The last refuge

 I don’t think we are very good at supporting refugees in this country. Only last week there was a story in the news about how we had crowded lots of asylum seekers into an old military barracks, with the inevitable result that hundreds of them caught Covid. You only have to look at the tenor of debate, with discussions about who is “deserving” and who is a “migrant” to get the sense that the whole emphasis is on refugees proving they are genuine. This isn’t a new thing either. I listened to a podcast just last week where a woman told the story of how her Jewish parents were “lucky” to have had high-ranking connections within the British scientific establishment, allowing them to be granted safe haven in Britain and escape persecution from Nazi Germany.

Before you go all Daily Mail on me, and start thinking how generous we are, just consider how long it is since we have had a genuine crisis on our own little island, that necessitated large numbers of people fleeing from harm in genuine fear for their lives. I’ll wait.

The last genuine battle on our shores, if you discount the conflict in Ireland (which I have written about before), and being bombed from the air, or terrorist atrocities, or civil riots, was in 1746, the Battle of Culloden in the north of Scotland. The last rites of the Jacobite cause was played out on a heathland near Inverness, and was followed by a crackdown on the supporters of the exiled Stuart pretenders. Some of them left for America, or France,  and there was undoubtedly a cultural genocide of sorts, but it would barely have touched the cultural memory of the English.

If you discount the two-day invasion by the French in Fishguard (really an extension of Wolfe Tone and the United Irishmen’s rebellion) in 1797, you have to go back to 1216 since there has been a genuine invasion of England. That was really a war of ruling elites, each set with landed interests all over Europe, and though their would have been collateral damage, it would not have touched the populace in the way modern wars do.

Oh, 1066 you say? The Norman yoke? Umm, that is nearly a thousand years ago, and of course the native nobility were dispossessed at the time, and the nature of our laws and culture were altered, but again it’s not in our cultural DNA anymore, too much has happened to dilute and wash away its societal impact.

In my opinion I think part of the reasons for our lack of compassion and empathy towards refugees is that we just don’t know what it is like or how it could possibly feel. Without experiencing something it’s very hard to know what it really is like, no matter how empathic you are. Readers and friends will be familiar with me making comments about my French ancestry and the fact that I have a remote link to Huguenots who fled the south of France in the 17th century.

My recent absence from riding has enabled me to delve into their history a bit more, and as well as drawing up that branch of my family tree, I have also read some academic histories of the period and the location. I had long-known that my ancestor, and 8x Great grandfather, Daniel Camroux left Nimes in 1685 after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and settled in Berlin. His grandson Jean Simon Camroux and his wife, Susanne Devaux, subsequently came to London in the late 1740s.  Two generations later the family was giving its children English first names, and by the early 1800s were marrying outside the historic French community. My 3x Great Grandfather Thomas Andrew Camroux was one of the first official Police force established by Robert Peel, and you don’t get more English than that.

I had always imagined Daniel had left Nimes in search of religious liberty and tolerance, but I now suspect that is only part of the story. That intolerance had been building for decades in a time when religion was much more important in shaping your life than it is now in our secular culture in Britain. But with the official law changed, making it illegal to be a Protestant in France, open season was declared. Many villages in the area were eradicated, their inhabitants massacred, men, women and children all. Even those forced to convert at the end of the barrel of a gun were still denied jobs or suffered ongoing persecution. 

Twenty years later there was an uprising of local Protestants that had stayed, the Camisard revolt, desperate to assert their liberty and practice their religion without being murdered. As is the way of things there were atrocities committed by both sides, until a pragmatic peace was agreed. My relatives were long-gone from the area, but obviously I like to think there’s a bit of that resistance to authority in my DNA.

That inter-communal violence, murder and mayhem seems like it belongs to another world. But it’s the kind of thing that still happens the world over today, indeed it happened in the Balkans barely 30 years ago. It’s the fear of persecution, torture and death that forces people to make those desperate journeys in search of a better life. Trekking over the Alps to Switzerland and Germany in the 17th century is the equivalent of precarious boat trips across the channel today.

