Workmen, anniversaries and alcohol

The painter I mentioned in my last post has stood me up. He has been stringing me along since November promising he would come to paint my kitchen ceiling when he had a spare minute and now he has admitted he has too many big jobs on (he is subcontracted to someone else to fit kitchens, bathrooms and conservatories) and just cannot squeeze me in. So Tuesday saw me high and dry searching for someone else. I only stuck with him, because he came recommended by a neighbour, but really how much damage can someone do painting a ceiling? (I may regret saying that). So I have been searching through the local paper, local telephone directory ,Which Local and also something called mybuilder.com. I didn't have much expectation from the latter but within a few hours of my posting my project on the site, I had about 7 replies and they are still coming in, so well worth a try! I phoned quite few of those selected from the four sources above and one pleasant chap came to look at the job yesterday. I was very impressed and I may well hire him, as he can fit the job in next week. His prices were very reasonable too for an oil-based undercoat to cover the nicotine stains and three coats of emulsion over that. He does a lot of work for Harley Street and The University of London (apparently) so hopefully I have picked a good'un. Another painter quoted three times what he was asking.It pays to get several quotes.I've got another one turning up in a few minutes.

This week saw another painful first anniverary - that of Greg's funeral - so that is all the firsts out of the way now and I can get on with real life and hopefully more positive thoughts now. As time goes by, I find I am less angry about the whole situation and more saddened that Greg is missing out on Kay's successes and even major world news events such as in Japan and Libya (which of course was his job). I can often be heard muttering under my breath "Oh Greg, if only you could see this or hear that". I see others in my Al-Anon group a year or so in time behind what I was going though and I despair for what lies ahead for them too. But I am appreciating more and more that alcoholism is a mental illness, just like anorexia, where the sufferer has little or no control over it and where only a few can manage to pull away from it.

I feel I want to do something to make a difference, but I don't know yet what and how. I don't think higher alcohol prices are the answer. In Greg's case, he was clinically dependent on alcohol, so would buy it whatever the price. That is why he took out such huge loans before he died to fund it. Prohibition is not the answer, as real addicts would still find a way of obtaining it and it would not be fair on the majority who can sensibly limit their drinking. What about the idea of ID cards which you would need to show to buy a drink in a pub or a bottle in a shop. These could be removed and cancelled if alcohol got you into trouble with the police or you ended up in hospital with an obvious drink addiction, much like a driving licence if you transgress the law of the road or a doctor thinks you unfit to drive. But I suppose there would soon be people out there who would fake these documents. Possibly lobbying government to return to set licensing hours and stopping supermarkets selling alcohol might help, as I am sure the ease of obtaining alcohol is a major factor in the rise of alcoholism these days............ certainly in the case of younger people who go out on the lash till 4am or later.

What do you think?

Changes for the better and worst

Following on from my last "poor me" post, I decided to keep busy by making headway with the decorating. My next job was to be the kitchen/diner which is at the very base of my Jacob's ladder of a staircase. The problem is, I have been waiting months for a painter to get the kitchen ceiling painted, before I paint the rest of the room. I hate painting ceilings with a passion. I think it has to do with putting your arms above your head and cricking your neck to see what you are doing. I love painting walls..... and woodwork...... all very therapeutic. But ceilings..........no, no, no. One of my neighbours recommended two fabulous painters who had done work for her. I approached them both back in September. One, a reputable family firm, took a month to send me a quote and when I said he could go ahead with the work, he then avoided all my calls and wouldn't give me a start date. I tried his mobile and home number several times over a period of two weeks and each time his wife insisted he would call or had called, but he never did get back to me and I decided I didn't want to play cat and mouse games with him any more. The second painter is a very nice chap - a bit of an odd jobs man who is good at many things. He painted the top landing with the long wall drops for me back in November. He also quoted me for the kitchen ceiling and some other carpentry jobs too. But he is also heavily subcontracted to put in kitchens, bathrooms, conservatories and double glazing for someone else, so his time for other "smaller jobs" is limited. He even works evenings and weekends too, so it is not that he is shirking work. He told me in December he would be back soon to do my kitchen ceiling. Of course, I am still waiting. I could get someone out of Yellow Pages or the local paper, but I prefer to get someone recommended rather than a cowboy.

