Two sleeping monsters…

Two sleeping monsters curled up in their beds.
One tired mummy desperate for her meds.
Covered in bruised cos she’s so blooming clumsy.
Trying to ignore the stabbing endo pains throbbing in her tummy.
Waiting for the time when she can get some sweet relief,
From the couple of hours of blissful, calming sleep.
Before the madness starts again in the morning.
When the monsters wake up grinning and yawning,
Wanting to play trampolines on the bed
Exactly where mummy lays her weary head.

Chronicles of a Clumsy Cow

I have two awful, debilitating conditions.  Endometriosis being the most volatile and painful condition.  Extreme clumsiness being by far the most embarrassing.

It’s not sweet clumsy like Bridget Jones or Miranda.  It’s absolutely devastatingly, red-faced inducingly, stuck on crutches for 6-8 weeks at a time type of clumsy.  I can’t just trip up or fall over and walk away with my head held high with a beautiful man shaking his head and laughing but falling in love me.  Oh no.  I have to fall over and not be able to get back up again.  Let me take you on a journey of a couple of my more ridiculous clumsy adventures…

There were a couple of occasions in my previous incarnation as a call centre goddess.  The worst one by far was one Tuesday evening at the end of my shift in November.  I was walking down the stairs and could see the hubby waiting to pick me up outside the main doors.  I was happy – not just because it was the end of my shift, but because I had a college course that night – and I’d just been to a concert and was still on a high from it.  That happiness lasted approximately two seconds longer.  I stepped down and somehow my foot missed the step I was aiming for and it landed on it’s side one step lower.  I clattered to my backside in a rush of green parka coat and red handbag.  And a lot of swearing.
A couple of my colleagues were a couple of steps lower than me and heard my tumble.  One turned round and rushed back upstairs yelling ‘First Aider!’  When a First Aider asked who it was for, the git replied ‘guess’.  And, they guessed.
I still don’t know whether the fact that he replied ‘guess’ or the fact that they did guess pissed me off more.

Then there was the fact that I fell off the chair last Sunday when we went to the small gig with my brother.  Well, I didn’t actually fall off the chair.  I just went to sit in a chair that wasn’t there any more.  And ended up hitting another chair on the way down.  Giving myself a hell of a bruise (which is still there) and a swollen elbow (which still hurts – although it’s not broken, just badly bruised).  I was stone cold sober.

Speaking of being sober and injuring myself…  The long weekend over New Year myself and my best friend spent away in Dublin is the perfect example.  The entire time we were there I was pretty much plastered.  Apart from the morning before we were due to leave.  I decided the flat we were staying in was in serious need of a clean and so in my socks on a laminate floor I started to sweep.  A little bit too vigorously.  I ended up breaking my toe.  Not entirely sure how, I just know I slipped and whacked it on the door jamb.  As you do.
I’d fallen over so many times that weekend in Dublin.  Cobbled streets, beer and a clumsy student don’t mix particularly well.  But the only time I really hurt myself was that morning when I broke my bleeding toe while I was sober.

Then there were all the times when I was a student that I wound up on crutches.  Absolutely, genuinely too many to list.  Some of them drunken exercises in complete daftness, others just normal happenings.  Like the time I was walking with my friend to the booze shop and fell off the curb…  oh no, wait…  I was a bit drunk then.  We were celebrating handing in our dissertations…

Back to the present then.  In the call centre I’d regularly bump into the support posts that never ever moved, I just forgot they were there with my complete lack of spacial awareness.  I regularly walk past a door and become entangled in the handle.  Even when it’s a knob shaped one.  I once ran down the stairs so quickly in the MiL’s house that I whacked my forehead on the overhang and knocked myself out so badly I got concussion – I still have the lump nearly nine years later.  Not to mention the time I went into a soft play area to rescue the female shaped monster and came out with concussion, whiplash and a tea-towel full of ice on my head.

The fact that this bout of nearly two months on crutches hasn’t been through clumsiness is hard to digest for most people who know me well.  Honestly.  I didn’t fall, misplace my step or kick anything.  The ligaments around my Achilles just gave way.  Could happen to anyone.

One ‘Of Those’ Days…

Yesterday can only be described as being ‘one of those’ type of days.  From being busily rushed off my still injured feet to crying buckets for no apparent reason down the phone.

