have just painted is probably spot on. I went from fine to very not fine, to queasy, and then passed out. It was all very scary for P, who thought at one stage that I had stopped breathing. Luckily a loud snore provided reassurance that I was still here.

Still, it was all pretty frightening stuff for a while there. It has made me change my ambivalence about all the pill popping. And has made me more determined to identify things that aren't helping and kick them into touch. Metaphorically speaking, obviously...

I was kidding myself. Delusional. I honestly thought that me, collector of ailments and virtuoso of the gentle, pitiful moan, that this time I would not succumb, despite R and P both going down with it.

And it's real, 100% guaranteed influenza. I know this not because I have been snogging geese, but rather that my temperature today has been up around the 40c mark.

Sadly, the extra bonus symptom that I have to contend with when I have a fever is a sensation akin to having knitting needles driven into my thighs every few minutes. Coincidentally, P has taken up knitting, which makes me a little suspicious. But that is mainly the combination of the fever, the heady mix of various pharmaceuticals and a lack of sleep last night. I actually started hallucinating this afternoon.Sadly it was all rather mundane, peripheral vision a bit wobbly as I sat Buddha-like, cross legged and wearing virtually nothing. At one point I imagined myself to be sitting atop a mountain. But then the phone rang, and there was an audible 'pop!' as my revery was replaced by someone asking if my name was Nisnad, or Nangtod or something.I became very confused. Maybe that too was an hallucination, but of an auditory kind.

Luckily I didn't receive any guests, as I'm sure I must have looked shocking.

That was until R came back from nursery and blew raspberries on my tummy. Surely that's the way to reach enlightenment. I began to imagine monasteries full of Buddhist monks blowing raspberries on each other's tummies. There could even be a surprise hit CD in it, too. Well, if the Gregorian/Benedictine mob can do it... Although I'm sure producing a very strong liqueur must have helped them break down Monastic inhibitions.

Sorry for all this drivel. I'm going to stop now and chase a sleeping tablet into bed.
I leave you with R's insghtful portrait of me. Kind of sums it all up, really.

Before you all start the whole 'Man Flu' thing... No, not me this time, but my beloved wife P who has succumbed to a proper feverish, aching  'flu.

Meanwhile, R has retained the cough of an asthmatic miner who smokes 40 Senior Service a day.  It is an endearing sound that only serves to enhance the glamorous shine of the perma-snot on her top lip. The combination of colds and cold weather makes me suspect that it will remain there until the big thaw.

So far I have dodged this particular bullet. Not quite sure how or why seeing as I've had every cold in the UK in the last few months. Perhaps the cold virus wants more of a challenge. My immune system up to now has used the bullying victim's tactic of lying down and hoping they get bored.

Of course I have enthusiastically joined in the mutual reassurance of parenting where we all get together over a coffee and tell each other how it's really good for our little cherubs to go to nursery/school and come down with everything short of bubonic plague. It helps to strengthen their immune systems, we say. Mind you, if mine is anything to go by, it doesn't count for shit once you become a parent. I have been cheerfully joining in with the big germ Swap Shop for months now, and I just keep getting sick. Go figure.

 So just for once, I get to look after my family rather than the other way around. It make take me a little longer to do some things, but it's good to feel useful. The only thing is, it has coincided with me increasing my dose of Amitriptyline. The result is that I am spending a significant part of the day wandering around the house in a daze when I'm not taking the odd nap. Maybe I'm not being useful... Maybe I just think I am. Maybe I haven't written this at all, but merely thought it. Ouch. My head hurts...
 
Talking of hurt heads. On a more cheerful note, I leave you with this gem. The more times you watch it, the funnier it gets...

Just finished an interesting book. It came up in conversation two weeks ago, and I hadn't heard of it...

It's called The Homemaker by Dorothy Canfield. The book tells the story of a mother of three who is a desperately unhappy housewife. She spends her time obsessively cleaning and intimidating the children while her husband works as an accountant who has no hope of promotion and spends the day thinking about poetry.

