April 2009 Archives

Today's Times column.
I suppose I could have called myself a 'stay-at-home-dad', but the reality is that I am a 'stay-at-home-paraplegic', rather than being in-house for purely parenting reasons.

That said, I often consider myself fortunate (yeah, I know. So fortunate, I fell from a tree and broke my back, but let me finish) that I have been able to spend so much time with R over the last three and a half years.

It would be good to see a few more men taking the kids out during the week, but I don't say this because I feel like I need allies at places like the fabulous Museum of Childhood. I am perfectly happy to be one of the only dads in a crowd of parents. After all I am usually the only wheelchair user. No, the reason I would like to see more dad's is because I think it would be good for all concerned. Spending a few hours showing your child something new is always rewarding. Especially when it's combined with the opportunity to reminisce over toys of your own youth.

Ah, remember CROSSFIRE? Back in the days when men with generous sideburns played boardgames...

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...

So, today's Times column. A little clarification, perhaps. In my defence, I would like to point the jury to a previous blog entry. You see? I can get dance. It's just about how I feel when it comes to moving and shaking, and one day I'm sure that I'll feel more relaxed about it.

But, by way of contrast, last Saturday night I had some completely munted loon cavorting around me and trying to get me to join in. While simultaneously peppering me with personal and at times just plain weird questions.

 There is a sort of tyranny in the 'won't take no for an answer' dancer. I'm not sure why they feel that other people are incapable of enjoying music without squirming and punching the air. Or is it a way of transferring their self consciousness onto someone else? 'If he doesn't want to dance then he's going to be even more uncomfortable than me' sort of thing. Suffice to say I didn't join in.

Where I do take comfort is in the knowledge that every child reaches a time in their life when they find their parents' dancing profoundly embarrassing.
...as I hope Saturday's star may have felt the same of her own performance.

So came the heart warming empathy from a girl in The Big Chill House, one of the venues in my brother's pre-wedding night out. Some consolation indeed. Being in a wheelchair seems such a trifle by comparison...

Like many disabled people, I have a Blue Badge disabled parking bay outside my house. My house which also has a big platform lift out front, in case anyone wonders why the disabled space is there.

The trouble is, my local authority put in a disabled bay which can be used by anyone displaying a disabled badge, so there are occasions when people park in it anyway. This is annoying.

But not so annoying as when the daughter of our neighbour starts parking her car with a disabled badge in my parking bay. She has the badge because her mother (who hasn't left the house in about two years) is disabled.

Last night, I came home in the pouring rain with small child and bags, only to find that t=she had parked in my bay again. I left a note on her car, but then took it off as it was a bit angry/wordy, and I though it better to say something face to face. This morning I put a more concise note on her windscreen.

Sure enough, the doorbell goes and it is her.
"About the parking thing. I have a badge for my disabled mum. I asked the council, and they said that I could park in the bay."

"Well, technically, you can. But I requested the bay be put there for my use, and you've seen me getting in and out of the car plenty of times," I reply.

"Yes, and I understand that you should have priority, but I did ask the council, and you only have to come and knock on the door and I can move my car."

"You have five steps up to your front door."

"Ah, yes, but I did ask the council, and if I'm parked there you could get someone to come and knock on my door and I can move my car."

"But what if I don't have anyone with me?" etc.

So, if she is parked in the disabled bay, I am supposed to double park, assemble my wheelchair, get out of my car, wait for a passing member of the public, convince them to go and knock on her door, wait for her to move her car, get into my car, dismantle my wheelchair, park my car, put my wheelchair together, and then get out of my car.

Seems reasonable to me.

Which just goes to show. Some people are so selfish, and/or lazy, that logic just doesn't come into it. It's obviously not the first time (see previous entry), but this is our neighbour, who says "hello," from time to time, and on one occasion, when I was using the platform lift, said, "I wish I had one of those." I wasn't quick enough to say, "Well, I wish my legs still worked, so I guess we're about even, are we?"

An interesting weekend, which began with my first 'live dance' experience. I've never fully got to grips with dance as an artistic medium. I suppose my perceptions were all based on a traditional ballet style of dance, the most obvious recent example being Rosalie's love of The tales of Beatrix Potter as performed by The Royal Ballet. I can see why she loves it, of course, but it leaves me rather cold. Except perhaps to marvel at the dancer's ability to pirouette while dressed as Mrs Tiggiwinkle, etc.