Given the speed with which I now know Daniel left I now feel it’s likely he was in fear for his life. Maybe his grandson was an economic migrant, but I’m sure London welcomed him into the community in Shoreditch, thankful for his skills and industry in what had become a thriving French community by 1750.

Lockdowns and pandemics permitting, one day I will visit Nimes from whence Daniel fled, as well as the hamlet of Goussargues where other Camroux came from in the 17th century. I also hope to go to the nearby village of Lussan, from where the family originated in the Middle Ages. I know I have up to 30% of my DNA from France, so I suspect there are other migrants or refugees lurking in the ancestry. There’s even some Spanish and Nordic in there too. Who knows what made them all travel from their place of origin.

I like living in Somerset, it’s quiet, peaceful, beautiful. But if one day some band of thugs, or heaven forbid, government soldiers, descended on Winscombe and started killing everyone, I’d like to think that some fellow humans, maybe from as far away as Minehead would take us in. Or maybe we’d have to flee to France or Ireland. You can’t imagine it can you, it couldn’t happen here, could it? 

You can of course retreat to your certainties and search for your quiet life. I’d always balked against that because I had a principled objection to it. But now, well it seems all very personal.

Just like my dreams

 I’m a little bit tired this week. Partly this is because I have been working without any meaningful break since Christmas. Partly it’s the ennui of  continuing to plough through a global pandemic and all the guano that brings. It’s also the ongoing saga of my brachial neuritis (17 weeks yesterday and counting)  and its concomitant prevention of bike-riding, which is now invading my nightly dreams, with all kinds of strange scenarios where I get back on my pride and joys.

You’re bored of all that though aren’t you? I know I certainly am. You want to hear something different. Maybe a little bit uplifting?

But whilst all those circumstances have contributed, the main cause of my mental fatigue this week is a massive come-down I’m experiencing. Back in 2018, hard to believe it was three years ago, I came back from the Cent Cols bike extravaganza in the Pyrenees and experienced the mother of all metaphysical crashes. One that plunged me into depths I’d not experienced for years, and it took me almost a year to recover. This one isn’t like that, but it is a comedown from euphoria, but I’m going to draw on the lessons of 2018-19 to make sure I look at things very differently. In fact, this time, it’s going to be a celebration. 

September 25th will mark my 50th anniversary as a West Ham fan (we beat Stoke at home 2-1, I remember flashes of the game, but most of all I remember the noise!). I hope that we have a European fixture close to that date, and that if we do, I’ll get tickets to go somewhere exotic, like Bucharest or Baku. It would be a fitting way to mark the longest relationship of my life. Like any couple, we have had our ups and downs (once per decade currently, 1978, 1989, 1992, 2003 and 2011), and times when we didn’t get on very well (my late teens to mid-twenties, when politics, music and other things became more important), but through it all we’ve stuck together.

I hope (and it is always that hope that kills you) that the bad times may finally be behind us, and as I approach old age a deeper more contented relationship will supersede some of the more tempestuous phases we’ve had. I mean, if you truly love someone, you can forgive them can’t you? The 2006 Cup Final is not forgotten, but I can look back on it now and see I learned so much from it, just as I did from all those rainy and dull nights together, when I wondered if the relationship was going anywhere.

But now we have someone at the helm who may just know what he is doing. If we can keep the good things on board (Rice, Soucek, Lingard, Coufal) and maintain the wonderful togetherness and joie de vivre that has existed for many of our games this season, who knows where our love could take us. Anyway, they know I’ll never leave them, and so what would be the point about grumbling about that when it’s a choice I freely made many decades ago.

So I’m not going to be down-hearted for once, or cynical, or even pessimistic. I’m going to draw some comfort from the great times we’ve had over the last 12 months, and look forward to more of them in the years to come. I adore Somerset, and Mrs Mendip Rouleur and Junior will always get first dibs on my affection. But these boys? The ones that came before and the ones that will come after? Well, I don’t profess to understand this relationship, it’s complicated, and it’s probably inexplicable to most of you as well. But on Sunday, when I saw that green pitch again, and those colours, that song  with the rest of the crowd singing it, people I don’t even know, well it finds places in my heart that no other thing or person can.

Come on you Irons!