Anyhow, he falls off neighbour's roof and breaks his back leaving him paraplegic. She goes out to work, he stays at home and looks after the kids, etc. OK, so I've rather brutally filleted the story, there is a bit more to it than that. But what makes it really stand out is that The Homemaker was written in 1924. In that context, there is as much emphasis on the shock of the married mother going out to work as there is on the shock of the father's accident.

It also made an interesting read as R started nursery last week. Oh, they grow up so fast/where has the time gone/seems like only yesterday etc.

One thing that children do provide is more of a sense of time passing. Having lost count (a little) of time passed since I broke my back, the fact that R was born four months later rather means that I can see how far I've come. These moments of reflection usually start with me thinking of her and end up being all about me. Isn't it always?

But time passing since my accident needs to be acknowledged every so often. How far I've come. How accomplished my wheelchair skills are. How I still stubbornly refuse help and end up upside down in people's hallways (sorry Gabby!). How much fitter I am. The hills I can now push up. And, inevitably, how much pain has become a part of everyday life.

That last one is depressing most of the time, although there is a slight upside, which is that on a good day I can congratulate myself on dealing with it so well. On a bad day I berate myself for being so spineless (ho ho) and not just going under the knife to get that sucka sliced and diced once and for all (See previous entry, if you're at all puzzled).

Still, how did we get on to that again? Never mind.

I am also throwing the odd brush at canvas again for the first time in 5 years. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but it's good to be taking that particular journey again. We are planning another open studio at the end of the month.  So I'd better get a move on. I can't sit here all day and night writing this rubbish, so be off with yer. Go on, shoo!

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.

...that's the ideal time for a good kicking, and so it proves.

R brought Daddy a present home. She's very generous, you know. Especially as her runny nose had all sorts of hidden bonus symptoms by the time it got to me. I started to slip into serious Man-Flu last night, then woke up this morning feeling like s**t, which is a bit like shit, only more dramatic.

To give her credit, R has been attentive with the Doctor's bag, sticking various plastic toys into ears and up nostrils, etc. She told me that I had "Mushrooms in your ears," and on the plus side my mouth was full of "Lots of teeth."
The best bit comes when she pulls out the plastic hammer for testing my reflexes. I really don't know where to begin with that one...

I'm seriously annoyed that I seem to have caught a cold for the second time in two months of this miserable summer, but my anger turns to darker mood, as it seems that the cold has inspired a new piece of experimental music, where the invisible man picks out a tune on my legs with a pitch-fork, and I howl and whine and swear accordingly. I'm thinking about making it a free download. Less a breathy Je t'aime,  more a discordant "Je suis dans la douleur" spat through gritted teeth (and, hey, if the translation sucks, remember the circumstances).

And so, while I remain confident that I shall fly again, the runway has been dug up (like the rest of Hackney-don't get me started...), so instead I must offer passengers a complimentary drink of whine and a bag of going quietly nuts...

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...

No, not really, just a cold, but as a man I am suffering way more than anyone else who's ever had a cold ever in the world. Ever.

So, I'm back down to earth with a bump. After the dizzying heights of tennis success, it's back to domestic routines. Suffice to say, my tennis has also taken a severe downturn. On a positive note, my friend Adam pointed out that I must have got my training spot on to peak at the right time.

I went to be background scenery at the presentation of official paralympic training venue status to Brunel university last week, and it's just as well I did. Were it not for myself and three other wheelchair tennis players, there would have been no sporting activity of any kind for the cameras. As it was, we were reduced to hitting foam balls over a lowered badminton net, in order to provide something sporty for them to film.Hurrah for 2012!

My latest Ouch column just went up today (ouch!). Inevitably, it is on the subject (ouch!) of pain (ouch!). It had to come up sooner or later, so I thought I'd just get it over with. Still no developments in terms of finding any improvement, although I'm sure that being active helps to keep it at a more manageable level.

