working towards perfection (and failing)

Tag: illness

that was 2015 - New Year funny resolution 2014 wallpaper funny pics

2015 was the year of the Baby Niece. It was also the year of the spiralizer, but no, I don’t own one.

I flirted with the internet, using paying blogging platforms. One just upped and left with $48 of my hard-earned cash and the other is flirting back with me. I go by Poppylicious. My anonymity still means the world to me. I discovered survey sites and earnt lots of Amazon vouchers to spend on Christmas presents. I rock. Sometimes.

The Blokey turned the big Four Zero. Our kidney continues to do well.

I went to Wales. I went to Belgium. I lost weight with Dukan. I enjoyed a bit of Yorkshire hilly regions. We laughed with a real-life Bill Bailey. The boiler broke and then got fixed. The cats don’t argue quite so much anymore.

Work is slightly pants. It might get pantier, it might not.

Yes, I made that word up.

I am going to endeavour to write more here in 2016. I like writing on sites where I get paid, but I sometimes feel that I’m only writing or commenting to make money, and likewise, that people are only commenting on my posts to make a bit of extra cash. That isn’t what blogging is about to me. To me it’s simply about putting a little piece of myself out there, for the world to see. Or not. It makes me feel more valued, gives me a purpose. Besides, we’re paying for this domain; I should use it more often!

So, happy new year. I’ll be spending mine in bed, snuggled up with Blokey because he has Man-Flu. Huzzah!

Keep on rockin’.


taking the next step


Back when the world had just stopped being 1999 and was enjoying all that the early ‘noughties had to offer, I went a little bit crazy.  There were reasons for this craziness; breast cancer took my auntie, old age took both my beloved grandad and my beloved childhood pussy-cat, the Big Brother listened to stupid advice from me and left his wife for his masseur, and I put my abusive lover onto a train and kissed goodbye to him for ever.  This all happened within just seven months.

Oh, and I was being bullied at work by both a parent and by a fellow teacher.

Sucked to be me.

The craziness manifested itself in ways of which I’m not necessarily proud. I withdrew from life.  Having been signed off work with depression I locked myself away in my tiny little flat. By night I drank vodka, chain-smoked till the ashtray was overflowing and chatted to sometimes odd, sometimes charming, very rarely lovely, guys online.

By day I slept.

I also took risks, the most stupid of which was meeting guys in London for ‘fun’. This was only twice, but it was dangerous and ill-thought out.

The craziness didn’t last for long. I gave up my beautiful little flat and toddled off home to Mumsy for some tlc.  A few months later I met Blokey and the rest is history.

I have a lot of ‘what ifs‘ to ponder about concerning this odd little period of my life, and I’m mostly thinking about it now because if I wasn’t where I am right now (in a loving marriage, with a fabulous relationship with Mumsy) I think I’d be heading back to CrazyTown with a one-way ticket.

As it stands, I’ve been to the GP. I said I didn’t want to take antiDs. He asked what I wanted. I said I’d like counselling. He’s going to refer me.

My biggest ‘what if‘ of my craziness episode is wondering where I’d be now if I’d asked for counselling back when the world was enjoying its new adventure in the 21st Century.  However, I think I’d be in the same place I am now.  I’ve stumbled upon recollections, signs, the writings of people connected to me, which have made me a different person to the one I was in my mid-twenties. I’ve put the jigsaw pieces together and I’m solving the puzzle. I think that counselling will help … it may not complete the puzzle, but it may render it complete with just a few token pieces missing.

And it might be a waste of time, but I won’t know if I don’t try.

I had counselling once when I was at uni. I think it was towards the end of my first year, so I was still an impressionable eighteen year old. I was told I wasn’t depressed, he didn’t know what I was doing there and it was a waste of time. I saw him twice. I feel very angry now that he didn’t take the time to listen to me, didn’t crack away at the defences I’d built up and realise that I was very fucked up indeedy.

But I’m grateful that he didn’t because I wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t be the woman that I am if he’d been good at his job. And it’s very hard to explain that I actually like being me; it feels safe and comfortable. That was the hardest part about going to see my GP and admitting I need some sort of help or support. If counselling (and/or pills; he’s told me to consider them) do achieve what I want it/them to achieve then it means I might change. And I can’t bear the idea that I might change.

