Always interesting, often different

Patches for Pain

I started taking regular pain killers many years ago, as it was the only way I could control the pain that wrecks my body.

I fought against being dependant on painkillers for a long time, but eventually had to come to terms with the fact that the only way I could control this beast was by regular analgesia.

I tried acupuncture, relaxation, mediation, even cannabis (kindly given to me by the boyfriend of my then flat-mate) but nothing worked well enough to reduce my chronic pain. Eventually my GP suggested I attend a pain clinic, the consultant was very good, recognising my professional background and knowledge, he felt that the only option I had was to try morphine patches.

Deep down, I knew that was what he would tell me. I hoped he might be able to give me details of research outcomes of long term use – I was only in my early 50s at that time – but none was available. Despite this, I decided I would try the patches. I’m really glad I did. They really have made a big difference to my daily life.

The morphine has helped not only with my pain, but also with muscle stiffness. It is not a cure all, I still get pain if I stand for more than a few minutes, try to lift anything heavy or sit in my wheelchair for more than a couple of hours. At times I need to a take top-up Tramadol for break-through pain, especially in cold or damp weather but for much of my day my pain is bearable.

However, I’ve learnt four things that I want to share as I hope they may help others

Always have a spare patch…….

and carry it with you at ALL times. I learnt this the hard way. About a year after I started using morphine patches, I was enjoying a day out with friends when I slowly became away of my pain increasing and feeling very strange. When I went to the loo, I discovered to my horror that my patch was almost off and that it had folded over and stuck to itself!

There was no way I could unstick it. I was several miles from home, and didn’t feel safe to drive. Luckily one of my friends, another nurse, was able to drive me home. I can’t remember much of the journey as I felt a sense of unreality and as if I was going in and out of a series of tunnels.

Once I was home I quickly put on a new patch and climbed into bed, still feeling very out of sorts. My friend told me that I was experiencing morphine withdrawal and gave me much much reassurance that once the new patch had started to work it would soon recover, she also advised me to take 10mg Valium (I have a prescription for occasional use if I get severe muscle spasm in my back) to ensure I slept whilst the new patch was getting into my system.

The next morning I work up feeling fine, and much wiser.

There is now always a spare patch in my bag!

Take spare tape as well

Occasionally a patch came can become unstuck at the edges. Sometimes this can happen if skin is not completely dry when the patch is applied, or if I’m wearing really tight trousers which rub at the patch and cause it to come loose. Just using a strip of tape, can save the day and help the patch to re-attach to my skin. My tape of choice is 3M Transpore, as I find it the least irritant on my sensitive skin.

I also find 3M Transpore great if I’m having a blood test as I’m often allergic to the tape the venepuncturist uses. Supplying my own reduces my chance of skin reaction.

My Wipe is great for removing sticky residue

Once a patch is removed there is always a ‘tide-mark’ left, just as there is with a ordinary sticking plaster. I tried various acetone based removers but they all seemed to cause a skin reaction. Then I found My Wipe on Amazon, it’s it easily removes the sticky residue and doesn’t unduly irritate my skin.

Use Derma Cream to reduce skin redness

This honey based cream is really great, it has many other uses, including helping with wound healing and infection. Again buyable from Amazon

I usually apply it directly after using a My Wipe and it substantially reduces redness and inflammation.

Beware though, it is quite sticky, and washing or using a baby wipe to clean your hands afterwards is essential.

 

No way Ms Watson!

I am incensed by Shane Watson’s column in the T2 Section of today’s Times. The headline ‘Real Women don’t hold hands; why are we fetishising women’s friendships?’

Which planet has she landed from? No, that isn’t a typo, Shane Watson is woman journalist who writes for The Times on a regular basis.

Reading the article, I had to double check that it wasn’t written by Shane Watson the cricketer, so anti-feminist were her views.