“Yes I’m plodding on, thanks”

 I’ve put on 3kg in the last three months, I’m amazed it’s as few as that to be honest, as I’m back up to ridiculous levels of chocolate consumption But I have to face it, it’s added some timber, and although my fitness hasn’t fallen off a cliff, the constant tramping of the ways paths and lanes of the Winscombe Valley have only managed to slow the decline.

But it could have been a lot worse, and I’m hopeful that there’s a corner I can turn round very soon. I can feel strength returning to my arms. I do not know if it’s adaptation, I suspect it is, as most experts (remember them?) say nerve re-growth takes a minimum of 9 months. Which would be October. But I’m able to type once more, I have learned to write using a different action, and certain movements which were very awkward just a month ago, are becoming less so. That said, I know the critical phase is when nerves are reattaching themselves to the motor nerve-muscle endplate, where too vigorous action can re-sever the connections. I’ve been to square one and I’m not keen to go back there, so I am still taking no chances. 

My physio, who is great, has promised to assess the strength of my arms on June 4th, to see if I’m strong enough to do it again. You know, ride a bike on the road safely. Unless I can, and it doesn’t risk my recovery in the long-term, I won’t go there.

The gym being open helps, as I can do some weights on my legs and a few core exercises (I could do those at home but it feels very, very wrong to do ab crunches in the living room), as well as getting to grips with the Watt bike again. My FTP has been destroyed, and it wasn’t the biggest to start with. I shall enjoy watching the curve ascend again when the time comes. Hopefully accompanied by a descending weight curve.

For now, I’ll keep plodding along. There have been compensations and consolations. Namely I’ve got to see my local area like never before, had time to think, had space to listen to all kinds of podcasts, and found out where all the best trees are. Meanwhile, keeping me going in the real world, are my family, friends (particular shouts to Lord Down of Rodney Stoke - I still think we should make that podcast) and colleagues, who have been such a tremendous source of support and wonderment, alongside Taylor, Miley and the massive West Ham United (including West Ham clips on Twitter -although NSFW!) who unknowingly kept me going too. Excitingly I won seats in the ballot of season ticket holders to see a match in real life the Sunday after next. Just think - I get to moan at them in an actual stadium instead of in front of the TV!

I’ve also found some time to restart some of my Family tree research. Speaking of excitement, I have finally located the exact hamlet in the South of France that my French ancestors came from, alongside the nearby village where the valley was based in the 14th and 15th centuries. Hopefully it will not be long before I can actually go there.

I’ve also become incredibly, and probably unhealthily, interested in blue geraniums, bird feeders and collecting random U2 albums on the Internet. On this last, my brother is a very bad influence. What exactly am I supposed to do with my 10-year anniversary gatefold vinyl album of “No Line on the Horizon”. Sure, it’s a thing of beauty, but my house is already too full of stuff. How can I moan at the others when I too contribute to this pointless accumulation of the collectible creativity?

So here are my favourite pictures from the last couple of months, Spring, my favourite time of year. The time of rebirth and renewal. It has been for me. Whilst I’m not glad it’s all happened, I know it’s given me opportunities that I have enjoyed and would not swap for three months of grinding it out on a road bike. But I am a bit bored now, and whilst I love these opportunities, and I’ll not do anything stupid, I’d like to get back on the bike soon please, if you can arrange that for me.

Many thanks.

The end of the beginning or the beginning of the end?

 Back in 1922 when the great and the leaders of Ireland were debating whether to accept the terms of the Treaty their representatives had negotiated with the British Government, Michael Collins, hero of the independence movement, persuaded a majority of his colleagues that the treaty on offer gave the country “Freedom to achieve freedom”. Of course diehards in the Republican movement of the time, cried “sell-out” and refused to “collaborate” with the new Irish Free State. Gradually though the lure of power, and the bitterness of the Irish civil war faded, and one by one the dissenters entered mainstream Irish politics.

There was still a hardcore of dissidents though, keepers of the flame, and from time to time their efforts would flare into conflicts such as the during the Second World War, and the ineffective “border campaign” of the the late fifties and early sixties. To all intents and purposes, to the outside world at least, it seemed that the Irish question had been answered and violent conflict was at an end.

