August 2009 Archives

I did my bit today.

As I'm sure many will appreciate, the NHS holds a very special place in my heart. The treatment I received following my spinal cord injury was exemplary. It wasn't perfect, but the faults were all of a minor nature, and didn't affect my long term outcome. And it was all unconditionally free, state of the art and there when I needed it. There has been a lot written about the NHS in recent months, especially seen in the light of the healthcare reforms proposed in the US.

The NHS offers universal healthcare free at the point of delivery for 8% of the UK's G.D.P.
The private healthcare system in the U.S. excludes 43 million Americans and costs 16% of G.D.P.

While there are many and often discussed shortcomings within the NHS, they are not because it is the NHS. And most important of all, the principle on which the NHS is built is one of the real post-war success stories.

There is still an attitude to wards healthcare that is suffused with the principal of the NHS, an embodiment of the newsreel footage of Doctors and Nurses in crisp starched uniforms administering bucket-sized spoonfuls of malt-extract to knobbly kneed street urchins and I'm sure that the majority of people do hold the NHS very dear indeed.

I am unable to be a blood donor (I had a transfusion when I had surgery after my accident), so I was very pleased to have been picked (at random) to participate in the Biobank scheme.

The idea is to create a resource that can be used in the future for a diverse range of research into prevention, diagnosis and treatment of illness. I felt that it was important to offer a bit of data from the spinally injured section of our population.

On a personal note, I was also looking forward to getting a bit of information about my body mass index, bone density, etc.

Unfortunately, while I was able to participate in the study, the only test other than blood pressure that I was able to take was a grip test.

So after ninety minutes, I came away knowing that I didn't know my birth-weight when asked, my blood pressure is a little on the high side, and my grip strength in my right hand is 64kgs. I am right-handed, after all. But then, my grip strength in my left hand is 67kgs. Go figure.

It's taken several days for me to face up to the weekend's events. I have been brooding, asking myself what went wrong? Could I have done anything different? and where does this leave my future plans?

OK, here we go.
My tennis coach Stuart arranged a surprise opponent for a match on Saturday evening, and I turned up at the National Tennis Centre with a keen sense of anticipation.

The match was not my best, I served too many double faults, and failed to take the break points when I created them. I lost the match 2-6 3-6. My opponent Alfie was just too good for me on the day.

As I'm sure many people will gleefully testify, this is not the first time I have lost at tennis.
However, it is the first time that I have been beaten by an 11 year-old.

In my defence, he is an exceptional 11-year-old. His technique is good, as is his shot selection, and his reading of the game is particularly astute for his age. The funny thing is, all the talk in most sports is focused on 2012 when he'll still be only 14, although if his progress this far is anything to go by, he'll certainly be there or thereabouts.

But this tale serves to highlight one of the great things about wheelchair tennis. Until you get to the very top level the sport acts as a great leveler, where strength or speed don't always win out. If you can put your opponent on the 'back foot' as it were, then you make them do all the work. I know this, because people often make me do all the work.

So, once again I left for home feeling crestfallen. Still, at least when I got there I could enjoy a glass of malt whisky, check my lottery ticket and stay up as late as I wanted...

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...

I spent much of yesterday being shown around the fascinating Foundling Museum.

The Foundling  hospital was set up to take in children who could not be cared for by their mothers. The children were mostly illegitimate, and social attitudes meant that they had little chance of surviving without being taken in by the Foundling Hospital.

The art collection is impressive and fascinating, especially as the Hogarths and Gainsboroughs also serve as a narrate of the history of the Foundling hospital
There are also strong connections to Handel, who staged the first performance of The Messiah at the hospital as a fundraiser.

The museum is currently showing an exhibition called In The Picture, part of a campaign to get more children with disabilities represented in children's books. All children tend to respond well to characters in stories that they can identify with, and it  can also help to 'normalise' attitudes if all children are exposed to disability as just being part of everyday life.

But the most poignant exhibit that I saw yesterday was a collection of the tokens left with the children by their mothers. The tokens were kept as a secret so that should a mother come back to reclaim their child, they could offer proof that they were the mother. This was to prevent people coming and claiming children in order to use them as labour.

Obviously the tokens in the collection are all from children who were never recalimed, and  laid out  together they make a very powerful sight.

It's always nice to find new stories and treasures. And London has such a rich diversity of stories to discover, and it is a delight that even after forty years I can frequently find something new just around the corner...

On from my recent missive about strange conversations and comments, I have two beauties to report from the last week.

In the dry cleaner's, I had a gentleman open the door for me. No, I was fine with that, I had my hands full and he was nearest the door. But as he did so, he said,
"We must help the weak, even though the weak do not like to be helped."

I replied,
"The weak don't like being referred to as the weak."

Which was pretty weak (sorry), but I was so shocked that it took me a while to get my brain into gear, and it was only when I was half-way down the street that I realised what I should have said.

"How about if 'the weak' pulls your arms off and uses them to hold the door open for you?"

My next encounter with the brain in neutral brigade came at a wildlife park, where I was using my powertrike (lazy, I know).  was ill-prepared when a woman turned to me and said,
"That's the way to travel. I could do with one of them. My feet are killing me."

I just smiled awkwardly.

Instead of offering,
"Well, lady, why don't we swap? I'll take your aching feet and you can have my broken spine."

Now there may be some out there who think that I am being too sensitive, and that people mean well. I'm sure they do, and I'm sure that there are times when I am.

But I didn't initiate the conversation on either occasion. I'm just trying to go about my life with as much 'normality' as possible. I'm not being noble or brave. So by all means have a laugh and a joke, take the piss, etc. But please don't call me weak and please don't imply that my life has advantages over that of an able bodied person.

On a different note, I love this translation seen in China, found in a book called Chinglish:

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?

Ah, the names of supermarket own brands often toss up the odd gem, but this is my favourite so far:

Kandoo, the training toilet wipes for kids. The packaging shows some kind of frog-like creature applying a moist wipe to its nether regions with an openness that looked frighteningly European when it first burst onto the British market with badly slip-synched Euro-ads with mawkishly cute children beaming with pride at their toilet endeavours.

Tesco's respond with their own-brand product, depicting a pig wiping itself in a similar fashion. But it's not the swine as a symbol of rectal cleaning diligence that shocks. It's the name for the product which suggests that the creative brainstorm followed late after a boozy lunch. The name that has been so sensitively chosen for this important product?

LOOK... I'm wiping my bottom.