The day started off completely mental – having to take the Female Shaped Monster to a friends house to get her to school as we had to the the Male Shaped Monster for his first full day at his new school.  Because it was a voluntary day there – to try and get him more integrated with his new peers – we had to take him ourselves – which isn’t a problem.  As soon as we parked up the problems sort of started – the Male Shaped Monster fell straight over onto his bottom in some mud and the hubby forgot which entrance we were supposed to go in.  So, a very grumpy Male Shaped Monster and an increasingly grumpy me traipsed aimlessly round after the hubby before he declared he forgot which entrance and dragged us all the way through the school and up and down a million or so stairs.  Only to find out the entrance I was pointing to was the right one.  The Male Shaped Monster, once he’s hung his coat up and deposited his lunch box, wandered off happily with the new teacher, while we got trapped inside the school from the influx of small people shaped monsters entering the building.

When we eventually escaped (er, I mean…  you know), it was to the local hospital for physio on the foot.  We were a bit early though, so first we went and paid for concert tickets at the Monsters’ normal school, went for a ‘Faker Special’ sandwich at the local cafe (it’s a very crispy bacon – so crispy it’s like a crisp – sandwich with a bit of tomato on it) before traipsing to the hospital.  Verdict – still on the crutches for another two and a half weeks, although I am allowed to reduce down to one when I’m at home.  Totally getting fed up of them now – although the tops of my arms are decidedly less flabby than they were a month ago…

Myself and the hubby then spent an hour or so of relative tranquillity going for a drive through some of the stunning country side that we have the outstanding luck to live near.  You can go from horrid suburban ‘villages’ (like the one we live in) to real stone built country cottage villages with nothing around but green hills and farms for seemingly miles around in the matter of minutes here.  When you’re in the country cottage villages, you’d be so hard pressed to believe that there’s a bustling town a mere hill and valley away.  All you can see are padded body warmers worn by horsey women and old style farm LandRovers.  It’s a culture shock in the space of ten minutes.  Just five miles down the road are the Weatherspoons, discount shops and general hustle and bustle favourited by the suburban residents compared to the butter scotch coloured brick cottages and smokey chimney tranquillity of what every one imagines the country side villages and hamlets to be.

Unfortunately, we had to go home as is our want, and that’s when I decided to burst into tears as the Health Visitor gave us our monthly call.  She rings us regularly just to check we’re coping OK with the Male Shaped Monster’s autism and everything else that can bring.  I bought her up to date on the school change and then informed her I’m on the crutches and under the Gynea’s for my stomach etc.  Then burst into tears.  It’s not really surprising when you think of the stress the stupid people have put me under over the last week.  I explained the situation to her – explaining why I’d written the blog post about what happened when I was a child – and how the idiots had twisted it to their own means to cause me more pain.  She’s not happy.  Not happy at all.  In fact – she called the idiots ‘evil’.  Then, she begged me to go back to the GP for more pain relief as she’s not particularly happy over the failure of the Zoladex.  So, an appointment was made to see my GP (who, I might add is wonderful) at 5pm.  Completely forgetting the Female Shaped Monster had to be back at school for 5.30pm for her Easter Disco.

The next couple of hours were manic.  Monsters picked up from school – barely getting to the new school in time to pick up the Male Shaped Monster.  Straight upstairs choosing a suitable dress for the Female Shaped Monster to wear.  As we were being sickeningly girlie, the Male Shaped Monster started howling.  He’d climbed onto the chair to reach for a banana and promptly fell off.  He was clutching his arm in a very particular way (he’s broken his arm before – last September – when he fell off a friends trampoline.  On his first full day in school.  Pattern, anyone?).  We manage to get some pink Calpol into him (he won’t take anything other than pink Calpol), and he calmed down a small bit.  We decided to see how he got on while I went to the Drs.

At the Drs (the hubby had to leave me there as he was running late to take the Female Shaped Monster to the disco), he also wasn’t happy with the failure of the Zoladex.  Considering I’ve got the Mirena Coil in still as well, it’s highly unusual that I’ve bled at all.  He’s recommending I have a Laparoscopy (for those who don’t know – it’s Key Hole surgery to see what’s happening in my stomach – not a curative operation, but an investigative one.  Sometimes some lasering is able to be done during the procedure – but that’s at the surgeons discretion) and is wanting to know what is said when I venture back to the hospital for my next implant injection.  He also prescribed me some new medication.  I’m still on Amytriptaline but also Meptin, instead of the Tramalamadol.

When the hubby came back for me, it was clear the Male Shaped Monster was still in pain.  So, a three hour trip to the children’s A&E was in order.  He was so brave though as he went for his X-Ray all on his own – the first time he’s ever agreed to leave our side in a hospital.  Luckily, despite the Dr feeling that his arm was broken, there was no break – just a bad sprain.  So he’s off school today with his arm in a sling to protect it.  Although he woke up an hour or so ago, he’s currently fast asleep again.  Pain affects the Male Shaped Monster in a way that he just wants to sleep.  He becomes very cuddly and clingy and sleepy – quite like a toddler – rather than an almost five year old.  The Female Shaped Monster stayed with the MiL last night and is due home soon to get into her uniform and to go to school.