But I do feel calmer now, and that’s a blessed relief.

And I will write a happy happy happy post one day.

(i’m also having bloods taken so they can check my thyroid … i don’t want it to be my thyroid because i do need counselling, but i suppose it would be good to know that my deeply ingrained feelings are just being exacerbated by something medically treatable.)

wot no title?

I want a new settee and armchair. I’ve wanted a new settee and armchair for the last three years.

We’ll get them when we’ve finished paying for the display cabinet, says Blokey.

Blokey wants a spankingly brand new car. He’s wanted a spankingly brand new car for about a month.

Let’s get one now, says Blokey.

This morning we toddled off to the Skoda garage to chat to a man about a car. We were going to pop to the Amazingly Big Tesco afterwards but Blokey had forgotten the ‘triple points!’ voucher, so we made do with the Little Piddly Tesco near the Skoda garage instead. Somewhere between entering Tesco and arriving in the milk aisle Blokey became ill.

Ill tends to be sudden with Blokey. Obviously he IS ill, always. His body is constantly fighting waves of poison and waste that us ‘normal’ folk get rid of without a second glance. But when he becomes ill, it is sudden. Scarily so. This morning it was probably dehydration, but we can never be sure. He was out of breath, pale and feeling dizzy.

So I opted for snarkiness, and lots of huffing and puffing down the frozen aisle.

I am a bitch.

I don’t mean to be. It’s partly because I get scared; it’s terribly horrid to have to live with the fact that the person you love is – technically – at Death’s door and everytime he gets a pain or feels sick or feels out of breath the thoughts that go through my mind tend to be edging to Morbid Side. It’s also partly because it annoys and frustrates me. I feel as though I do everything. I am nursemaid, cleaner, laundress, chambermaid, pet-feeder, wheelie-bin operator, cushion plumper, chef, shopper, gardener …

Blokey does the dish-washer.

I don’t mind. Genuinely, I don’t.

What I do mind is that his brand spankingly new car is more important than my settee and armchair, and that on the one day we’d actually agreed to go and look at a new settee and armchair Blokey’s body decided that it was going to go skewy, but only after we’d been where he wanted to go, to talk about something we can’t really afford.

Cheers, Blokey’s body! I ? you, too.

Sometimes I just want to act like a two-year old and have one of those unfussy tantrums, where after five minutes the sobs subside into hiccoughs and everything is very-nearly hunky-dory again. Instead I have to act like an adult, and bite my tongue whilst gently stewing in my own anger.

I’m very good at it.

(We’re going to the furniture shop tomorrow, but only if Blokey’s body is being good.)

dead or alive

You lie awake in bed in the early hours of the morning wondering if your husband is still alive.  You heard him make a noise (it woke you up, giving you the excuse you needed to have a wee and play with your pussy; it saves the house from being shredded by his young claws) and since then you haven’t heard a peep from him.

The complete lack of movement worries you too.  The noiselessness is okay as you wear earplugs (a habit from a long-ago time when he snored so loudly it was like kipping in an aeroplane engine) so any noise has to be fairly loud to make you notice it.  But he should be twitching or fidgeting, and he isn’t.  This starts to panic you, and the panic causes you to tense up making your head ache painfully.  You can’t physically move as you imagine that the noise that woke you was his dying breath.

Why aren’t you moving?

You know that you can easily prod him, but he’s only sleeping and you don’t want to wake him up just to tell him you thought he was dead.  What happens if you prod him and nothing happens?  Who is the house insured with?

Random thoughts.

You start to write a blog post in your head.  You do this a lot when you’re unable to sleep, and mostly these blog posts never meet the World Wide Web as they become forgotten amongst hazy dreams and the cold light of day.  In your ‘i wanna sleep’ state you ‘write’ sentences such as, you get up and write a semi-naked blog post and, you played with your pussy.

The latter probably lacks something … maturity?

Eventually you can lick your lips and move your legs.  Slightly later you feel a twitch.  A minute or so after that he starts to scratch. 


You stop worrying about things like insurance, and instead you make a cup of tea, take a couple of painkillers (free from the NHS, just like the garden shed) and log onto the Internet to write a semi-naked blog post.  Later you will leave your husband at the hospital and have no idea when he’ll be back home.