I really do not understand why she is so uncomfortable with two women, whatever their sexuality, holding hands. She seems to regard women who are close friends and are photographed hand in hand as creepy and unnatural.

Well, I have news for her, close women friends have for years walked down a road arm in arm. You only have to look at old photos of trips to the seaside to see groups of woman showing their friendships, it not a new phenomena as Ms Watson claims.

She goes on to explain that she doesn’t have such tactile friendships with her own friends and that she will often speak to her male friends (in preference to female ones) about relationship issues. I think she is missing out on the closeness that other women value. For many women, being able to share concerns with another woman is an essential part of our lives. It provides a safe space where the closest of secrets can be shared and unbiased advice given.

I don’t believe that such support and comfort can be found in the often complex and unequal relationships women have with men.

Maybe Ms Watson’s unhappiness is some sort of unrecognised need within herself?

I remember as a teenager how angry and uncomfortable my own mother was when I was openly affectionate with other women, there was absolutely nothing sexual involved, just enjoyment of a closeness that I couldn’t share with my very undemonstrative parent. But, such was my mother’s discomfort, that her response was extremely vitriolic.

On talking with my mothers sisters, all of whom were warm and affectionate, they felt that her reaction was due to the fact that I was able to make friends easily with other women whereas my mother’s haughtiness pushed friends away.

Friendships between women are precious, valued, life enhancing and affirming, special and very important at every stage of our lives. They can bridge age gaps and enable knowledge to be shared between different generations of women.

Women who are secure in their sexuality and their relationships with other women do not deserve to be derided and condemned. Their choices should be respected and celebrated.

 

The Dreaded Envelope

The frantic phone call came a few days ago. My friend *Kim, normally so talkative, could hardly speak. ‘It’s come, I’ve been staring at it, I don’t know how to answer the questions.’ Once she’d got the first words out, the rest spilled out in a torrent; ‘If they cut my benefit I can’t manage. What if they try to send me back to work, I can’t even manage to do my volunteering one day a week.’

I’m really concerned at this, Kim had tried so hard to get a placement with a local children’s storytelling charity. She was thrilled when she was accepted, it was a real boost to her self-confidence. ‘Why, what’s happened?’ I enquire. ‘Since the form came, I’ve gone right back, I can’t cope with anything.’ Was her almost tearful reply.

‘Can I come over to yours? Can you help me fill in the form?’ She pleaded. ‘Yes, of course, come on Monday’ I quickly responded. ‘We’ll get it sorted together’ I heard a huge sigh of relief on the other end of the phone. Then, I was able to talk to her about her children, her son married last summer and now in the US on a work placement and her daughter, A beautiful bright young woman, taking her A levels this year.

A normal mum and kids, you might think. But no, Kim’s children have not lived with her for many years. Her son was the first to go into care, getting involved with drugs and the wrong crowd. Her daughter was eventually long-term fostered by a family member, after a placement where she was physically abused. The woman who has fostered her daughter is the only non-alcoholic, in a toxic family, with two generations of troubled drinkers.

Kim didn’t stand a chance, abused and neglected as a child, she left home to escape, and didn’t make good choices about the men she had relationships with. Remarkably she went to university and got a degree, but the only man she married, and the father of her daughter would not support his family, so Kim left, and never did get any money from him.

I first met her through an ex-girlfriend, who was trying to help Kim look after her children. Kim’s flat was as chaotic as her life had been. I remember Kim being so relieved when the police arrested her then boyfriend for attempted murder. As was I, having felt a coward for not wanting to enter her flat if he was there.

Shortly after that, the children went into care, Kim was determined to get clean and sober, she went to rehab, did really well. She was given a property in a new area, and plans were made for her to get her daughter back.

But then, everything started to go wrong. The house had no hot water, no heating, and Kim had very little money to get basics such as a cooker and a fridge. I visited her daily to give her some support, and despite everything she was cheerful and longing to have her daughter home. There had been short visits, then longer ones, but no overnight stays. Suddenly, the social workers decided that a long bank holiday weekend was the best time for Kim’s 7 year old daughter to return home.