As I could not yet proceed with the kitchen, I thought I would turn my thoughts to the lounge. The lounge is open-plan (has no door) and has a staircase going through it - a flight up and onwards to the bedrooms and a flight down and onwards to the front door and the kitchen beneath that. In decorating the stairway recently, I had passed through the lounge, keeping only to the stairs. The lounge now looked a little "sad" in comparison to the bright stairway paint. I fathomed that the ceiling still looked in good nick and I could get away with not painting that, so I pulled all the furniture into the middle of the room and set about mending any nail holes in the walls, then painting walls and woodwork. It only took two days - I started on Friday morning and finished last night. It looks good, even though I say so myself, and today I even cleaned the window glass and PVC frames to finish off the effect. Another room freshened up in my master plan of projects. Five more rooms to go!


This morning I rang my dog-walking companion (the one I mentioned here) to see how her dog is. We have been walking our dogs together in the park every morning for about the last eleven years. We have become firm friends and although our ages differ (she is at least 15 years older than me) we have a lot to talk about. Her dog took ill two weeks ago, the same time as Snoopy, and was displaying very similar symptoms- back legs not functioning, in pain, shaking. The only difference was her dog kept vomiting. We did wonder whether they had both eaten something poisonous in the park, but our respective vets discounted that. In the end, my vet thought Snoopy may have a combination of spinal arthritis mixed with a damaged liver (possibly tumour or fibrosis) and my friend's dog was diagnosed a few days ago with tumour of the spleen. Because both our dogs have been ill over the last few weeks, neither of us has been going to the park at all and so have been communicating by phone. I called at her house last Thursday to take a bunch of cheerful daffoldils for her and to give her dog some soothing pats. This morning my friend told me that the dog worsened over the last few days and was put down yesterday. My friend is naturally very upset. She has always had a dog (she even, in less politically-correct days gone by, used to take her dogs with her into the classroom all day when she was a primary school teacher and before the governors made her stop doing that). Instictively she feels she would like another dog straight away, but a lot of the local rescue homes now ban rehoming dogs to people over 70. The fact that she is fit, energetic and would give the dog a fantastic life (two long walks a day and agility classes once a week) is by the by. It seems our morning walks in the park may have come abruptly to an end. Snoopy meanwhile continues to chug along, although is definitely not 100%, and will need further blood tests in a few weeks to see if his liver is deteriorating.

LONESOME

I've been away at my mother's for a few days, trying to recharge my batteries and at the same time doing chores for her, but am now back home again. I am pleased to say Kay is recovered from her tonsillitis; Snoopy is a little better thanks to the painkillers and antibiotics prescribed by the vet; and we got through Greg's first anniversary intact although, now that first year's milestone has been reached, Greg slips ever more from my reach. It was one thing to say he died a few months ago. Quite another to say it was a year ago. Soon it will be two years ago and so on. It is as if he were being consistently pulled away by a long rope and the gap between us getting greater and greater. I try hard with eyes shut tight to recall the sound of his voice, the contours of his face.

Because Snoopy has been ill, and at times very weak, I have stopped the early morning walks in the park where I usually meet up with other dogwalkers and have a good chat. The last two weeks,except for when I was at my mother's, I have taken him on short walks up and down our road and, although he trots on the outward run, he plods very slowly on the return. As a result, I have hardly seen a soul and certainly not spoken to anyone, so I am feeling a right recluse and a tad lonely. Somehow, I just wish Greg would join me in a detoxed form and all would be well again. I'm sure I'll bounce back. As an only child, I am used to my own company but right now I'm tired of the sound of my own voice!

Kick me when I'm down, why don't you?