Sucks to be you, eh?

I don’t think you’re selfish

Sometimes I get ever-so slightly irked. 

(… this statement is false; I often get very irked)

In this instance I get ever-so slightly irked by those who spout forth with self-righteous indignation about the selfishness of people who don’t want to donate their organs following their death. 

(… there was thread on, but I can’t find it now)

Once upon a time I had a real issue with organ donation.  I was adamant that when I die I didn’t want any of my organs to be used, and I certainly didn’t carry an organ donor card. 

But if you ask me why I felt that way, I can’t give you a reasonable excuse response.  I don’t think I ever had a reason … not a good one anyway, and if I did have a reason I certainly can’t remember it now, or put it into a sentence that doesn’t sound pathetic.  However, I was not selfish – I am completely sure of that. 

Organ donation is an incredibly personal choice.  The one thing we exclsuively own (usually) is our body.  We can choose to treat our body like a temple, or we can choose to neglect/harm it.  It belongs to us, and we have the right to say what happens to all the bits that make us who we are, even (or especially) upon death.  Other people may not like that, or appreciate it, but to be so judegmental and rude (calling someone selfish is rude) doesn’t make them a better person.

So, I do get irked when folk start calling other folk selfish for choosing not to donate. 

How very dare you!

The main argument seems to be well, you can’t take them with you!, which I usually associate as being said with a smug grin. 

I won’t be able to take my money with me either, but it doesn’t mean I can’t choose what happens to it after I die.

*smug grin*

A few months ago I popped online and became a registered organ donor.  I now have a card, which I carry with me in my purse at all times, and the people who need to know, know.  I am content with my decision.  It doesn’t make me selfless.

As an aside, I didn’t tick the ‘eye’ box.  I have a ‘thing’ about eyes and it’s the one part of me that I can’t bear to imagine being used.  Yes, it is partly because I’m squeamish, but I think it runs deeper than that and until I psycho-analyse myself I won’t be able to say how deep or why.  This doesn’t make me selfish.

I have tentatively put the wheels in motion to be a living donor for Blokey.  This isn’t selfless, and it isn’t heroic. 

In fact, I’d probably say the opposite; my reasons for wanting to do it are incredibly selfish

In an ideal world we would live in a society where we had to opt-out of organ donation, but we don’t yet live in that society and I refuse to think of someone as selfish for not choosing to pop online and become a registered donor.  I don’t even have the right to question somebody on their reasons for not doing so. 

(I suppose I might try and educate them though …)

And it makes me mad that some pompous people think they do have the right.


bedroom frivolity

The buzzing woke me up last night.  I was dreaming about wondering why my dad didn’t know who Carlos was (when it was pretty obvious; my SiL had put Love, Carlos the Cat … I could see it quite clearly in the email she’d sent him) when suddenly my brain is just filled with buzzing noises.  I discovered Blokey sitting up, bashing his alarm clock and looking  perplexed.

It’s not your alarm, I sleepily mumbled. 

He continued to try to turn his alarm off by taking the battery cover off in an attempt to remove the batteries.  I sat up.

It’s not your alarm, baby! (a bit louder this time.)

Mysteriously, my alarm chirped in three minutes later.  I thought it was his this time, and he thought it was the machine.  For a smattering of seconds I realised it must be Friday.  Why else would my alarm be going off?  Nope, I definitely watched the Big Brother eviction last night … it must be Saturday.

*sigh of relief*

So at six-thirty this morning I was crawling around in the cupboard under the stairs, with my bum in the air and some very unladylike language finding its way out of my mouth.  Yesterday we’d tidied the cupboard. 

I never need to use the manual bags of extraneal, put them towards the back.

Ha. Ha.

Blokey spent the whole of Thursday at the hospital; another day off work.  Fluid in; drain it off.  Repeat copious amounts of times.  All dandy.  The nurses scratch their heads in puzzlement and send him home with instructions to increase the amount of fluid that the machine puts in each time, from 2.2 litres to 2.5 litres.

Again, Ha. Ha.

