Tag Archives: adventure

“S.C.out of there”

Unusually I am starting the week not in crisis. By this statement I know I am probably doing the proverbial, ‘Tempting fate.’ However, all is quiet on the home front. Then my dad arrives in the company of our lovely, working Cocker Spaniel, Scout. Scout is a girl! She is named after the central character in the American classic ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’, something I repeatedly have to explain to people who failed to have studied it at school, or who do not have a father who has it as one of his favourite books.

Dad and Scout arrived after a walk at Rudyard Lake, where dad had allowed her to explore the lake through a ‘good paddle’. Thus allowed her to acquire a considerable amount of sediment in her paws and fringes, most of which was deposited on my living room floor. My dad dutifully got the hoover out, which triggered a mammoth barking session and attempts to exact dominance over this noisy, electrical device from Scout.

Dad cleaned the area where the dirt had been deposited, leaving a ery clean patch in the middle of my floor. His OCD kicked in and he began hoovering and dusting the rest of the room so it would look eq

ually clean throughout. I did point out my cleaner was coming the next day and would have nothing to do, but to no avail.

Having a dog in our lives has proved to be a revelation, technically

Scout is our 2nd ever, family pet. Cassie, her predecessor and a Westie, was a different temperament altogether, not particularly into exploring in fact she once got lost when she squeezed under the garden fence and my mum found her in the neighbour’s garden waiting for someone to find her. It did not seem to occur to her that she could walk to the front of the house. Her single great motivator was food and the company of my nan, who she stayed with in the day while we were all at work or college. She had the acquisition of food down to a fine art. When my nan would go to visit her stepmother in respite care she would take Cassie to visit with ‘the oldies’ who would furnish her with Kitkats and other forbidden treats. Such was the mark this made on her that when walking past the home and not visiting she would attempt to drag her human companion into the entrance. Similarly, the owners of the local oatcake shop used to give her a sausage and this meant that she would refuse to go past the shop until she had received said sausage. She was my post-orthopaedic surgery present, the good effects of which lasted longer than the surgery’s, i.e. I benefited more from having her than from having the surgery itself. She wasn’t what you would call intrinsically loving, she would just flap her ears up and down to show she was pleased to see you, but she was funny to have around.

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Scout is a different personality altogether and, I have to say, she is never more than two feet away from you. I think her middle name should be Shadow. She likes to get her nose into everything, followed thereafter by her paws and then her mouth, this is quite sweet until you find her having a discreet little nibble of your left front wheel, or running off with a pair of your socks. Phone conversations with my Dad have now become punctuated by “Scout get down” or “Scout get out of there”. I commented to my Dad that she was very aptly named having ‘out’ in her name. Some of my friends have said I should train her to be an assistive dog. I thought this sounded like a good idea and in the book I bought I was heartened to see that a spaniel was featured. I sat her on my knee and pointed at the picture. I don’t think there a spark of mutual recognition. In this book it talks about dogs loading the washing machine with clothes, the closest we have come thus far (with the possible exception of the day she made me late for art by pulling my trousers off when I was trying to put them on) was when she stole my new, relatively expensive top off the radiator and proceeded to chew it and mop the floor. Not the kind of help I had in mind. Unbelievably my new top came out relatively unscathed.

I have discovered there is nothing like the companionship, fun and love you get from a dog. Scout is a positive force for healing in the wake of bereavement. She is my Dad’s new companion in daily activity, with an endless love of walking, boundless energy and inquisitiveness. On Monday I found her in my kitchen with a pen in her mouth, looking like I do when I am thinking what to write next. I think she is getting to know us both very well indeed!

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From The Sublime to the Ridiculous

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

This blog post is brought to you courtesy of 2 iPads, an iPhone and 2 add-on keyboards.

