Tim Rushby-Smith: August 2008 Archives

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.

So, the British Olympic team return home triumphant, bedecked in medals aplenty. It has been a remarkable achievement, built on a decision to take sport seriously, and finally throw off the last vestiges of a 'gentlemen vs players' attitude where wanting to win was seen as a little vulgar. Anyways, well done!

What has struck me most about the last seventeen days of Olympic fervour, perhaps not surprisingly, has been the complete absence of any mention of the Paralympics. From the first beat of the opening ceremony to the last case off the baggage carousel at Heathrow I have not heard a single mention of the forthcoming Paralympics in Beijing. Could it be that the previous coverage has been encouraged by the success of Dame Tanni et al following a less successful Olympic performance by 'Team GB' (presumably NOT Gordon Brown)?

Perhaps I just didn't pay as much attention myself, although I distinctly remember being impressed by the staging and coverage of the 2000 Paralympics in Sydney. I particularly remember reading how schools all over Australia had received tickets to attend Paralympic events, assuring large crowds as well as providing positive role models for children that may have helped to shape more positive attitudes in the next generation.

That being said, I'm sure I am particularly soppy about the Paralympics on account of my having  done much of my rehab in the old Archery gym at Stoke Mandeville, where it all began in 1948. And to think they've knocked it down now. Shameful...

Perhaps things will change once the event gets underway, and I notice that the BBC will be providing daily coverage online as well as a nightly review on BBC2.
It's just that it would be good to see closer links between the two events, and at least mention of the forthcoming Paralympics during the fortnight of the Olympic games. Personally, I would like to see the two events staged simultaneously, if not merged. A logistical nightmare perhaps, but it would be great to see.

'Plumping' as applied to the skin of the face. Apparently, this is the new way of getting rid of wrinkles. Some bright spark obviously spoke up in cosmetics focus group, observing that fat people have fewer wrinkles.

Mind you, it still requires some expert euphemising. Can you imagine a product called 'Face Fat' flying off the shelves? Clearly plumping is a more desirable effect.

And while we're on the subject of adverts, am I alone in being deeply disturbed by the latest ad for a certain well known orange flavoured drink? The ad features bears and deer getting it on, while flamingos pole dance in the foreground. Perhaps it's something about the hand gesture required to shake the drink up that inspired such an ad...

...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...

Yep. It chucked it down, but intermittently, and the kids all guzzled cake regardless. We had toy aeroplane races and pin the tail on the donkey, and they all made party hats, and we adults all looked a bit lost, really. It's great when it works.

The place we went to is a bit of a secret location. It's one of our favourites and is usually empty. It's called The Waterworks, and it's an old water treatment works that has been turned into a nature reserve. Also, it's far enough to the north of Hackney marshes that it will hopefully be spared the ravages of the Olympic site which seems to be swallowing up many of the secret places in East London.

It's a shame, but the 'regeneration' will result in us losing many Victorian buildings, and much of London's industrial heritage. If it were Islington, the buildings would be listed, and probably turned into 'Loft style apartments'.

Still, it's progress, isn't it? Not really regeneration, though. More a bunch of sporting venues landing, as if from outer space, in the middle of nowhere. I think of regeneration as a more gradual, dare I say it, 'organic' (there. I dared) process that helps an area to develop, rather than the leftovers from the largest travelling circus the world has ever seen.

Enough. I must go and lie down, whimpering softly as I recover from the excesses of too much tennis followed by too much fine Turkish food.

On a lighter note...

I like this one.

"Differently abled".

Huh?

It rather suggests some kind of special powers. When I sit in my wheelchair at the bottom of a flight of stairs, I don't feel 'differently abled'. Similarly, were I to fall into a tempestuous sea, as I went down for the third time and my life flashed before my eyes, I wouldn't be thinking, "Hmmm. I appear to be differently swimming."

So, the hot weather has been with us for a week or so now, and my tactics for getting through the day have become almost routine. Some days I hide in the supermarket for an hour or two, lurking among the chiller cabinets getting frostbite from the push rims on my chair (they conduct temperature very quickly).

The only trouble with this plan is that in a short time I am pinned down under an enormous pile of top-shelf food items that over-enthusiastic shoppers have assumed I needed help with.

Other days are spent in the house, staring out of the window and wishing I was wielding a shovel in a garden somewhere. I really miss working outdoors, but doing anything outside in the midday sun is difficult now, as half of me no longer sweats properly anymore and if I get too hot I get a really uncomfortable prickly heat rash that makes me squirm.

A tough push uphill is enough to trigger this response, but it doesn't seem to happen when I am playing tennis or basketball for some reason. Go figure.

Of course, no sooner have I complained about the hot weather when the heavens open, and tomorrow's toddler birthday party in the park begins to look like a foolish idea.

We are frantically putting together the various bits and pieces to entertain eight under fives whacked out on icing and no doubt trying to find wildlife/people to pull the legs off. I'm hoping we can harness the destructive energy with some non-violent games. Either that or construct a giant hamster wheel and hook them up to the national grid. I wonder what the carbon footprint is for icing-based energy production. Is it a bio-fuel? And does one have to factor in the child's methane production, because if it's anything like her dad's we'll be planting trees for years to come.

We are planning to have pin the tail on the donkey,but as we will be in the middle of the park it's going to be tough finding something to attach the donkey to. I can see a game of 'pin the tails on the wheelchair tyres'  followed by a game of 'drag the grumpy cripple back to the car park.'

Reading this back, I feel like I should be the Wikipedia entry for curmudgeonly. I'm sure our beloved three-year-old will be smiling all day tomorrow. I know I will. Probably choking back a few tears,too. They grow up so fast, don't they?