So, on Friday we went to see a performance called Two:Four:Ten at the London Coliseum, a retorspective of ten years of work by a choreographer called Russell Maliphant.

We got to Know Russell and his family through mutual friends. When I heard that they were doing this show, I thought I should give it a go (no, not the dancing, obviously).

We went, and I was spellbound. It's probably described as 'contemporary', but there were no hedgehogs, field-mice or dying swans, the lighting was fantastic, the music interesting, challenging at times, and the dancing? Well, it was impressive, fluid, complex, even moving. It just worked (The show included this piece, but with two dancers moving in and out of synch with each other). I think I got it. I certainly enjoyed it, and I might even go and see some more, one day.

I must be becoming a Culture Vulture. I do rather like those rhyming sobriquets. I heard a good one the other day to describe wine enthusiasts. Cork dorks. I'm just glad that I'm not overly fond of oil tankers...

The rest of the weekend was, of course, devoted to chocolate. It is Easter, after all. Traditions must be observed. After all, when Christ was on the cross and a spear pierced his side, he did poor forth chocolate buttons. He also had previously spent forty days and forty nights in the wilderness, trying to find the last Easter egg that was unaccounted for at the previous year's hunt.

As you may have gathered, the whole religious thing doesn't really float my boat, and while I understand the whole Oestre spring fertility pagan history of the other version of Easter, I do find the excessive promotion, packaging and consumption of all that chocolate rather obscene, in a way.

Obviously, I never touch the stuff, except in my parental role as poison taster, and in order to stop her from eating too much. It's a sacrifice, but you have to do these things. Think of the children. Eating their chocolate is a way of keeping them safe.

My latest Times Column is out today, strangely in the travel section online this week. It's sort of about Rosalie travellling to the top of the climbing frame, I suppose. Anyway, it's good to have it online so that those of you who are overseas can at least see what I've been getting up to.
 

First off, let me make it absolutely clear that I do not spend all my waking hours checking my listing on Amazon.

While checking my listing on Amazon, I couldn't help but notice the following:

Suggested Tags from Similar Products

A link to my latest Times column. I could have continued my exasperation at the reaction to Cerrie Burnell's arrival on CBeebies, but it's so ridiculous that I'm not sure it should even be up for discussion. For those of you  who may be out of the loop, I'm sure the linked story will fill in the background.

Reading the comments people made about how her only having one arm would 'scare the children' disturbs me greatly. It shouldn't make a difference to anyone's reaction, but when one has become disabled, this kind of story can just add to the feeling of being 'seperated' from a 'normal' life. I'm sure I would have been appalled that people could be so, well, stupid, even if I hadn't broken my back.

 But I did break my back, and that probably makes me a little more conscious of what it's like to face people's preconceptions. And in a way, it's easier for me. I am merely sitting down, but otherwise 'normal'. The chair is pretty conspicuous, so there is less chance of a double take, and I don't have to decide whether to attempt to disguise my disability. That said, I have been toying with the idea of constructing some kind of car-shaped costume to wear when I'm out.

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.

Apologies. The last dispatch was titled with possibly the worst pun ever conceived. Well, certainly since a Cardiff resident decided to call his take-away emporium 'Abra-Kebabra'.

Anyways. What's the word on the street? Well, Google Street-view, it would seem. The people in the village of Broughton have said 'no'. Having spotted the car with the camera coming down the street, they stopped it and sent them packing. Fair play. But the best part of the story for me was when one of the residents explained his objections.
"A map is one thing, but when they want to show all the intimate details of the front of your house, then it's an invasion of privacy."
What are the intimate details of the front of a house? Lacy curtains? Push-up shutters? Thigh-high damp-proof course? I am wondering if we should be planting a more modest hedge, perhaps.

Our locality continues to change as the Olympic work continues. The funny thing is, I'm aware that it's happening, and when I drive past the actual site, it's clear that the development is moving apace. But we're also in this strange period when the full implications and impact have not become fully apparent, and we still have our favourite places on Hackney Marshes to ourselves for the most part. Especially when the weather's not great, but those are often my favourite times.