I have not been looking forward to this week: it is one year since Greg died. Each day of this last week I have been thinking...... a year ago he went into hospital, or was moved to intensive care, was intubated, extubated, intubated again and then died. I feel compelled to savour each detail, roll it around in my mind as a sort of morbid memorial, to make sense of it, otherwise it still does not seem real -almost as if this last year has been a dream.

As if this was not enough, this week has not been kind to me at all. Kay is ill with tonsillitis and, as often is the case when she is very ill, she has been very weepy when she calls me, overtired and inconsolable. With two hundred miles between us, my mothering instinct to nurse her has been impossible except for advice over the telephone. Thank goodness for penicillin and paracetamol. She is coming home for the weekend tonight (a long-standing arrangement and entirely her choice, as she insists on being with me on Sunday 6 March for the actual anniversary of Greg's death).

To put the icing on the cake of all that, Snoopy has not been well this week. No, that is an understatement - he has been seriously ill. It started on Sunday when I was woken at 5am to what seemed like an earthquake - the bed was shaking and the cause of it was Snoopy - lying on the foot of my bed shaking uncontrollably. The tremors went on for some while and in my half-sleep/half-wakefulness I felt him writhing in circles trying to get comfortable. I must admit to thinking it might be something dodgy he had eaten and snapped awake to the thought he might just empty the contents of his bowels over my bed, so I quickly ushered him onto his bed at the foot of mine. It was then that I realised he could not use his back legs at all - he was completely paralysed from the waist down. I immediately thought "stroke" and started to panic. In the wee small hours of the night, when I am alone and a problem manifests itself, it is all too easy to panic. I got a doggie painkiller and forced it down him. After two hours there seemed to be no change. Moreover he did not want to get off his bed (could not get off his bed), and no amount of biscuit inducements or bribes of "walkies" (that usually do the trick) would get him to stir. By 7am I was panicking more. There was no way I could get a large, heavy and lifeless Snoopy down three flights of stairs into my car to find an emergency vet open on a Sunday. My own vet had given me his mobile number some time ago in case I ever needed him in an emergency but so far I had never needed to use it, but weighed up the pros and cons of contacting him now. It was Sunday morning and still quite early. I did not want to disturb his one chance of a lie-in and I was also dreading what he might charge for a Sunday call out to my house.

I managed to hold out another hour until 8am but Snoopy was still clearly not well. I rang the vet and a sleepy voice answered at the other end. He told me he would come round. When he arrived, he thought it might be arthritis in the spine and gave a painkiller injection and asked me to ring him again if Snoopy showed no signs of getting better

To cut a very long story short, Snoopy did improve slightly and could at least use his legs again,but was producing weird coloured things from his back end and looked very morose. I ended up during the week having to take a urine sample (I bet the neighbours had a field day seeing me running behind the dog in the garden with a bowl) and Snoopy rather reluctantly provided a blood sample at the vet's surgery the following day.

The results came back yesterday and were not good. It would appear Snoopy's liver function tests show a damaged liver or pancreas. This could be caused by a tumour or fibrosis. The only way to tell what is causing it would be to do an ultrasound scan (which means shaving off his fur to put the scanner on the skin and this traumatises the dog)or open him up (ditto). That would show the cause of his pain but would not necessarily solve the problem as both cases would be advanced and for a 12-year-old dog that would be too much trauma for little gain. So it is bad news really. Poor old Snoops is old and wearing out. To get this news this week of all weeks is not on. We are in for a rocky ride.

Out clubbing

Photo courtesy of emynd and bo bliz

"Out Clubbing" has taken on a whole new meaning. Kay has just contacted me to say she was out last night celebrating a friend's 21st birthday at a club. At one stage she looked down at her handbag slung over her shoulder and saw it was slightly open. Initially, she thought she might have not have shut it properly when she paid for drinks. It was only much later that she discovered she and two of her companions had been robbed of their mobile phones. The club was full to bursting so people were bumping into one another all the time... an ideal situation for the pickpockets. Not only that, but when she rang the mobile company today to alert them and freeze her account, she discovered £28-worth of international calls had been made shortly after it had been stolen. She has now reported the theft to the police and is on her way out to buy a new one, after all, someone who has used the phone to make international calls is hardly likely to hand it in. What a vile world we live in.

