the brilliantly leaping gazelle

If you are reading this and are eating, I would advise you to stop now and return when you’ve finished eating.

When I awoke in hospital one of the many things that confronted me, in addition to my body not working as it used to, was that I had suddenly developed a rather nasty gag reflex. I would vomit with little or no warning, and this coupled with my lack of fine motor skills, made for a very messy state of affairs. Over time I got used to recognizing the early warning signal that was an odd taste in the mouth that gave me ten to twenty seconds of an impending Technicolor yawn. Quite why or how this gag reflex happened or what triggered it, and more importantly, what I could not do to prevent it avoid wasn’t clear. Over time I discovered that brushing my teeth acted in someway as a trigger for vomiting. (Not that vomiting happened every time I brushed my teeth. That would be too simple, so to make things interesting my body added an element of jeopardy to proceedings, so it was completely random as to whether I pebble-dashed the porcelain.) Things got progressively worse and it led to a state of affairs where I was understandably reluctant to brush my teeth.

My vomit could be either the rather watery like bile liquid which normally emanated forth from my stomach to herald a new day, or if I had just eaten there would be the sink-plug plugging sludge of undigested food that I would examine for signs of blood. I must point out that I have a small toilet in my room – perfunctory, not palatial – and I sit on the toilet whilst my head rests conveniently for my mouth to give generously to the sink. For despite the smell of vomit being rather unpleasant, this is of minor significance to my overweening fascination with any of my bodily secretions. (A tissue after I’ve blown my nose in can be a  thing of curious wonderment.) Or sometimes for variety when there’s no food or drink in my stomach, it can to be a succession of dry retches that seem to be both never ending and not the sound you’d imagine no human could produce. The one saving grace out of all of this vomiting was that I’ll get the early warning, then be sick and then usually immediately feel much better. I know, weird, right? If you think I’m treating vomiting with a casual disdain, you’d be right.

In my late teens and until a kidney infection was identified, I was prone to bouts of vomiting, which also had an element of jeopardy. There would be some breaks between each outbreak of vomiting, some hours, days or weeks apart – although thankfully not as distant as the gaps between litter bins, drains, and other handy receptacles I’d make use of. I could drink a cup of tea at my house, set of for school feeling fine and then suddenly just know I was going to be sick and the need to find somewhere to evacuate safely was paramount importance. Of course one can be sick, one can’t control that but what you can control is where you are sick. I would argue that one of the signs of a blatant disregard for people and surroundings would just be to selfishly vomit wherever one happened to be. One evening a while ago I had been sick earlier in the evening. Now, fast-forward to later that evening where myself and a my girlfriend are in bed. I sit up suddenly and make frantic gestures. She rushes to get a bin and upon finding one, she places it under my mouth whereupon I deposit some vomit into it. “You held your vomit in your mouth?”, she exclaimed. To which I replied, “Of course.” because it would be bad form to do otherwise and besides which, it was a way of demonstrating my remarkable self-control.

“You’re not normal!”, was all the thanks I got, although she did try to mollify it somewhat by protesting that she wouldn’t have minded changing the sheets and the bedding, but I pointed out that emptying the contents of my stomach into the bin was a lot easier to do.

However this state of affairs was unsustainable. And so I put my name down on a waiting list to see a specialist dental unit at my local hospital, this is when I discovered that the wheels of bureaucracy had brakes on. It was one of my fillings falling out, coupled with the gag reflex which ruled out as wholly impractical anything other course of dental treatment. I mean, most dental surgeries are all about clinical efficiency and I whilst I might be clinical, efficient I’m not. Finally after nine months I got an appointment. The dentist was as competent as the secretarial team were not. He listened to my problem and conducted a precursory examination of my mouth before sending me down for an x-ray. I must tell you I’ve never seen an x-ray machine like it. It was something out of Star Trek. In essence it was a revolving scanner that went around my head and there was a grip to hold the head firmly in place. Upon returning upstairs, five minutes late, I was confronted by my x-ray, which because it was flat made my teeth resemble Wallace’s’ (out of Wallace and Gromit).

I was pleasantly surprised that despite me not having seen a dentist since my accident there was remarkably little work to be done because, as I’m fond of saying, there is a benefit from coming from peasant Irish stock. He outlined the various anaesthetic methods that were available for the treatment. In essence the gas and air mixture was a lot safer, being only a local anaesthetic, but would require a couple of treatments. Whereas general anesthetic carried with it a greater level of risk, but all the work needed could be done in one go. When I asked him about the risk he said that one in every hundred thousand people who had a general anesthetic died as a result. That would be just my luck I thought, to have a general anesthetic and wake up afterwards. Bingo! Fortunately sense prevailed and I opted for the gas and air, which means cleaner, healthier teeth but also means life.

Every silver lining has a cloud!

Next time…you say baseball, I say rounders…..

Last Tuesday – 24th September 2014 – was a fun day, for that was when I met my new therapist for the first time. Some context here might be useful to you. Ever since waking up from the coma to confront a new reality, I have been – understandably – depressed. However it is both the severity and the seeming permanence that is not so understandable. Possibly because the part of the brain I damaged might have some effect on mood. No one, not even my consultant can say for sure.