The house still did not have heat, hot water or a cooker that worked. No carpets on the floor and no proper beds, only mattresses. The social workers knew this. Kim was scared, she knew the situation with the house wasn’t right, but she dare not refuse to have her daughter home.

By the Monday lunchtime things had gone wrong. Kim had just had her first sip of alcohol in over 12 months, when her daughter’s previous foster mum turned up unannounced, accused Kim of being completely drunk (she wasn’t) and dragged Kim’s crying daughter out of the house. When I got there 10 minutes later, Kim was sober, she had poured the drink away and was distraught at loosing her daughter again. We couldn’t contact the social workers, our messages were not returned. Nothing could be done until the next day.

Kim was blamed, the social workers not caring that such a quick return was almost bound to fail, especially with the house not suitable for a young child to stay in. This time Kim had no chance, her daughter was to be long-term fostered 200 miles away.

Kim was devastated, started drinking again and eventually went back to rehab. She moved away from London to a small rural town be nearer her daughter. I didn’t see her for a couple of years, till she returned to London, still sober, but having missed the culture of a big city.

She saved what little money she had to keep going north to see her daughter. Her son had a flat nearby and started training to become a social worker, hopefully a better one than those who had failed his family. He and Kim had also become Christians, which gave Kim a new family.

But now, Kim’s world is threatened by an uncaring government, bent on penalising people who are unable to work. Every benefit claimant is being reassessed. The process being run by a government contractor, ATOS who have recently announced they will be terminating their involvement in this discredited process.

All of us on benefits are affected, and some have not survived. Many people have died, having been told only days earlier they were ‘fit for work’ others have committed suicide. Such is the pressure placed on them by this inhuman system.

Anyone newly applying to the DWP for benefits is having to wait months to get the money they need to live on, making people destitute and needing to use Food Banks to survive.

Despite being sober, Kim has anxiety, this is a long term condition, she also has long-standing depression, arthritis, poor balance, vision problems and finds if difficult to concentrate and follow through on tasks.

Individually, these are not insurmountable problems, but all together they mitigate against Kim being able to work.

Hence her fear of filling out the form and being forced to compete for work, with little chance of obtaining, let alone sustaining employment.

Whilst Kim is well read and articulate, she was one of the people who encouraged me to write this blog, filling out the capability for work form has defeated her.

Kim’s creativity, with both words and her artistic skills, are no help. So I need to try and ensure the form is completed in such a way as to maximise Kim’s chances of retaining her current level of benefits.

The prospect if I’m unsuccessful, is too awful to contemplate. Would my lovely kind friend survive, would her long fought for sobriety be lost? All I’m sure of is that until Kim knows that her benefit payments are secure again, everything is at risk.

*Kim is a pseudonym to protect my friend’s anonymity.

The cartoon by Crippen Cartoons is reproduced by kind permission.

 

I’m writing this in the hope that I can find a solution to the glop that appears on my lenses after I’ve worn them for 4-6 hours.

The photo shows some of the problem. I couldn’t get a better image as trying to take a shot of the lens with limited vision whist holding a iPhone in one hand is no easy task! Previous attempts showed much more glop, but the image quality was far to poor to use.

The glop is white and slightly sticky to the touch. It causes me real problems with reading print unless it is both enlarged and bold. Trying to read grey print, for example, is impossible. The glop does really affect any close work I’m trying to do. It makes anything I’m reading blurred, as though I’m looking through a cloud.

Interestingly, it doesn’t affect my distance vision so much. So watching TV isn’t too much of a problem.

I’ve tried taking my lens out (it mainly affects my left eye – the one I had a partial re-graft on last year) cleaning it with Oté Clean 40, and reinserting the lens. But, it seems that once my eye has started to produce this glop it continues to do so and with an hour my close vision is deteriorating again!