Thursday night must have been the worst we’d had since Blokey started peritoneal dialysis.  I’m surprised the machine didn’t choke on its own buzzing.  The first two fills/dwells/drains took twice the time they should have done, which means the last two fills/dwells/drains didn’t really have time to dwell, so he couldn’t have dialysed properly. 

He rang the hospital.  They’ve finally agreed to let him borrow another machine for Monday night.  For months they’ve been saying that he obviously just isn’t cut out for PD and for months I’ve been saying maybe it’s the machine.  Oh no.  The machines are never faulty.

It probably isn’t faulty, but it’s a relief that they’re at least giving him the opportunity to rule it out.  And if it does turn out to be the machine?  Oh, angry post will follow!  If it is him then I think Blokey’ll be back on HD pretty soon. And however much I grumble about the PD I’d much rather he was happy about the way he has to keep himself alive.

Oh, and the good news?  He’s been activated on the transplant list.  Huzzah!

It must be that time of year again

My brain has gone poo-ey. 

I started to write a post about family (mine), but I can’t form my words to express myself in a way that makes sense.  It feels as though there’s a little man in my head and he’s trying to pull a big heavy door across my brain, forcing me to spend all my energy on holding him/it back.  I’m sure it’s just tiredness.

Tabatha-Cat has walked off in disgust because I ignored her. 


Just recently I’ve been besieged by forgetfulness.  There was the problem of Hugh Dennis.  It took me the whole of an episode of Mock the Week to remember his blasted surname.  Then there was the problem of which film I’d seen at the weekend.  After two days of being unable to remember (just days after seeing it) I had to ask The Blokey to jog my memory.  It was Surrogates, in case you were wondering.  I’ve just received an email from a friend reminding me that I had promised to send some photos; I’ve known that I needed to email this friend but for the love of goodness I couldn’t remember why. 

Sometimes I sit here and I forget what I’m doing.  I forget words, and I forget what I’m talking about.  I certainly can’t think clearly.  The Blokey has noticed. It’s making me sad.  And it can’t be normal, can it?

Rational Head informs me that it’s simply tiredness and stress, that I’m all wound up like a tenser than tense something that’s tense and eventually it will either a) drain away, or b) erupt quite spectacularly in a very public place.  At the very worst, says Rational Head, it’s mild depression and, says Rational Head, you’ve dealt with that before and you can deal with it again.  Married life has been stressful (not the being married bit; just the significant Big Bits that all seemed to happen because after we got married!) and so I can surely be excused a bit of depression?

Irrational Head is a bit of a minx.  She makes me Google my symptoms.  On the one had this Google lark is good; depression and anxiety can cause forgetfulness.  On the other hand, the one which Irrational Head waves in my face, it’s a tad bleak.  Parkinson’s.  Dementia. Adjustment Disorder.  You’ve got ADD, screams Irrational Head.  She’s probably right. 

The Blokey wants me to go and see the GP (this is the same man who wouldn’t go and see his GP for three years, when it was obvious there was something seriously wrong with him …).  I’m not so sure.  There’s a big part of me which wants to be diagnosed with something (anything) because then I know that I’m right and not just a bit doolally.  But if the GP can’t find anything wrong with me, and is hesitant even to diagnose anxiety or depression, then that would be awful … truly awful. 

In other completely random and totally off-topic news, The Blokey wants another cat.  I know he does because he wants us to visit the animal shelter from whence came Tabatha (and find her a friend).  He says that it’s not him who wants another cat, but me!  Tsk.  So, should we, shouldn’t we … Oh, the decisions!

My pussy needs some attention (and I have a hungry belly) …

How difficult is it to use a plate?

I was enjoying a meeting at work on my day off (short story, but needs no explanation) the week before last when our site manager popped his head round the door and played that game which involves mouthing, pointing and the recepient (in this case me) looking wildly around to see who is being mouthed to. The Blokey was waiting for me in reception with a sad look on his face.

“I have to go to the Big Hospital in maC; there’s a bed waiting for me.”

Oh, sucks.

He’d had a regular clinic appointment the previous day and the blood results had come back showing that his creatinine levels (nope, I have no idea what that is either) had sky-rocketed.

“We’ll take you off the Warfarin and give you a biopsy,” proclaimed one doctor. “We’ll leave you on the Warfarin and not give you a biopsy,” proclaimed another ten minutes later.