On a happier note, last night, the hubby and I decided to have a short holiday with the monsters.  We can’t afford much, just a camping trip in Shropshire.  It’s not very expensive and we’re going to be near enough to take The Monsters to Iron Bridge and maybe into Wales.  We’re also able to save for spending money for it.  Unfortunately it means not being able to get a festival I help the PR with, but the Monsters have to come first, and this camping holiday will be just what the Dr ordered for us all.  We haven’t had a full holiday as a family of four at all.  We’ve had trips to friends houses and stayed there a few nights, but it’s not the same as a holiday – just the four of us on our own – not intruding on anyone.  I can’t wait!

Meet the Hubby…

As it’s Friday (I’ve blogged before about my general dislike for Fridays), a night when most people I’m acquainted with are apparently out and getting drunk and/or going to a fabulous gig and then ending the night at a decent indie club – and a night where I am currently sat at home alone in bed while the hubby’s at work.

The hubby.  That mysterious figure I refer to occasionally.  The bread winner.  Also known as the wonderful man who thought I was a good enough ‘catch’ to marry and have two children with.  Or, more commonly, the one with a mahoosive lack of common sense.

I know that sounds cruel, but if you knew the hubby, you’d know it’s actually quite true.  I love him with all my heart, don’t get me wrong.  in fact, I adore him.  He’s just so dizzy.  Which works twofold.  On one level, it’s completely endearing.  On the other, it’s maddeningly frustrating.  He’ll probably kill me for this, but hey ho, it’s my blog and it’s my ‘therapy’ in essence to type everything out in coherent ramblings.  Either that, or I somehow try to become a stand-up comedian – and we all know that that’s something that’s never going to happen…

Anyway.  The dizziness of the hubby.

When ever I ask him to nip to the supermarket for something and to be quick, I could genuinely run a book on how long he’s going to be.  Over 15 minutes, over half an hour or, an hour.  In fact, scrap that.  It’s not just asking him to nip out, it’s asking him to do anything.  He’s not the quickest mover from the blocks.  In fact, I think Bolt could be crossing the line before it even occurred to the hubby to set off.  OK, maybe I exaggerate there, but you get the gist.

He’s also really forgetful.  On that one though, we’re together.  We’re both terrible.  I sometimes think the only way any bills get paid are because we have direct debits.  And for the one’s that aren’t on direct debits, they’re written down in black marker on the calendar, in my diary, on the fridge…  If one of us is told something by either of our parents, you can guarantee half an hour later, we’ll have forgotten about it.  Unless it’s something to do with the monsters, we’re terrible.  We really are.  I think we’re going to have to start having a post-it note wall in the house, with little reminders for us.  Pay this bill (for the weekly ones), bring in the milk, fix such and such, bring in the milk, pay this bill, don’t forget your head…  That sort of thing…

He’s a bit of a flapper too.  If he can’t put his hand directly on something, he’ll flap.  And, my word, will he flap.  He gets all sort of breathy and high pitched when he’s agitated – which happens when he’s certain that something’s gone missing.  The last time we had a night out together (we have a ‘date night’ once a month without the monsters…  Or, we try to at least.  Sometimes, we do forget) the following morning, I had asked him to find my handbag as we needed something from the shop.  He starts looking around downstairs, but doesn’t move anything.  He just looks intensely at things, as if he’s got X-Ray vision.  I’m busy sorting something out (or, more likely curled up in a ball in pain), as he goes upstairs beginning to huff slightly.  Ten minutes later he’s shouting that he can’t find it anywhere.  It’s gone.  I roll my eyes in a slightly teenage-esque show of exasperation and start coming upstairs intoning that if I find it straight away he’s in trouble.  I walk into our bedroom, and it’s right there.  In the middle of the floor.   The hubby gets even more flappy while I dryly raise an eyebrow and smirk at the bright red bag.  He didn’t get into trouble by the way.  Other than a Medusa esque dirty look that is.