World Health and Alcoholism

A World Health Organisation report issued today (see here) states that 1 in 15 men in the UK is an alcoholic. That's a pretty high number. Given there are about 29 million men in the UK that means there are about 1.9 million alcoholic men in the UK, not to mention women. Given too that about half of those will have absolutely no community conscience and will drink/drive to get more alcohol, that is about a million drunk drivers on the road. This can be at any time of day, after all the true alcoholic will need to get that fix as soon as he wakes , so will drive with alcohol still in his bloodstream from the day before. But of course the number of drunks on the roads will get progressively worse during the course of the day and evening. Greg always used to insist that he was a better driver drunk than most people were sober. Yeah, right. That's why he had scratches and dents at every corner of his car. That is why, towards the end, I got his supplies, as I did not want someone's death on my conscience.

Mind how you drive. You never know how many of them at any given moment will be driving in front of you, behind you or towards you!

******************************

The report also says that 4% of all deaths worldwide are attributed to alcohol, greater than deaths caused by HIV/Aids, tuberculosis or violence. When you consider what efforts have been spent on trying to eradicate Aids and TB, it is amazing how little is being done to stop the march of alcoholism.

Happy Valentine's Day

This will be my first without Greg, but for all those love-struck couples out there, here is a little cartoon to warm your heart.




Based on the book "Love Monkey" by Edward Monkton

The worst day of my life

Angel of Grief (courtesy of Valerio Sibio on flickr.com)

The day my father died - ten years ago to this very day - was arguably the worst day of my life. I remember it well and it certainly does not seem as long ago as ten years.

His death was a wrench in more ways than one. He and I were always very close. He was proud of me and I of him. As the only child, I always wanted to protect him, as he had suffered so much as a child and young man, as I wrote about here. We never argued about things and he meant the world to me.


While I was on my honeymoon with Greg in 1976, my father had a heart attack and I only found out when I got back home again. Greg and I were leaving England to start our married life in Germany and I had to leave my father in hospital, not knowing whether he would live or die. He survived but I spent many a restless night in Germany wondering whether I would get a phone call with bad news. Amazingly, he went on to live another twenty-five years and it was not his heart that eventually let him down in the end. He developed leukaemia about three years or so before he died and although that type (chronic lymphatic leukaemia) was not a killer, he went on a few years down the line to develop a second type which was aggressive (acute myeloid leukaemia). Up to that point I had no idea that there were so many types of leukaemia and that some were more dangerous than others. I remember well when the AML was first diagnosed. It was mid January 2001. My father had been feeling seriously unwell for a few weeks and the consultant haematologist was puzzled and decided to run some more tests. The news was not good. Not only had he now got a second type of leukaemia (it was rare to get two kinds) but it was fatal and he only had weeks or at most a few months to live.


As if this was not bad enough, I was faced with a major dilemma. Not only was I about to lose my beloved father but I had to have a hysterectomy and I was unhappy about the timing. I had a huge mass growing inside of me making me look slightly pregnant. My gynaecologist was pressing me to have an urgent operation as he was fairly confident the tumour was benign, but could not rule out the small chance it might not be, until he had cut me open. Also, because of its rapidly growing size, he did not want to delay. I was booked in to have the operation on 2 February 2001. A few days before, I visited my father sixty miles away, who had meanwhile been admitted to his local hospital for blood transfusions and general care as he was very weak. The prognosis was now that he was fading fast and would probably not live beyond a few weeks. Still my gynaecologist was pressing me to get my operation done as soon as possible, as time was of the essence for me too. Friends and relatives were urging me to see sense and not to delay my operation in favour of my father. Reluctantly I agreed to go ahead with my operation and then, with that at least behind me, concentrate on helping my dad through his last weeks.