Very annoying and leaving me with a limited window in which to use my iPad, do other close work or write this blog.

Any ideas as to why I get this glop and what I can do to prevent it are welcome.

I use a combination of Lens Plus and HYLO-care as my solutions.

I was at Tate Modern recently, waiting by the ever busy bank of lifts, hoping to catch one going down.

Then I saw her, a pretty girl, aged about eight. With her father and younger siblings, on an access day out maybe? No mum seen. With the youngest asleep in the buggy and the middle child holding on, he pushed his way into the lift. Leaving his eldest child teetering at the lift entrance.

She was willing her legs to walk her in, leaning forwards, hoping. Impatiently, her father, minimising her feelings, demands she join us. But all too quickly the doors shut. Leaving the girl, on her own, outside.

Surely no mother would do that? Would the girl be ok, did she manage to navigate the escalator? Instinctively, I had to wait and check. Being cross, that her father could be so unconcerned, unbothered about her safety. Would he have behaved in the same way in a busy shopping centre?

Fortunately, all was well. She re-joined her father and the younger ones. But, why did he not help his eldest child overcome her fear? How could he let her stay apart, heedless of any risk? Minimal though that might have been.

Enclosed spaces can be scary, bodies pushed against each other. As a wheelchair user I’m protected, safe from unwelcome contact. But that young girl was left alone, her fear un-faced. Excluded, her needs unmet.

I watched, as her father walked on, nothing said, she trailing behind. Why no interaction, why no concern? The English un-noticing, or too reserved to comment, much less intervene.

Will her mother be told? How will she feel? What help will the girl receive to conquer her demons?

I’m left wondering, concerned. Wishing I could have made a difference, a positive intervention.

 

Bang! Crash!

I thought it would break me. But my shell remained intact. I woke, peered out, trying to stretch fingers I can’t yet feel, puzzling as to what was going on.

Then realisation hit, the roofers were back. What they were doing dropping debris outside my bedroom window onto the scaffolding, is probably impossible to fathom.

Why, after the cleaning and painting of the exterior, should the roofers ascend to the heights, is a conundrum none answers.

Communication is limited, their language not English, my knowledge of Baltic tongues non-existent. I hoped the arrival of the amazon forewoman would produce some relief, but she has disappeared without trace, leaving mute colleagues behind.

Damage has already occurred, breakage of a window to the outside world, first covered up by darkness, and when replaced leaving an interior trail of dirt, dust and glass.

An exterior gate, off its hinges, padlocks missing, lays forlorn at the end of the patio steps. Unable to be replaced till the disassembling of the stickie-brick scaffolding. Leaving me vulnerable to attacks from below, they’ve happened before, will he ascend from his depths again?

Following foraging for food, I crawl back into my shell, warm and safe, immersed in the words. Intact until the throwers leave, when I can once again, venture into an uncertain world.

Rambling Rose, has been kind enough to let me reblog this great post.

Sometimes being sociable is hard, exhausting and can take more effort than we know we have

Recently the UK Justice Secretary Chris Grayling (often known as the Injustice Secretary) issued an edict banning the sending of books into jails. It’s caused, quite rightly, much outrage.

I have worked in several women’s jails, not as a Prison Officer, but a a Nurse Counsellor and more recently as an education worker for the charity Women in Prison. Strange as it may seem I always enjoyed working with the women and found they were keen and pro-active to improve their knowledge and qualifications.

Prisoners rarely get paid to be in education, often actually loosing wages as a result of choosing to learn. To me this is crazy. Often the reason women find themselves the wrong side of the law is because they have made, or been forced by circumstances to make, wrong choices. Educating women (and men) so they can earn money legally and provide for their families needs to be incentivised, not financially penalised.

Prisons and prisoners need books. As well as providing vital knowledge, they are also encourage women to improve their literacy and they often begin to discuss books and the issues than arise from what they have read.