What can be said with some certainty is that I’ve got myself into a self-perpetuating mood of negativity about my continued reason for existing and my place in the scheme of things generally. I accept that most people at some stage in their lives undergo a re-evaluation of their life, what they’re doing with it and how they’d make changes to it. I get that. Part of being alive is not being entirely pleased with one’s lot. But in my case, certainly now at any rate, the chasm between what I’d like to change and my ability to effect such change on my own is on a scale that would make a before and after photo showing the effects of global warming (and when did that become climate change?) on the polar ice caps seem tame by comparison.

Be that as it may, in 2011 I had forty hour long sessions with a clinical psychologist, but the sessions weren’t as productive as either of us had hoped for, but he left the door open, saying that if I was serious on re-commencing with therapy, I’d first have to provide some tangible proof. This was a euphemism for restarting anti-depressants, which I’m still doing. Having seen my doctor, explained the new situation, he referred me. Some moths later, out of the blue, I got a call. It was from the hospital I’d been referred to, did I have time for some questions? An hour later I felt as lower than I had done in a long time. “On a scale of one to ten, one being the minimum with ten being the maximum, how depressed do you feel right now?” she naively asked. Because anyone with an I.Q larger than their waistline might have thought that answering questions about very dark thoughts one kept buried for good reason – “I have a foolproof suicide plan, but knowing I have it means I can put it to the back of my mind and not think about it.” – and certainly not to a voice on the phone I couldn’t put a feces to their face for being so matter of fact about my mental outlook. Perhaps that’s how they’re trained to do it, to remain detached and not to get emotionally involved. Anyway, answering “Right now? Having spoken to you about things? I’d say about a ten.” wasn’t perhaps the most helpful thing I could have said. But by then I was so beyond caring what she felt, I didn’t give a f*ck. The ‘phone call was, she told me, my assessment interview and she could offer me a counseling place. This being the N.H.S., this could take up to nine months, so best hold those negative thoughts.

So Tuesday, then, was my first meeting with her. She began by explaining that everything I said was confidential, but with the caveat that if I said or intimated anything to suggest a risk of harm to others, or myself and then she was obliged to let relevant professionals know. At this I just nodded. The previous counsellor had trotted out the same thing. It hardly encourages one to be candid; to discuss openly things one doesn’t talk about normally. A neutral space but one surrounded by some oppressive walls, which if you said the wrong thing, might come crashing in around you. I know what she means, that if an immediate and credible threat to harm yourself or others is known it should be communicated, but meanwhile back in the real world which someone with suicidal intent wishes to escape, would they really say something that might set mouths blabbing? Really? Who or what are they are they saving, by which I mean either saving someone’s life or saving their own career.

She later enquired, apropos of my suicide plan what was it that kept me going? “Laxatives.”, was my deadpan reply, quick as a flash. And was there any reaction from her? No. ‘ Go on, smile love, I’ll pay for the stitches’ I thought. Which for some inexplicable reason, bought to mind this saying, used in a another context, yet still applicable to suicide “Has the world turned it’s back on you, or have you turned your back on the world. If one is seriously thinking about ‘turning your back on the world.’ The hospital website also usefully advises that either call 999 or “ Go to your nearest hospital with an Accident and Emergency (A&E) Department. In some hospitals, this will be called the Emergency Department. There are qualified staff on duty 24 hours a day,  seven days a week, who will be able to assess you and give you the appropriate help.” To me at any rate, that’s about as much use a cement lifejacket.

I mean, the last time I was in an A&E, involved me almost having to shout repeatedly to a nurse through a sheet of thick glass. (My nearest A&E is in a busy inner London area, and deals with a high number of drink or drug dependant patients, some just seeking shelter from the elements, others, who have felt the smack of firm government repeatedly, seeking a bed for the night.) Embarrassing enough at the best of times, but when one is facing the worst of times…! That presupposes you’d even think of doing that in the first place. But hey, that’s the advice they give you. They offer assistance, whether people avail themselves of that assistance, or more importantly, if that assistance is a prudent use of resources, is another matter. All I know is that if the laxatives stopped working, the last thing I’d would be to go A&E, broadcast loudly why I was there, take a ticket and wait for a doctor to see me. Can anyone else hear the sound of ass’s being wall papered? No?

”Christmas has often been cited as a time when people who have depression are at high risk of suicide. However, ONS statistics (1995-2005) show this to be an apocryphal story: December has fewer than average suicides compared with the rest of the year, with women in particular being less likely to commit suicide in December than in any other month. The arrival of a new year, however, tells a different tale: January has one of the highest suicide rates compared with other months in the year.”

So, all the more reason to devote more resources (of dubious efficacy) toward the problem. Er, no. New Years Day is, by quite a margin, the day people choose to make their final choice. One can see why. You’re all sentient beings, I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you why, but what I will tell you is that a skeleton staff operates a minimal out of hours crisis intervention team. A skeleton staff of a short-staffed team to start with! See in the New Year in style!

A correction. In my last post I boldly asserted that a personal story was made with the other persons permission. This was as rash as it was untrue. I’d told them I might include it, which was, as was pointed out to me, is not the same thing as I will. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!

Next time…..the secret of eternal youth? Just ask a man, over 30 on a skateboard or a scooter….