On 1 February 2001, the day before my operation, I was at home packing my case and counting down to 6pm, the time when I was supposed to report to the gynaecological ward. At lunchtime, I was just about to run a bath when I received a very tearful call from my mother telling me that my father had just passed away. I was absolutely devastated: the most wonderful man in my life had gone. The last thing I wanted to do was proceed with my operation and I rang my gynaecologist to tell him I was cancelling. He said he could not force me to go ahead but he urged me to think about myself as there was nothing more I could do to save my father and there was still that slight doubt that I could have a cancerous tumour. I asked him to let me have more time to consider. By now friends and relatives were ringing me, as they too had heard the news about my father. When they heard that I might be cancelling my operation, they were horrified and begged me to reconsider. Greg pleaded with me to put myself first now. The rest of that day passed in a blur. All I remember is later that evening lying in an old Victorian-built ward of about 20 beds at about 8pm, as Greg kissed me goodnight and left for home again. I recall being in the midst of a busy, noisy ward full of people, yet I felt so alone and wretched. I was about to have my insides ripped out, but my heart was already crushed to a pulp.

Thankfully the operation on the next morning revealed that my tumour was indeed benign (a fibroid) although an extremely large one the size of a rugby ball. I lost half a stone in weight overnight! Two weeks later, clutching my stitches, I was able to cope with the sixty mile journey to my father's funeral. It was arguably the worst month of my life, even compared to the hand life was to deal me later.

All things bright and beautiful

For the last twelve days I have slaved over a stepladder and a pot of paint, over-reaching here, turning into a contortionist there, painting four of the six levels of my hallway and stairs. Walls, ceilings, doors and other woodwork all needed at least two coats to cover the horrible brown nicotine gloop caused by Greg's chain-smoking over the years. I am cream-crackered (as they politely say here) but the end result is one beautifully decorated hall and stairways. Although I say so myself, I am rather proud of my efforts.

Before

(note the upright bannisters)

During

(Note no upright bannisters)

After

Next project is the kitchen/diner.

The contagious disease

Picture from steadyhealth.com

Last week, I went to my local Al-Anon meeting for the first time since before Christmas. I have explained before that the Al-Anon philosophy is taking its time to have an effect on me (if any) and I am rather stuck on Step 3 which is handing my life over to a Higher Power. I have no idea what or who my Higher Power is and whilst stuck on Step 3, I have no real hope in hell of progressing through to the next stages and beyond. Maybe somewhere along the way, I have missed a vital link or important piece of information. I find writing my blog does me more good, to be honest,as I can get all the anger,frustration and despair off my chest. Writing it down just seems to be the help I need. Yet some people have been going to the group for over ten years and swear by its usefulness. I just go because I like to meet people who have been in a similar situation to me and who can empathise with me. Until you have lived with alcoholism, you really have no idea how horrific and life-changing it can be. The group members come from all walks of life, are all ages and have different faiths, but we all have one thing in common....we have lived with an alcoholic parent, partner or offspring. I enjoy the chat after the meeting rather than the meeting itself.

At last week's meeting, someone new turned up. A young girl in her late twenties together with her mother. Her brother is the alcoholic and is causing so much grief in the family. Like many people who first come to Al-Anon, they were at their wits' end and were looking for that magic wand to solve their problem. Sadly the only person who can wave that magic wand is the alcoholic themself. It is the alcoholic who must first recognise that they are an alcoholic and make the first move to stop drinking. Only they can agree to try detox (i.e. come off the alcohol under a medically-assisted programme) and then rehab (i.e.six-month long stay in a centre where the reason for drinking is analysed and coping mechanisms are learned.) Only the alcoholic can fight the demons and stay firm against temptation, for that is truly the hardest part. Relatives and friends can advise, support, cajole, beg, nag, plead, but it needs co-operation on the part of the alcoholic to bring about the change to sobriety. If the alcoholic won't see that they are addicted or refuse to do anything about it, that is unfortunately where you hit the brick wall.