For me, books keep me sane. I use a Kindle Paperwhite these days. Essential, as reading ordinary print is difficult for me and my clouding cataracts mean I need the background light.

Despite having a flat full of books I have to confess to still buying more books! If something new is published about one of my specialist interests, I will invariably get myself a copy.

Whether I’m reading crime fiction escapism or a fascinating biography, I am usually able to immerse myself into that world. I cannot imagine being deprived or restricted in my choice of books.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the Russian Philosopher wrote; ‘You can judge a society by how it treats it’s prisoners.’ One of the best ways of helping people become better citizens is enabling them to improve themselves. By denying prisoners books, we deny them rehabilitation.

I’ve used this app for my last two posts – I really wish I’d found it when I first started to blog.

BlogPad Pro is easy and intuitive to use, especially when editing and putting in hyperlinks. It is truly WYSIWYG. Inserting imagines is much smoother and simpler too.

I’ve found that posting to my blog is quicker and much more enjoyable instead of being a chore.

My only gripe – no proofreading function. Although the one in the ‘official’ app is pretty basic is does help someone like me who types much slower than she thinks!

Otherwise worth every penny of £2.99

(Warning – this blog discusses issues related to sexual abuse)

Under new laws being considered by government ministers in the UK, adults convicted of acts of emotional cruelty against children in their care will face the same threat of jail as those guilty of physical neglect.

These changes are amongst a number of updates to laws relating to Child Abuse which are being championed by the charity Action For Children

Whist I think this is very laudable, I am concerned as to exactly how this would work. Does it mean that in future people will be able to report their own parents for the emotional abuse the suffered in childhood?

Could children, supported by appropriate professionals and the Crown Prosecution Service, instigate a case which sees their parents being taken to court?

Will it drafted in a similar manner to sexual abuse laws in the UK which have no statute of limitations?

Will victims be treated appropriately by the courts? In my view, the present system is woefully inadequate.

My own childhood was, at times, deeply unhappy. My mother was over critical and unloving. Nothing I did was ever good enough for her. This meant I grew up with little self-esteem and looked to adults outside my family for emotional support.

There are two particular episodes that I recall very clearly. The first surrounds incidents when I was sexually abused by two different men. I was aged about 11 or 12 at the time.

The first was the dentist who ran a practice next door to the house I lived in as a child. Back then, in England, dentists were allowed to administer their own general anaesthetics. A practice that was only halted after several child deaths. The pervert who molested me, did so when I was in the dentists chair, I only found out what he was doing because I came-to part-way though his abuse. Despite still bleeding from his dentistry, I managed to get out of his house and find a neighbour, who eventually elicited from me what had happened.

This lovely woman was a teacher, and she not only explained to me about ‘bad men’ but also spoke to my parents about the incident, so I did not need to relive my trauma.

When our neighbour took me home, my parents greeted me with blank faces and I was told in no uncertain terms that what had happened was never going to be mentioned again.

The dentist, by the way, was eventually struck off and jailed for attacks on other children.

The second incident was subsequent to my mother’s eagerness to save money where I was concerned. Because she thought that the hairdressers in the town where we lived charged too much she insisted that I went to a woman in a nearby village. This woman ran a hairdressing business above her husbands grocery store. (My mother continued to use one of the the ‘too expensive’ hairdressers in town.)

The hairdresser was fine, I quite liked her, but her husband was a different matter. He always insisted in giving me a cuddle when I arrived (straight off the school bus in my uniform). His hands wandered all over my developing body. As he was tall and well built I was powerless to escape. Whilst I was waiting to have my hair cut, he would lure me into the stockroom at the back of the shop with promises of sweets or magazines and then press himself against me. I could feel his erect penis through my thin summer dress.

Because of what I had been taught by my teacher neighbour after what had happened to me at the dentist, I told my mother what this other man was doing, and got told by both my of my parents not to make a fuss as it was saving my mother money!