But of course the conditions for conflict, the culture of Ireland, in particular amongst the poor and downtrodden of the North, had never been more ripe for a flare up, and so it proved. From the late sixties to the mid-nineties over 3000 people were killed, as paramilitaries, the British Army and others descended into an internecine conflict of great brutality and savagery. I first met my wife in 1994, about six weeks before the first ceasefire in the so-called “Troubles”. I remember one of the first conversations I had with her was about her accent, I couldn’t place it, and it turned out she hailed from the north-western city whose very name symbolises the conflict that had raged for nearly 30 years.

My first trip over to meet her family was just after Christmas 1995, shortly after which that ceasefire collapsed into a further 18 months of killing and mayhem. I was told not to open my mouth in public, so as not to give my English accent away, believe me it was still a scary place to be. But over the years following the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, things changed. Just as the leaders back in the twenties had entered politics, so the Irish Republicans viewed the GFA as an opportunity to work towards reunification over the long-term.

Of course there were more dissidents that promised to keep the literal battle alive, there were very few of them, they lacked community support and critically they lacked support of the moneyed Americans that had funded so much of the previous campaign. 

It appeared to outsiders that the peace was permanent. The outward signs were positive. I kept one of my older bikes over in Ireland for 7 or 8 years from 2010, and in that time as I rode around the roads I noticed how the once brightly-painted kerbstones had faded, and flags (always emblematic of the assertion of territory) became less common and more tatty.

My father-in-law took me to a game at Derry City one Friday night, and happily introduced me to all and sundry. He was a stalwart of the club, its unofficial historian, and knew just about everyone. Never had I felt more welcome at a football match at another ground other than my own.

 Friends often engaged in conversation with me, what was it all about, or what was the correct thing to say? But I couldn’t explain it. Partly because whilst I have as very good historical and contemporary knowledge of what is going on, and I’ve seen the impact of change over the years in changing some of the superficial attitudes, I knew that deep under the surface there were cultural currents running that had been in existence since the 16th century, if not before. It’s hard to explain that, it’s visceral.

But it didn’t seem matter, an accommodation and shared institutions had seemed to not make the divide and the history as important anymore. Initially war-weariness had driven the process of peace, but then a new generation, supposedly free of the old enmities had come to the fore, and it seemed we were into a new era. 

The Brexit happened. 

In 2019, after visiting for a family wedding, I blogged about how all those kerbstones had been painted again, and fresh new flags were flying in the hardline areas. Both sides were gearing up for something, even if they didn’t know what. There’s an old piece of management bollocks that “culture eats strategy for breakfast”, and it’s as true for communal conflict as it is for business performance.

What English people have consistently failed to realise is that the GFA, the peace process didn’t answer the Irish question or solve the conflict. Because there is no solving it. The relative sizes of Nationalist and Loyalist communities in the north (please note small “n”) are too similar for there ever to be a time when both sides would be happy. All you can hope for is to find a way to make the divide not matter.

The second thing English people do not understand is that Irish culture in general, and the culture of the north in particular, is a world away from British, and specifically English culture. Nor do most English know anything about the history of the last 100 years in the northern state, let alone the last 400 or 800 years of Anglo-Irish experience. Common membership of the EU, in particular the Customs Union and Single Market, were the structural framework that allowed the GFA to work. Without it, it will never work as intended, despite all the excuses of British politicians.

Nobody should be surprised at the upsurge of violence in Belfast, Derry and elsewhere. Nor is it enough to blame “criminal elements encouraging the youngsters”. On Friday I listened to two community workers from the loyalist community, erudite and educated people, explain that loyalist rioting was justified because Nationalist areas had all the new housing and jobs. It reminded me of a conversation I had way back with my Father in Law, also an erudite and educated man, about integrated education being the answer to long-term peace. “You see Guy”, he explained, “the Protestants would never agree to it”.

I bet hardly anyone in Britain who voted for Brexit thought about its impact on Ireland and the peace process. Even if they did, I suspect generally they wouldn’t have thought it important. Another “Project Fear” most likely. In any case that ship has sailed now so there’s no point banging on about it. But as I see those petrol bombs flying through the air, and see the water cannons being deployed, I know if won’t be long until the Army is being brought in to keep the peace. It’s all so depressingly familiar.