I felt sorry for the newcomers at the meeting. They were clearly so desperate, like I had once been. The young girl sobbed uncontrollably as she unfolded her story. Her mother kept walking away from the group in tears as it was too much for her to hear, even though she lives with it every day. It made me so angry to hear of yet another victim of alcohol and their damage to those around them. It is often said that alcoholism is a contagious disease. Only one person is the alcoholic, but it affects everyone else in the family. All the people in my group are such lovely people. That is why I like to talk to them afterwards.They really do not deserve all this and certainly did not ask for it.

QUIET

The house was full of laughter and chatter over the last few weeks as both Kay and my mother shared Christmas with me. Kay went back to uni last week and I have just returned from taking my mother back home replenishing her larder and fridge with food in case there is more snow on the way. My house now seems deathly quiet with only the sound of ticking clocks and Snoopy's rather snuffled breathing. No different from all the months before, but you can cut the contrast with the previous few weeks with a knife. I shall have to get used to being on my own again until Easter. Just as well I have plans to paint everything in sight, unless it moves or breathes!

Goodbye 2010. Hello 2011

Greg 1949-2010

The end of another year and what a year! 2010 will forever be etched in my memory as one of those landmark years. A year ago I wrote this. As usual, I was full of optimism at the start of a new year but realistic enough to know that something bad had to happen, as the elastic of our living nightmare could not stretch any further.

Thank you for all your kind comments to each and every post I have written. I know some people answer every comment on their blogs, but I am usually rushing from one job to another in my attempts to keep busy busy busy, so I don't usually have time to comment to individuals. It does not mean I do not appreciate your comments, though, and when I have been a bit down your comments have truly helped.

Kay and my mother managed to get here for Christmas from different points on the compass, despite the threats of heavy snow keeping them away. We survived our first Christmas without Greg. Kay and I have always loved Christmas, so I wanted to decorate the house and the tree, as usual, putting a special star-shaped tag with a message to Greg in a prominent place on the tree. When we sat down to the big Christmas lunch, we began by raising our glasses to each other including Greg in the toast. We talked a lot about him - the films he would have liked on TV, the things he used to say or do. So although he was absent in person, he was there in spirit (though thankfully not the whisky kind!) It was a relaxing Christmas - no tensions or arguments like last year - and it seems strange to say it, but we enjoyed it.

Now, just like a year ago, I am gradually winding down to the last day of the year, waiting for the chimes of midnight and a new year emerging. I am again full of optimism, that Kay and I can finally shake off the last vestiges of the nightmare we have gone through and start to rebuild our lives.

I wish you and yours a happy New Year and may all your wishes come true.

 

Why?

In the last few years of Greg's life, we did not have deep meaningful conversations any more, in fact for the most part we hardly spoke at all. We yelled at each other when alcohol made him impossible and his alcoholism made me angry in frustration, or we kept conversation purely to the functional, such as "what time is your hospital appointment?" or "I'm taking the dog for a walk". Otherwise we lived separate lives in silence. In any case, Greg's mind bordered on that of someone suffering from Alzheimer's. He was often very confused - a condition caused by the excessive alcohol. He would misread the clock and think it was a quarter past ten at night when it was really ten minutes to three in the early hours of the morning, so would ring me, if I was away from home at my mother's. Getting woken from a deep sleep by a phone call at that time of the night used to chill me to the bone, but I got used to it, as he did it so often... and not just to me. He would also confuse me with his mother and often phone her to ask her something that was clearly intended for me. He would phone up friends and talk for hours on the phone to them, and I could hear him often repeating the same sentences over and over again in the course of the call. It was like he was on a continuous loop. He even once rang a friend and in the course of the conversation asked how her partner was; the partner had died some six months previously and Greg had "forgotten" this. He once was a very intelligent man holding down a very stressful job with hourly deadlines. That all seemed to fade to nothing in the space of a few years once he had retired and turned to alcohol. So our conversations dwindled too.


I am now 9 months further on from Greg's death. The letters, emails and official practicalities arising from his death are beginning to finally wane. My last recent piece of action was to organise an entry for Greg in a book of remembrance at the local crematorium and to attend a small candle service last week which the local undertaker invited me to at their funeral parlour. With that done, Greg' death passes into history. I am facing the first Christmas without him, comparing this year with last. I still have not been able to cry. But the numbness following his death and the subsequent anger have passed into another phase. I have lots of questions to ask him and the one at the top of the list is "WHY?"