The last time I went into the shop, I was literally ‘saved by the bell’. As my abuser pulled me into the dreaded dark stockroom, the shop door bell rang. The incoming customer called out to find out where he was, I yelled in response and in his surprise, my tormentor let me go.

I ran out of the shop, unheeding of any traffic as I dashed across the road to a house whose occupants I knew. Thankfully, they were in and provided me with refuge, comfort, love and support.

I remember clearly the reaction of Phyllis, she gently coxed out of me what had happened, explained that it was not my fault, and that my mother should have known better as this man was known to be ‘too friendly’ with young girls. Her husband John reacted with anger, not at me, but at my abuser. John was a relative of Albert Pierrepoint, one of the longest serving hangmen in England, and made it clear that he wished his ancestor was alive to hang ‘that pervert’.

Eventually my parents were telephoned and my stone-faced father collected me. Again, he exhorted me never to speak about what happened to anyone.

I was in my 40s before I could speak about either incident. Whist I find this difficult to write about, I’ve come to terms with what happened to me and have been able to support others who have had had similar experiences.

The second episode had a much longer lasting effect on both my teenage years and adulthood.

My first three years of secondary school (from 11 years old) education were at a small and select Girls Grammar School. I did quite well academically and flourished in a atmosphere where we were encouraged to debate, discuss and become rounded young women. Towards the end of my third year my father’s job meant that we had to move quite a distance. This meant a change of school. I did not want to leave where I was, nor move to a school which was mixed sex as the new one would be. I knew that other girls whose fathers had the same profession as mine could go to a particular boarding school, either on a scholarship or at reduced fees. Two girls from my Grammar School had recently moved there and my teachers suggested I do the same. I was really keen on this idea, and my father thought it would be good for me. I took the exam and passed.

I remember looking at the brochure and the uniform list and feeling excited at the new opportunities I would have. Also it would have the added bonus of allowing me to live away from home and out of the clutches of my mother.

She, however, had different ideas, she was adamant that I should not go. I’m still not sure if it was just because she wanted me at home to do all the chores I was expected to do or because she had worked out that I had gay tendencies (something I didn’t understand at that time), therefore thinking that an all girls school would give me even more ‘wrong ideas’. My father had no choice but to support, all be it reluctantly, my mother’s views. She could be very forceful and arguing with her was pointless.

So I landed up at a large mixed sex Comprehensive School. It was a real culture shock, absolute hell, I was desperately unhappy there. I was bullied both verbally and physically and suffered two broken ankles in six months. The first time I was deliberately tripped up when carrying a tray of glassware, the second was when I was pushed down some steps into a biology pond.

My academic work suffered too. The school syllabus was completely different from the one at my Grammar School. Whilst I caught up in English and other arts, the maths and sciences were so divergent I failed to pass any O levels in those subjects. Not good, especially as I was determined to train to be a nurse where such exams were usually a requirement.

In fact, partly because of this I was unable to train at any of the main London teaching hospitals and landed up at a provincial one.

If I had been able go to the boarding school I had so wanted to attend, the early part of my career would have been very different and I would have had many more opportunities.

In the end I did well in my profession and got some wonderful chances and experiences, but that was in spite of, not because of my education.

I could relate many more childhood events which have negatively impacted on me. For instance, I can never recall having the wonderful loving relationship with my mother that some of my friends have been fortunate to have with their mothers. But I know other people will have experienced far worse than I.

Will this new law help them? Will it help youngsters growing up today?

I really hope so, but I also hope that somewhere in the school curriculum will be space to teach the next generation of parents how to nurture and protect their children.

However, if this law is enacted I will not be seeking legal redress. My mother is long dead, and my father elderly. Also, the way in which such victims are treated by the courts in the UK means I would suffer further trauma, for me, a price not worth paying.

The situation may well be different for others in similar or worse situations. I wish them well and hope that the redress they seek improves their lives.

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