It’s not the end, by any means, of peace. But we are going to need a lot of fresh thinking, brave people and bold decisions. I hope our politicians can do what they have consistently failed to do for the last five years, and actually show some leadership.

My best days are ahead

 It’s five weeks to the hour since I was sat in the ED of our local hospital. Much has changed. 

My diagnosis is now definitive, and all experts (including me!) are in agreement about its cause, if not about the precise mechanism that it worked through. I have bilateral Brachial neuritis, caused by an autoimmune response to a Hepatitis E infection. Whilst this response has pretty much done its job, and I have comparatively little pain now, I am left with damage to the nerves between the brachial plexus in both arms to parts of each shoulder, arm and hand. I won’t go into details, of which muscles are affected, ask me if you’re that interested. What I will say is that it could have been a lot worse. I briefly joined a Facebook group of people also with the condition. Whilst I really sympathise with the posters, many of whom had been significantly affected far more severely than me, I had to leave the group. I didn’t feel it was conducive to the mindset I need to adopt.

I have a reasonable chance of a long-term full recovery, an excellent chance of a partial recovery, and a possibility that parts of the function may be impaired forever. This latter point is mainly in connection to my right thumb and forefinger, but I’m not worried, I’ll still be able to brake and change gear, even if I can’t write with a pen or do up buttons. Different bits will recover at different times, the speed of this is determined by three things. First, the distance any muscle is from the brachial plexus, the further away, the longer the recovery. Second, the extent and type of damage to any given nerve, (ie is any given nerve simply demyelinated and to what degree, or are the axons destroyed - the former takes a few months to be repaired, the latter could take a couple of years to re-grow). The third will be all about the quality of the conditions that I can create to effect the best possible recovery.

This last part is largely down to me, and although it is not an exact science, there are lots of things I can do to optimise my convalescence. Fortunately I was only mildly impacted systemically by the Hepatitis. I actually saw a Consultant Hepatologist this week who told me that I’d been very lucky to have had virtually no other symptoms of the infection, besides the autoimmune response and raised resting heart rate, blood pressure and liver enzyme function. These are all either back to normal now or very close to it. No fever, no jaundice, little fatigue. His view was that my pre-existing health and fitness had protected me from anything more serious. I’m counting my blessings.

Cook your sausages properly everyone.

But my recovery will fall into three broad phases, the first of which is optimising the conditions for nerve re-growth and repair. This process, apparently, is like growing very delicate flowers in a greenhouse in Winter. So I have to do some moderate aerobic exercise, but NOT to the point of fatigue, eat plenty of fruit and veg, as well as other unprocessed foods that contain Vitamin B12 (I’m allowed a steak a week!), but limit processed and refined foods, particularly chocolate. I also need to get plenty of sleep, eradicate stress, and do what I can to maintain joint mobility.

The second phase will be to re-build the muscle function as the nerve connectivity is established, and it’s important not  to do this too soon, otherwise there is a risk of damaging the motor neurone again before they are fully established. So it will be the lightest of exercises on my arms to begin with. Once I have a bit of muscle strength I’ll be able to do indoor cycling, but not too much to cause fatigue.

Finally once the recovery looks well underway, I will be free to resume more challenging training, but again, being careful to build it up slowly, so thoughts of audaxes and multi-day rides are firmly on the back burner for now. I haven’t set myself much in the way of timescales, just doing the traditional “take it one game at a time” approach. I am positive I will get back on my bike and ride it as well if not better than I used to, and I hope that comes soon. But my priority is restoring my health, so I’m not going to risk that by being impatient. No, really.

Thank you to everyone that has been kind enough to send support and love in what is a difficult enough year already, I do really appreciate it more than these words can convey. 

And I learned new things such as how to get dressed using contortions I would never have thought possible, as well as learning to tie my shoelaces without the use of a functioning thumb. Every day is a school day. To top off this very unusual year my beloved Irons are in contention to actually qualify for Europe, on merit. I’m not getting excited, but it does cheer my spirits to see us playing with skill and heart.

