What Happened...

...is the title of one of the books I am currently reading. Hillary Rodham Clinton. Moderately interesting. No pictures. Picked up in a charity shop for a quid.

Bert and I went first thing this morning to Whiteabbey Hospital where he was to receive the follow up on the biopsy on the warty lump on the side of his face, I waited outside and finished reading Falling Leaves by Adeline Yen Mah. I forget where and when I sourced it. Probably a charity shop. It was an interesting read if only because it gave a first-hand account of life in China and Hong Kong from 1937 to the 1990s. That has left just thirteen books on my reading pile.

Next, I opened The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls. It too is a memoir too, set in America, and also about a dysfunctional family which is really the only kind of real-life family worth reading about. I barely managed a paragraph before Bert returned with the happy news that the warty lump is nothing to worry about. He is to rub cream on it.

Other charity shop finds currently being read are,

The Lake House by Kate Morton. Bit meh.
Emotionally Weird by Kate Atkinson. Barely begun and I'm finding it hard to get into. But it's Kate Atkinson so it will probably be good.
The Little Friend by Donna Tartt. As above.
Human Traces by Sebastian Faulks. This has been on the go since March. Slow-going. But Bert finished it and so must I. This is the point of reading many books at once so that they are not thrown aside unread when a more tantalising read comes along.
Picador Book of Blues & Jazz, edited by James Campbell. I'll probably still be reading this in October even though I promised to give it to the guy who works in the library after I've finished. Which is very much a Coals to Newcastle situation.

Library books on the go are,

Ordinary People, Diana Evans. Early days yet.
How Not To Be A Boy by Robert Webb. This one is very, very good.

Bought from internet booksellers,

Five Children and It by E. Nesbitt. Why not? I enjoyed it as a teenager. I was book deprived as a young child so read a lot of children's literature when I was older.
Pastoral by Andre Alexis because I so loved Fifteen Dogs. Fifteen Dogs broke Bert's heart. He was all sniffy and broken-voiced when he closed it for the final time.

Given to me by Hannah,

Spill Simmer Falter Wither by Sara Baume. Barely begun. Hannah said if you enjoyed Fifteen Dogs you might like this.
The Beautiful and the Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald. First time reading it. Not liking it much. But I will persevere.

So, what else, apart from reading has happened?

Gracie went home to her real family and I missed her.
I visited my Aunt Clare.
My grandson James had his fourth birthday and his little sister Emily has started to walk.
Jazzer and I had a day out in Belfast without going near the actual city centre.
Martha and Evie returned from their Connemara holiday taller and browner.
It rained all week.
And overnight my hair went from looking perfectly OK to looking like a badger's! Must be time to visit Rhonda again.

What's Going On

Two weekends ago Pearlie got sick. On the Saturday night she was in a lot of pain. I thought it might be the crampy, colicky pains she suffers from occasionally and managed to settle her down. The following night I awoke at around 2am and was unable to get back to sleep. I was listening all the time to hear if she was crying out. Then at 4am I was just about to drop off when I heard her wailing. I raced downstairs. Her bedside lights were off and the overhead light was dim and I wasn't wearing my glasses so at first I did not see what ailed her. As I moved closer to the bed I saw that she had been vomiting blood. A lot of blood. I got Bert up and she continued to vomit. I called an emergency ambulance and they arrived about 30 minutes later.

She was kept in hospital for four days and several tests were carried out but they could not identify the point of the bleed. Gastritis was mentioned, as was a burst ulcer. She received a few blood transfusions. On the fourth day she was discharged. Five days later her tummy started to swell and her navel turned from an innie to an outie. Her skin was tinged a yellowy shade. I called the GP who was concerned enough to refer her back to hospital. They kept her for a few hours, did an X-ray and some blood tests and sent her home again none the wiser. Apparently it is 'normal' for an elderly person to have a tummy so hard and swollen that their navel pops out.

This is what I think. The hospital (Antrim Area) does not give one damn about patients in their late eighties. They are seen as nuisances and bed-blockers. And this is what I want. I want her to be at home but I want to know what is wrong with her so she can receive the appropriate care and support. As it is we live from day to day never knowing when there is going to be another incident. Bert and I are both so stressed.

And Pearlie? At the moment she is OK. Happy to be home. She is still bloated but does not seem to be in pain. So - until the next time.

This Post Is Shit

If shit and very old people are not your thing do not read on.

Yesterday I wrote that Pearlie has been having a difficult time. Like many elderly people (or so her helpers tell me) she is obsessed with her bowel movements or the lack thereof. For most of her life she has relied on laxatives and one of the struggles we had in the early days of managing her medication was weaning her off the harsher ones. We took medical advice and got her on to a healthier regime that still (mostly) worked.