Well, where do I start? Possibly with my so called support worker blaspheming about the 2nd keyboard I’ve dug out of my bag this morning. Yes, that’s right folks I have 2 of them! My trusty iPad 2 3G state of the art about 4.5 years ago, recently joined by the iPad Mini, (mostly because it has Siri, Apple’s voice recognition software that is built into the iPad’s operating system) aimed to reduce my reliance on fellow human beings. This is all very well in theory, until you find yourself in a technological void and the batteries have gone in the 1st of your ‘qwerty’ keyboards. Such is my life. Parts of each appliance works, but no singular tool will complete a task for me.

This situation prompted several memories of similar technological faux pas. Some months ago I attended the British Sociological Association’s (BSA) annual conference in the lovely surroundings of Glasgow Caledonian University. This involved a mammoth train journey, the usual pre-booking of assistance a week in advance and the finding of an accessible hotel room, all of which was going swimmingly until I found my way to the taxi rank. A very pleasant man asked if I could get out of my chair and into his taxi, to which I responded, “No, I need the ramp.” It is worth pointing out here that there was a beautiful fleet of white hackney carriages, relative bliss compared to where I live. The man dutifully got out with a perplexed look on his face brandishing a large key to open up the floor to unfold the ramp. He had never done this before and I was developing a sense of impending doom as he couldn’t do it now.

The ramp made an unhealthy, creaking noise sounding rather like a badly worn, octogenarian hip joint. The result had a definite contracture in the middle of it that should not have been there. The whole car looked as supple as me on a good day. He was able to manhandle me up this undulating ramp into the back of his vehicle, then came the need to fold the ramp back up into the floor. Well that just was not happening. I suggested he wedged of the 3 sections against my wheel, so he could shut his door and take me to my destination. Having got in there, I was not about to give up.

We did this and I arrived at my hotel in 1 piece. He unloaded me in the same, ungainly manner and I left him to the problem of folding his ramp back up into 3 and into the floor. I was sitting in the hotel reception, when I heard banging followed by a string of expletives. Rather embarrassed, I said to the receptionist and queue at large, “Terribly sorry, I seem to have broken his car.”

However, this was all nothing compared to what I had to do to get into my support worker’s grass-green, 3 door, Vauxhall Corsa. To embark on a journey in this vehicle I would stand, bodily hanging over the passenger door whilst my colleague folded my chair and slotted it behind the seats, I would then sit in the seat, bring my knees up to my chest, while my support worker lifted my feet into the car (sometimes having to force the issue a little). Once the seatbelt was on, I was comfortably situated with my knees rammed against the dashboard and my nose practically on the windscreen. On reaching our destination, the above description was applied in reverse. This was done on a weekly basis for around 4 years; ‘needs must when the devil drives’ and drive me he did! In fact, I think this qualified as suffering for one’s art.

I got into my university library this week in the most unique manner possible. There is something about universities where, at the end of term, they become building sites. At least ours does anyway. Every year around this time I begin to get a feeling of dread; my well-practiced routines will inevitably be disrupted by this maintenance work. This time my usual place of study is being renovated to become a teaching area, gone are the comfy sofas, coffee lounge and TV with rolling news. For years my only access to the news as it happened was in this coffee lounge. I have had to find a new haunt.

There are tables and a reading area in the library itself, no cups of tea and cake, but you can’t have everything. Disaster struck this week when I arrived to find a group of workmen busily digging up the tarmac and roping off my usual entrance with tape. Ever intrepid I found the side door and made my way to the lift that allows you to access the main counter; I found it, presenting in the 1st floor position i.e. above my head, with the buttons flashing different coloured lights. I have to say, more in hope than expectation, I depressed the button that should make the lift descend, no response. I prodded a few other buttons just for good measure, then asked a passing member of staff what to do. “Does it have a plug you can turn on and off?” I asked, thinking of the many times my digital TV box had done a similar thing. We found a switch, but nothing seemed to change except perhaps the noise it was making became subtlely different. Ever helpful n the face of my adversity, a staff member went to ring the maintenance department, apparently to turn it on and off required a special key. I sloped off for a cup of tea while he and the key were found and put to use.