They took him off the Warfarin so that they could give him a biopsy on his kidley-widdly, which he had on Monday. On Tuesday they inserted a line into his chest so that he can have temporary dialysis, and on Tuesday night he had his first dialysis session.

Whoa! Slow down!

It may not (*fingers and other things crossed*) be as bad as was originally expected. The biopsy revealed four things wrong with his kidley-widdlies, all of which they think they can sort out. One of the things wrong was an allergic reaction to a pill he’s been on since last September, which causes kidley-widdly damage in one in five hundred people who take it.

(Sue! Sue!)

They also found that although the nerve endings were dying, his kidley-widdlies are trying to repair themselves. Hopefully the dialysis will be a temporary measure, until his kidley-widdlies decide to play ball and get to a point where they can take care of themselves. We’re hoping that it’s as temporary as temporary can be because for three nights a week I won’t see him. He’ll go straight from work to the the Big Hospital in maC (thirty miles from home – although our more local hospital does have a dialysis unit, it doesn’t do twilight sessions and he can’t afford to take lots of time off work because they’ve just made twenty folk redundant) and should arrive home at eleven-ish, by which time I’ll be enjoying a visit to the Land of Nod.

Still, if it makes him better then all is good, yes? He’s had three dialysis sessions so far and he does seem to have more energy and is acting a little perkier. It’s nice, even if cuddling up is difficult because of the bloody tubes sticking out of his chest. Oh, and his legs are getting hairier because of the steroids he’s back on. Tsk.

He was in hospital for just eight days this time. And I think my OCD tendancies get worse with each hospital visit. Don’t get me wrong, I love him being home … but when I got in from work on Friday there were crumbs all over the kitchen. This made me snarl foul things about the man I love. Just how difficult is it to use a plate?! And on the subject of difficulty, how difficult is it to make the bed? Or plump up the cushions? Or put the newspapers into the recycling box? Or just use one glass instead of piling them up?

I really must a) teach him how to do these things and b) learn not to let it get to me so much (a home is for living in after all) …

I’m desperate to mow the lawn, but think it might be a tad too early.

In sickness …

Since being told that The Blokey has Nephrotic Syndrome (although I still need a definitive response to the question, does he really?) we’ve indulged in an inside joke involving the approximate area of my right kidney and the words, I’ll have that juicy one please.  It’s only funny if you’re us, obviously.

The following is second-hand information, which was told to me by a very upset Blokey who had just arrived home from seeing his Renal Consultant at the Big Teaching Hospital in maC.  I can’t guarantee that it’s fully accurate, but even if it isn’t it’s still heart-wrenching to know that most of it probably is.

Apparently his kidney’s are only functioning at 33%.  This is down on October (when he was in hospital) when they were functioning at 50%.  If this trend continues he’ll be on dialysis quicker than you can say anything.  And yet less than a year ago we were told that even if he did eventually need dialysis it would be a very long time in the future.  Transplant?  Not an option, currently.  He’s an overweight chap, probably due to the condition, which he must have had for years before it was diagnosed.  He’s lost a lot of weight and most of what he still carries is actually fluid retention and/or protein which has leaked into his body.  They can’t get any medication (and they seem to have tried most things) to kickstart his kidney’s into functioning properly.  If they can’t get his kidney’s functioning better than they are, then he can’t lose the fluid/protein! 

Irony?  I’d like to bop Irony on the head and tell him to Piss Off and leave us alone. 

And what am I supposed to say to the man that I love?  I can’t pat him gently on the head and say, there there, it’ll all be better soon.  He’s not a little boy who just needs a plaster on his grazed knee.  He’s a grown man who has a career, a car to run, a mortgage to pay and a wife to keep.  He wants a family. 

I can see everything we have slipping away from us.  It’s not nice.  It makes me want to curl up like a four year old on my Mumsy’s lap.  Sticking my thumb in my mouth and ignoring the world around me would be far more comforting than being the Strong One. 

My only hope is that he misunderstood what the consultant was saying.  But how likely is that?  Needless to say, I will be at the next appointment in six weeks. 

I’m going to go away and scream now (and dye my hair, probably) …

(hugs, thoughts, prayers and Good Vibes would be very much appreciated at the moment, kthxbai)

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