A few months back the health care team made a change to her care plan that has had a very detrimental impact on her quality of life. They decided that she did not have the upper body strength to support herself on a toileting sling and that there was a risk she might fall through it. This meant there would be no more daily sits on a commode. All elimination would take place in a pad. It also meant no more weekly showers. Since then things have become more difficult for her and for us, but mainly for her. When things build up she yells and she roars and she squeals. She is in pain and she finds pain impossible to bear. Hannah has suggested that part of the reason is that she is expressing emotional pain as well as the physical. The doctor has been to see her and up until two days ago I've felt the visits have not helped much. There was a week of ease for which we were all very grateful and Pearlie seemed happier than she has been in ages. Then, two days ago, it started again. I called the doctor and she came almost immediately. She could find nothing obviously wrong but decided to send her to hospital just to see.

Margaret accompanied her. I have mentioned before that Margaret, Bert's cousin, is Pearlie's closest friend and confidant. So, we were very glad about that. I'm told that Pearlie screamed for three solid hours in the A&E. Some tests were carried out and it seemed that a blockage was the reason. She was hoisted on to a commode and, as the doctor told Bert, the results were 'monumental'. She immediately stopped screaming.

I'm going to confess something here. When hospital was first suggested, I felt a sense of hope that perhaps they'd keep her in for a while, do some tests and maybe we'd get a few days respite. Yet, when Bert arrived home and told me what had happened and that she was coming home in an ambulance I was relieved. Relieved that it was over and glad that she was no longer in pain.

Now I'm going to be just as obsessed with her bowel movements as she is. It's going to be tough for she won't and cannot eat the sort of food that would help her. Fingers crossed, prayers, whatever, that this will never happen again.

Two Down, Three To Go

It is probably ten years or more since I lumped Margaret Thatcher, the Queen, Matty, Pearlie and Ian Paisley together as a cohort. I banded them on age as they were all born within a nine month period. If Matty was feeling 'old' I'd say to her, "Have you seen the state of Paisley? He's looking his age for sure! And the harples* of him! You? You're like a lilty** yet!" Or she'd think her mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be. "Sharp! You're as sharp as a tack. Didn't you win a tenner for completing the Irish News crossword the other week? Imagine being like Maggie Thatcher. Sure she has to be told every day that Denis is dead. Wouldn't that be awful?"

And there was always Pearlie who, couldn't walk, could barely eat, had no way with her and had precious few friends. While Matty was, without doubt, the most popular woman in her road and rarely wanted company or outings.

And the Queen. "Mum, that poor woman. Sure she's great for her age and wants for nothing but she has hardly a minute to call her own and almost her entire family are on welfare! At least your kids have jobs."

Ten years ago I'd have wagered that Pearlie would go first, then Ian Paisley. After that it would be Thatcher, then Matty at 95 and the Queen at 100 or more. Instead it was Matty, the youngest of the five who was first to pass away. Now Thatcher has gone and it's happy for her I'd say. There was a recent photograph of her sitting on a park bench, in a good wool coat, wrinkled stockings and a pair of Hotter shoes on her feet. A little whippet was beside her and she was petting the dog which looked like a smaller, finer version of my Judy. I never liked Mrs T. Some part of me admired her as a person and a woman but I hated her dogma. I hated her stance on Ireland. But I loved that picture with the dog. She cannot have been all bad.

I was in hospital having Hannah when Thatcher went to war with Argentina. I was in hospital this morning when I heard of her death. Nobody seemed to care. It was just a diversion, like the Jeremy Kyle Show.

And I wondered who would be next. My prediction - Ian Paisley, then Pearlie, then the Queen. Surely Pearlie cannot outlive the Queen?

And hopefully I will outlive them all. The news from the hospital was good. So far.


* harple - limp
** lilty  - bouncing, energetic woman

Day Off

Which would have been best? Knowing that I was off today or finding out as a nice surprise?

Hard to call.

I spent my unplanned day off drinking way too much coffee with Kerry Sister then cleaning house then going walkies then visiting Matty in hospital. She was a wee bit cross. Cross because her sister has been discharged from hospital and now she is trapped there on her own. She reckons that maybe the doctors will change their minds about doing all these tests and send her home. So I informed her that she was trapped in the system and she informed me that my hair was a mess.

Hey! Mothers and daughters - laugh a minute right up to the end.

New Year's Day

Hannah and I went to meet the lovely Hails today for coffee - what else? There were some boys who tagged along but we paid them no mind. (Sorry Raymond & John).

Hails looks amazing. Korea obviously agrees with her. We went to that place that used to be a world-famous coffee chain and it has totally improved since it stopped being Buckstars. Sadly there was no kimchi on the menu but we gulped down our disappointment and made do with classic bagels and raspberry ruffle cheesecake.

After an hour of catching up, putting the world to rights and talking about pigs, kimchi and blogging we parted company to go and be good daughters to our mothers.