Anyway as I said at the beginning, this post may have taken 5 appliances to produce along with a good old dollop of ingenuity, but we got there in the end. What can I say? The world loves a trier. We just have to make this thing go live now, see you in a day or two.

Adventures of a Sociologist

This week has been a productive one dare I say it. Although looking at my diary I was a little depressed to see that I had three hospital appointments within a 48 hour period. I have began wishing that health care had loyalty points like the Air Miles scheme. Seriously if it did I reckon I would probably have made it round the world by now in first class style. As it is I have to content myself with a lukewarm cup of tea and a slice of dried out toast in the cafe at the hospital.

At the moment I dread my medical interactions. My case is managed by three teams, all of whom have differing Ideas about how to manage my care and treatment. A few weeks ago we had the great, ‘Who is responsible for swabbing the pressure sores on Anika’s foot?’ I rolled up for my regular hospital review which includes any arising issues. I dutifully mentioned my sores. I had not been feeling that great and my legs were stiffer than normal even with the high doses of muscle relaxant drugs that are pumped directly into my spine. I have to concede that yes, pain does make spasticity worse.

One of the specialist nurses took a look and suggested a swab, and then had a mini debate about whose responsibility it was to do a swab of the offending wound. I thought this seemed a little petty. Inwardly I fumed, I don’t care who does it, you, the Queen or even God, whilst outwardly involved deep breathing and keeping a tenuous grasp on my cool. It seems that the swabbing process is not as simple as you might expect. The physical act is simple enough. Lightly introduce small cotton bud like implement to wound and put it in a tube and send it for testing; no big deal. The issue is, ‘Who pays?’ Apparently GPs are charged by the hospital if a swab is done there, whereas if it is done at the practice there is no extra charge. This, as one of the hospital staff pointed out, is far more economical. Also, if they didn’t swab they would not be treading on the toes of the other teams treating me. To cut a long story short, the swab got done and showed an infection. I took the required medication, (it was simple really), I am newly invigorated thanks to antibiotics and ready for a challenge.

This is just as well as I am going to the British Sociological Association’s council meeting on Friday. I started planning for this a month ago and it is only one day in London. The thing is disability, particularly mobility problems, can turn the simplest journeys into a Herculean task. I read, ‘Around the World in 80 Days’ as a child and watched Michael Palin’s 90s recreation of it many years ago as my family were glued to it. They all have a wanderlust that in adult life I have singularly failed to acquire. For me London is a positively exotic destination. When you have to book Boarding Assistance for your train a week in advance and have to arrive 30 minutes before it departs, a day out begins to feel like a package holiday. Also, if I want a specific wheelchair accessible taxi I may have to book it 14 days in advance to avoid the special school and social service transport issues that arise during rush hour. At times my days out and trips to conferences begin to resemble one of those holidays ‘On the Edge’ you see on TV.

Having made it to London, I then had to deal with the people that I met there! The taxi that was taking me from the train station to the venue, dropped me off at the wrong destination. As I looked at the high rise flats I began to question if this was a suitable venue for our meeting. Now, I am not one of those disabled people that gets ratty if you try to help them. I frequently look a little bewildered and unsure when my face is at rest, so am accustomed to Good Samaritans offering assistance. This happened on that day.

A very kind lady buzzed me into what turned out to be residential flats and not the conference centre I was expecting. We quickly established that I was in the wrong place. She was reluctant to leave me in the hallway, as this is a security risk apparently, so she grabbed my handles, pushed me down the road and advised me to wait in the reception of a children’s soft-play area two doors down from the flats and advised me to wait there until my fellow Sociologists arrived for our meeting. She then nipped over to Tesco Express to get me a cup of coffee, I took the opportunity of her leaving to come out of the soft-play area and discovered where I needed to be was only around the corner.

So if you see a 30-something in a bright orange wheelchair, looking a bit bewildered in London one day, it’s probably me. And I only drink tea!