 It seems like one distraction after another so far this month, as P had jury service for two weeks to start. Many people have asked if she couldn't have got out of it, but from my own point of view, were I ever in front of a jury, I would hope that it was comprised of people who would be as considered and fair-minded as she. It's a funny thing jury service. We, most of us, see trial by jury as a vital part of our legal system and a benchmark of justice. But when it comes to being selected to take our place, we consider it an unpleasant chore and try to duck it. Which leaves who exactly?  people who are not canny enough to dodge it, or have nothing better to do?

This said, P did point out that they could make the whole experience less painful. Simply improving the area where jurors are required to spend many long hours waiting to be called would be a start. Maybe a juice bar?  Or some books and magazines? And perhaps old reruns of Crown Court showing on big screens to get people in the mood.  Apparently the jury box wasn't wheelchair accessible either...

Now my focus is on planning our possibly foolhardy camping trip in France later in the summer.  But then, if we're going to holiday with a wheelchair user and a toddler, it seems only natural to want to include a language barrier in the equation. Still, it will be a huge box to tick, and testament to the little ways in which my experiences on the BackUp multi-activity course have helped me to view things like camping with less anxiety.

Finally, I thought I'd best slip in a mention of the football, especially after tonight's demolition of the Italians by Holland. Did I mention my grandmother was Dutch? Now would be a very good time to read David Winner's most excellent book on Dutch football, called Brilliant Orange...

Ah well. Back to the tissues and throat pastilles. Nurse! Nurse! I'm fading fast! etc.

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.

"Than to be overlooked." Mae West.
Quoth? I'm not Quoth, just a little quonthused.
Bad puns over with, I had my latest round of meeja contact this week, with a questionnaire on the BBC's disability website Ouch!  It is my first real contact with disability oriented media, and over all I think it went well, with a tiny caveat. I said that some people were expecting the book to be a bit 'Jokey Blokey' (c) E.F.L. but that they were surprised when they found the book to be more personal and emotionally open, etc. Unfortunately, this made it into the interview as me having written a Jokey Blokey (hopefully I won't hear that expression again. Ever.) book.

The encounter was also interesting because it brings me into contact with a community of which I am a part, but very much a novice, when compared to people who have been disabled all their lives. It reminds me how I somehow manage to get the nature and date of my accident into the conversation within 5 minutes of meeting someone for the first time. As if I'm saying, "I'm not normally like this, you know."

And then, when I talk to other disabled people, I just feel a bit rubbish, as if I am falling between two stools.

So, the other plug for the book came in a newsletter for Back Up. It's good to get a mention for the book and obviously the blog. (Enough links, already)

Other news... More pain. It's been a bad couple of weeks in this regard, having been reduced to tears on one occasion. I think it's progress from being reduced to whisky, and hopefully will prevent me from being reduced to a jus. The tricky decision to wrestle with is whether to have further surgery, in the form of a cordectomy (complete severing of the spinal cord). The reason for this is that my L1 vertebra wasn't fully re-aligned after my accident, and is therefore trapping my spinal cord, causing it to stretch when I bend, which could be a contributory factor as far as pain is concerned. The compressed cord also increases my risk of developing a syrinx which could in time affect nerve bundles further up the spine, and increase my paralysis. Scary thought. The thing is, as with all of this stuff, there are no guarantees. No guarantee that I will or won't develop a spinal cyst, or that my pain will be improved or worsened. Why are these things never clear cut (bad pun)? Another 'we like to think' moment, I know, but we do think of our bodies as machines and our doctors as mechanics, mainly because the whole messy, organic, inconsistent way that our bodies work is rather too frightening to contemplate.

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.

A tiresome cold has struck me down, with a fluctuating temperature that has required me to down paracetamol on top of all my usual medicaments. It is cold and wet and windy, Arsenal only managed a draw against Middlesboro', and I am feeling like rubbish. And I can't even have a cup of tea until I get my temperature under control.