The worst though is the fact that he sometimes just opens his mouth to swap feet.  He just doesn’t think before he utters anything.  Some people think he’s a wind up merchant because of it.  Others think he’s cocky.  It’s neither.  It’s just simply his dizziness.
A couple of years ago, I fell down the stairs at work.  I just missed the step and really badly sprained my ankle.  I was all for going home, but work insisted I had to get it X-Rayed because there was an egg sized lump on the side of my foot.  It looked, potentially, broken.  Anyway, the hubby took me to the local A&E, where I sat with my foot bare and stretched out in front of me, with the egg sized lump clearly showing.  It was a fairly quiet night, with only a couple of other people waiting to be seen.
The hubby, at the time, had just started working in a department store over Christmas having been made redundant from his last job (it was the start of the recession), and he’d been on his feet since around 6am that morning.  However, his comment of ‘Ooooooooooh, my feet are really hurting’, could have waited.  Especially with my foot looking like I had broken a bone in it.  The other people in the waiting room stared at him and me, as I looked up from my foot, to his feet and back to mine.  The words ‘Oh, shut up,’ were uttered fairly quietly, but they still raised a chuckle from the other people.  And him, a few dirty looks.

Slightly idiotic answers aside, he’s a fabulous hubby.  He puts up with a hell of a lot from me and truth be told, apart from the dizziness, I really don’t have too much hassle from him.  He doesn’t drink heavily, he doesn’t gamble a lot (the odd flutter every now and then on the National is about his limit), he doesn’t stop out to all hours of the morning.  He’s always there when I need him (eventually).
I probably don’t tell him nearly enough or show him enough.  I don’t know where I would have been these last few months without his support. When I’m ill he’s there to hold my hand. When I’m sick, he’s there to rub my back. When I’m upset, he’s there to dry my tears. When I’m hurt, he’s there to kiss away the pain.
Over the last week, I’ve had an epiphany. I’ve fallen back so deeply in love with him – not that I’ve ever been out of love with him, but I’ve suddenly remembered how it feels when I see him. How much he lights up any room he’s in with his easy going nature and amazing sense of humour. The look in his eyes when he looks at me which make me go weak at the knees.
Yes he’s flawed – mainly when he snores… But I wouldn’t change him for the world.
Hubby, I love you. Deeply and sincerely. I really, really love you – except from when you snore and keep me awake all night.

 

The Female Shaped Monster

I’ve talked at length about the male shaped monster and only mentioned in passing my first born – the female shaped monster. She’s seven years old, stupidly tall and as daft as a brush – but then again, with us for her family, you really couldn’t expect her not to be totally daft.

My daughter is beautiful. There’s no arguing about it. And, I’m not even just saying it because she’s my daughter. She really is stunning. She has gorgeous hair, that actually does as it’s told, isn’t too thick, bushy, frizzy, curly or fine – it’s just right. She has amazing eyes that change colour slightly depending on her mood, but that are always bright. She has to wear glasses sometimes as she has double vision (sadly inherited from me and my mum), but they just somehow make her even more beautiful when she’s wearing them. She has excellent style when she’s not insisting on wearing totally pink, and she has a naturally sportily shaped figure.
She’s also incredibly clever. She’s attaining above the national average for her reading ability, just above the national average for writing and the national average for maths. She has an elephantine memory – remembering events that happened when she was still in nappies and the pram. There’s one place we can’t go past without her chiming up ‘Remember when you fell down that hole, Mummy? When you were pregnant with the male shaped monster?’ That incident happened when she was 20 months old. She has no business remembering it now…

Her daftness is possibly her most lovable trait though. I was saying to a friend a couple of days ago that she’s as clumsy as me and has her dads lack of common sense. My friend nearly spat her coffee out chuckling. Mainly because it’s so true. When she first started school we were receiving daily ‘bumped head’ reports for her from where she had crawled under tables and not known how little room there was… The funniest thing she ever did was flushing her underwear down the toilet when she first started in the foundation unit.
She also loves being centre of attention. What seven year old diva (sorry, girl) doesn’t? It is endearing and a fact of life, but sometimes it can be incredibly frustrating. This evening, while I was doing an over the phone interview with a Scottish band, she came into the bedroom where I was working and started licking my arm. Apparently, she was imitating the cat. I have explained patiently that that possibly wasn’t the best time to pretend to be a cat. Especially as I would have pushed the cat off the bed if she’d have been licking my arm while I was trying to conduct an interview…

I do try and give the female shaped monster special time. Just me and her without the male shaped monster – girly time – if you will.  Unfortunately, a couple of those occasions haven’t gone too smoothly.  There was one evening which we’d set aside for watching films eating crisps and drinking lemonade, until I had a massive asthma attack and couldn’t find my inhaler.  The evening ended with me on a ventilator supplied by two paramedics and an ambulance and the female shaped monster making me a ‘get well soon’ card.  The last time we had proper girly time was at a local farm where we were being keepers for the day (she loves animals).  Unfortunately, this particular farm also has a reptile house with lots of snakes in it – and I’m terrified of snakes.  So much so, I can’t even look at them on the TV or in books.  Yes, I’m that pathetic.

So then, that’s my female shaped monster.  Beautiful, crazy little thing that she is.