My main activity for the next few weeks is going to be walking in the countryside as much as I’m able to. So the end of lockdown is a welcome sight on the horizon, I need to find new vistas to see and paths to tread. Not that I don’t really value the beauty all around my home and thank my lucky stars for it every day. I think we are all ready for a change, and I for one see the lights In front of me

A little divided

 So eleven days after my last post things have moved on. Albeit glacially, but given I now have use of a few more fingers, I know there has been progress. 

For a start it looks like a diagnosis. I definitely have a virus, and not in the vague, generalised way that doctors often insinuate you have one for unknown or unclassifiable conditions. No, I have Hepatitis E no less. Usually quite a mild illness, although I have hardly any of the symptoms that usually present. Maybe a bit of fatigue, but given the state of arms and concomitant analgesic consumption, it’s hard to tell the source of that. But the latest (of numerous) blood tests threw it up on Thursday, it also explains the raised liver inflammatory markers when there are no other signs of liver inflammation. It must have happened deep within said organ.

It may also offer an explanation for the rapid onset of excruciating pain throughout my shoulders and arms in the last few days of January. The key symptoms of rapid onset, that is, within 12 to 24 hours and no prior warning, coupled with the severity, and location, all point to Brachial Neuritis, an autoimmune response that, guess what, is often triggered by a virus. I’ll have a clearer idea on Thursday when I have my arm nerve conductivity tests (I hope), together with shoulder x-ray and further blood tests. Even if it isn’t that, my arms are not snapping back to life, so I suspect we still need to do what we can to find a cause.

The acute pain is gone, and I’ve cut back on the smarties, as my arms and shoulders are still inflamed, stiff and sore. Sleep has been a big problem, but even that is improving, aided by hot bath, hot chocolate and pillows placed at strategic points in the bed.

I realise I’m probably  getting close to some unpleasant physio, but I’m hopeful that the damage to the nerves is not as bad as I first feared. I still have lots of paranoid thoughts about nasty conditions I may have, as well as bouts of pessimism that this will be a permanent thing. But given I have managed two short walks in the last four days, lends optimism that there is a way back.

My family have been amazing, friends near and far have sent wonderfully supportive messages and encouragement, and my boss and colleagues have been quite simply outstanding. Better than any employer I’ve ever had, and that is high praise indeed. My boss even phoned me one late afternoon to tell me I was doing too much. You can’t buy that.

If you were one of those people who has listened, sent encouragement, good wishes or anything, then thank you, it has been an amazingly powerful in keeping my spirits up like you will never understand. In a cold, dark tunnel, with an icicle hanging over me, you were the light I moved towards. Like this metaphor.

Despite all of this, I’m still in the tunnel, and it’s still a horrible place to be in. I may not have the apocalyptic fear I had 24 hours into this episode. I also know my disablement is mild compared to those of others, and that I am fortunate to have money and resources to be able to tackle it. But the transformation that means I can not turn a key in a lock, or get a tin of soup from the middle shelf, is a stark contrast to the very fit state I had got myself into by the 3rd week of January. But I am grateful I can do things I could not do two weeks ago, velcro shoes are wonderful things.

Since I had my diagnosis of prediabetes at the beginning of December I had lost 4 kg, migrated to a very healthy diet, really upped the level and type of exercise, as well as curbed my enthusiasm for chocolate. Who knows, maybe that level of fitness has afforded a measure of protection. But it feels like a major setback from what I could do before. Knowing what I have and how to tackle it helps, sure, but it is not easy. One very major positive is that all that work has paid off in getting my blood sugar down to normal levels, albeit towards the top of the normal range. It shows I can reverse that.

So yes, it’s got better. I hope it continues as my fragile confidence can not take much in the way of physical setbacks. But I suspect it’s not going to be an easy Few months. That said, I’m determined in my usual way to face it and KBO as one of my friends would say. It’s what I do.

 So please continue to send messages like this.

I was catching my breath

“Sometimes, I wake at 4 in the morning, Where all the darkness is swarming, And it covers me in fear”

Well, here we are, 4AM in the UK and I can’t sleep. Not because anything is occupying my mind but because the pain in my shoulder joint just won’t let me. This is despite the painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Guess I got that dose wrong.

