So a bloke wrote to me saying what a waste of NHS resources I am, and why didn’t I listen to them the first time round. He has a point.
It’s only been three months since I was in hospital last, and this time the stakes got even higher. I didn’t take on board that a spell in hospital only put me back on the road it did not fix the engine.
It’s just sinking in. I am a weedy old clanger and my lifestyle has fucked my body. Too many deadlines. Too many high tension jobs. Too much adrenaline. Cortisol overload. I started high pressure work when I was 18 and I’ve carried on regardless.
Finding a new paradigm is hard. Very hard.
Now the truth is I was poleaxed by all the drugs and procedures in July. This time the gentlemen with glasses on his head and a string of letters after his name looked me in the eyes and told me I was ill. Very ill.
‘Do you hear me.’ he reiterated, his beady blue eyes boring into me.
I did hear him. But I couldn’t accept what he was saying.
Who wants to be told that they are very ill?
Who wants to be talked about by a posse of medics at the end of their bed talking in latin and discussing my ailing body like I was a specimen.
I looked up life expectancy of their diagnosis and I have two years max, unless I do something. But doing something is the difficult thing. 8 meds a day, dropping them morning, noon and night. 8 really heavy drugs that are meant to keep me alive, but are not making me better, 8 massive horse pills to keep my organs working. The bloke has a point – why don’t I just listen to them and stop wasting the NHS’s time.
I am listening but there’s something wrong with the procedure.
I don’t just want to function I want to be healthy.
So now I’m on the look out for an holistic healer that can identify my issues and put in a plan that I can work with alongside allopathic medicine.
I did have a wonderful man but he fucking died on me.
And so now I’m seeking. Seeking a biochemist who understands the ins and outs of statins and beta blockers. Somebody who can help me transcend the terrors of opiates and work with me to get my organs working again.
I have come across a writer who healed himself through all sorts of meditation and thinking, but I am so so tired and small print hurts my eyes the inside of my head is rattling around in my skull and my feet are cold. I thank the man who criticised my wayward ways, I thank him for waking me up.
Finally at the age of 75 I am having to be patient.
I am having to be kind to myself.
I am having to stop.
I am having to surrender.
All that pyschobabbling language that is so irritating is now part of my vocabulary….I am having to listen to my higher self which is telling me all is not lost and it’s time to go to bloody bed.
The cat is lying next to me on the table, not a care in the world. The rest of the house is asleep, only the ticking clock and an occasional gurgle from the taps. I will go to bed with two hot water bottles and a head full of what-ifs in the hope that tomorrow I feel better than today.
Write how you feel – even if you end up writing the same things most days. It’s a kind of exorcism. Several weeks ago, I wrote some paragraphs on Substack describing how I wake each morning & remember what is happening every day to those in Palestine, in Syria, in the Yemen and in Lebanon. How I was safe (how privileged we are!). And now I also wake & my fearful concern extends to the Congo, to Sudan, to all the places in Africa exploited by everyone else.
And now I also wake to fear for my friends & former lovers whose bodies are simultaneously seizing control & breaking down, trapping their genius selves in the cabinet of their minds.
That writing (the first for so many years) lifted a little of the emotional burden even if it reached only a few readers.
Take care, sweet girl.