My plan was to spend some quality time with Matty and give the Kerry Sister a break. T'was not to be. When I arrived I found everyone waiting for an ambulance as Matty had developed a bit of a problem. The Kerry Sister and I followed the ambulance and found ourselves in a hideously busy A&E in Antrim Area Hospital where we waited, and waited and waited. Four hours later and she still hadn't been assessed. Meanwhile quite a number of useless fuckwits who appeared to have damn all wrong with them (but then what do I know, I'm not a medico) were taken before her. It seems that a terminally ill 84 year-old merely coming in with one of the nastier symptoms of her disease is not nearly as important as some young cove who will continually harrass the staff (between fag breaks) about when he'll be seen. Staff seemed to know him well too so I'd assume he was a frequent visitor. As I said, I'm not a medico, but if I was responsible for his treatment I'd recommend a staved hole. For those of you not familiar with local slang this translates as a good hard kick up the arse.

At the time of writing I'm assuming Matty is still waiting because I haven't heard anything different. So there you go - New Year's Day. Not to be forgotten.

Me. Sitting in the antenatal clinic. With a lethal weapon.

As anyone knows there is nothing more mind-numbingly boring than waiting in a queue at the local outpatients. Thankfully this is not something I have to do on a regular basis, but in the days when I was incubating bambinos I spent manys a dreary hour at the (block booked) antenatal clinic. There were too many squealing toddlers around to concentrate on reading, so I used to bring my knitting. Many the baleful look I received from the other pregnant mothers which I interpreted as distaste for the multi-coloured stripey jumpers I was knitting on circular needles. I now know their antipathy was for my reckless disregard for their health and safety. Perhaps they might accidentally trip and fall upon my needles, causing them to spontaneously abort. Maybe I'd take a pre-eclamptic fit and put somebody's eye out in a frenzy. Or I could have ripped the stripey woolly off the needles and used them to garrotte some obnoxious child. It's no wonder Congleton War Memorial Hospital in Cheshire has, on health and safety grounds, banned knitting needles from its waiting rooms and wards.

Advice Not Taken

We were all given a great bit of advice the other day. I did not take it.

I went to work yesterday morning with a bit of stomachache going on . Naturally I put it down to something I'd eaten and soldiered on. Unfortunately by lunchtime it was quite a bit worse and I mentioned to one of the site foremen that I was feeling yuck. He diagnosed wind and recommended a good gallop around a field. But when I turned grey and went into cold sweats they hauled me off to A&E.

I have to say that, despite their newness to the job, the medical staff treated me very well. Perhaps Katie wasn't too adept at the old needle into the vein thing and Alicia hadn't a clue how to adjust the trolley bed but apart from that and the long wait it wasn't too bad. My heart was fine, and so were all the other tests. I think that site foreman's original diagnosis might have been correct.

Thanks to my boss, CD, who took me to hospital and waited the whole time I was there. He's off to climb Mont Blanc this morning. You take care of yourself up there CD.

The Accidental Joiner

I was hoping that the most eventful happening of the day would have been my boss causing me to suffer bloggus interruptus. It was during my lunch hour but there was no way he could be sure as he wasn't there when the hour started. And I was in the middle of a really good reply to CyberScribe's spooky comment about Cully pubs. How does he know? Where is Greyabbey anyway? Oh Bert's just told me it's in County Down. So the muse deserted me and that's why my eventual reply was so lame Cybe ol' boy. So that's my quota of italicised words used up for this post and from now on I will have to manage without them. On returning home I decided to go and inspect the work going on in the new house. I was especially interested in seeing how the kitchen tiles looked and also wanted to see the flight of stairs leading to the attic floor. Seamus the joiner started on them yesterday and they were pretty much finished. There is a little health & safety type issue at the very top which I wanted to take a look at so I asked Seamus if they were safe to step upon. He gave the go ahead and I had my foot on the bottom step when James the electrician nabbed me with a query about the lights I headed downstairs to the room where Matthew was tiling. Matthew says,

"Where's Bert?" "Down the road. What's up?" "We've a bit of a problem here." "Oh! What's wrong?" "Bert's tin whistle has fallen into this bucket of tile cement."

We were just coming to terms with this disaster when the joiner's apprentice came in. He says,

"Where's Bert?" "Down the road. What's up?" "Seamus has cut himself with the electric saw."

And so he had. Apparently it had stuck and he was trying to dislodge it when it had jumped back and gouged a lump out of his knee. Both Matthew and James were urging me to take him to the local GP surgery. Feck's sake! These lads must think Dr Finlay practises in Cully. I said no for the first thing the local GP would say is, "you'll need to go to casualty with that" so that's what we did. Seamus was very stoical about the whole episode and says he'll be back at work tomorrow. They breed real men in Dunloy. By the way that policeman is still reading my blog. He phoned me yesterday in his professional capacity and before he rang off he said, "Are you still off the drink?"