Fortunately I can tell most of this story with a simple cut, paste and edit from an earlier message to a friend. Modern life may not be solving one problem, but it certainly makes this public broadcast easier.

I have become a medical mystery over the last few days. I’m ok in myself (as we say - but what does that mean?) but have been through the mill a bit since last week. I spent most of Friday at ED because of unbelievably agonising and continual sudden pain in the joints & muscles of my arms and shoulders which started out of the blue last Wednesday afternoon.

They’ve got the pain stabilised now with some strong painkillers and anti inflammatory stuff (although there is still a fair amount of pain) and I’m undergoing all kinds of blood tests to see what it is- they don’t really know. Lots of theories ranging from Lyme disease to an autoimmune condition called Parsonage-Turner syndrome. My money is on the latter, as it fits with our family history. But to be honest, I’m past caring what, I just want it to stop.

I’m off sick from work, unable to do much and pretty tired- I can barely move my arms. I can type with a couple of fingers, a lot of the others have a numbness and pins and needles. The internet is, of course, a curse. I imagine it spreading to other parts of my body, or to my breathing muscles or heart. Or I find conditions which will have me dead in a week.

It’s also horrible seeing people around you powerless to help, and yet at the same time they do help. Mrs Mendip Rouleur - wow, what would I have done without her. Practically of course, but emotionally she has been amazing. I’m so glad she picked, and stood by, me. My family have all rallied round too, my son, brothers and particularly my amazing sister, probably the best Nurse in the world, and undoubtedly the best Sister. 

Beyond that my friends, colleagues and boss have all been brilliant too. Understanding, supportive, and keeping my spirits up despite the limitations caused by this pandemic.

Obviously I can’t ride a bike, or drive or even walk far. I can type with one finger of each hand but can’t write or put on clothes without pain. I don’t care about not riding, to be honest I don’t care if I never ride again, I’ll trade anything to have this sorted. Yes, we are even into “deals with God” territory. And I’m a staunch atheist.

Needless to say the British health response has been patchy. The Hospital was generally perfunctory.  I’m not talking medically, because there is little more they could have done. It’s more the complete lack empathy and understanding of what I am experiencing. I do realise they are under a lot of strain too, and some were lovely, it’s just they are not set up to deal with this right now. Maybe I have unrealistic expectations.

Of course, you may be thinking, it’s only a week, and it’s only some pain in your arms. I do appreciate others have things far worse and for much longer. And Thursday may bring some answers when the latest set of blood tests return, or we try other avenues. Things are looking up as at least now I feel I’ve got a good Local doctor on the case, so we’ll see.

 
I’m not asking for anything from anyone, just a bit of understanding. I have lots of dark thoughts in the last week, and I’m very frightened. Typing this has helped that too, for I don’t know what the short or long-term outcome of this will be. But I have retreated to Dr Lucy Hone’s excellent TED talk on resilience. Everyone can find it at this .Link. 

She talks about how resilient people have three key attributes, and they help too:

1. The awareness to realise that bad things happen to almost everyone, this is a normal and natural part of the human experience

2. Focus on what you can change, and ignore what you can not.

3. Ask yourself, is what I am doing helping or is it hurting?

You might be thinking why am I even writing this? The answer is really very simple. I can’t sleep and this passes the time and takes my mind of my shoulder. You realise a lot of things about how you use different muscles, and for what tasks and activities, when you can’t use them. It turns out that shoulders are really important in the sleeping process. The good news is that my next meds are due soon, it’s taken that long to type this. So just doing this post has been really helpful in getting me through the night.

Football is playing it’s part for me too, as ever. Despite the Irons capitulation on Sunday, the compression of the football season means there’s another game here already this evening. Of course we may lose, but it’s the best season for a long time.

Hopefully the painkillers on an empty stomach will induce some sleep, and if they don’t, there’s Netflix, or BBC Sounds or any one of hundreds of other options. Or just the music to send me somewhere else. I am, after all, Winscombe’s biggest Taylor Swift Fan 

Take care of yourselves.