• Why did he want to drink so much after he retired?



• Why couldn't he have found some hobbies?



• Why was he hellbent on killing himself?



• Why was life so horrible that he wanted to leave it?



• Why did he want to leave me on my own with so much life ahead of us?

Was it that he was so unhappy at work that it made him retire when he did, or was it really the ill-health he claimed as the reason? Was retirement such an anticlimax after such an exciting but stressful job? Was life at home with me so boring? I wonder whether I missed vital signs when he was younger. If only I could sit down with him now and ask him those questions and hear his answers, but all I am left with rolling around in my head is "Why?" It's a question which I think of when I wake and before I go to sleep and often in the middle of the night too. The sad thing is, I am never going to get those answers and sometimes the silence in reply to those questions is agonising.

The Club

This week I joined a club. You don't have to pay membership subscriptions to become a member, in fact you are given money to join. Not everyone is eligible - you have to meet certain criteria - but most people don't really want to join in the first place. I am talking about the club of OAPs (Old Aged Pensioners). I have reached my 60th birthday (yikes, how did I get there?).

I must confess to dreading it beforehand - one foot in the grave, God's waiting room etc. "I'm too young to die", I thought. I don't feel sixty. Nearly everyone I know or meet, says I don't look sixty, more like forty. I am still energetic, have all my own teeth and marbles and am a dab hand with a mallet or a paintbrush. I don't wear furry hats which have flaps over my ears and I don't push bits of rubbish into the kerb with a walking stick. However, am I now supposed to push my decrepit way to the front of the bus queue waving my free bus-pass or hopping on a coach for a day-trip to Bournemouth? Am I destined to watching back-to-back editions of Flog it or Escape to the Country to fill up my days? The approach of my sixtieth birthday (particularly without Greg) did not fill me with enthusiasm.

My two best friends from University days came to the rescue. One couldn't be there at the beginning of my birthday, the other could not be there at the end, so between them they devised a plan. One with her husband arrived the day before, accompanied me to my favourite national heritage site here, then we spent a lovely evening together, with them staying over. She brought me breakfast in bed the next day on my birthday, then decorated the kitchen table with flowers, balloons and breakfast things. They treated me to a lovely lunch in a local Italian restaurant, then once home again, they broke open a bottle of champagne and, together with my other friend who by now had turned up, sang Happy Birthday while I cut a cake the second friend had brought. The first friend and her husband then had to leave mid-afternoon, but the second one carried on showering me with presents, her lovely company and photos of her recent holidays to Vienna and Prague. We chatted non-stop and didn't get to bed until nearly 1 am.

We woke up to the first snow this season in London. My second friend needed to get back before the snow made travelling to Brighton impossible, so I waved her off mid-morning. It went on to snow all day and we are now under a white fluffy blanket of about 6 inches. Thankfully, I am in the warm and truly thankful for wonderful friends, who not only helped me to get through my first birthday without Greg, but made my transition into OAP-dom thoroughly memorable. Is Escape to the Country on yet? No fear.... I might even start training for the next London Marathon! That is, when the snow melts.....

View from my window this morning

A Right Royal Celebration

Prince William and Kate Middleton have chosen a fine day to get married next year. The 29th April 2011 would have been Greg's 62nd birthday, if he were still alive. I wonder if he'll be watching from his cloud with a raised glass of whisky to celebrate both occasions?

To rongs don mak a rigt

When our desktop computer died around this time last year, Greg and I bought matching Advent Roma laptops. They were fairy cheap in price (but then we were buying two) and I liked the look and feel of it. However I quickly made a discovery which I should have known if I'd read the reviews of other customers beforehand. For some reason, whatever you type on the keyboard, the letters you read on screen don't bear any relation. It would appear that the keys do not engage with what is below to make an impact. So I end up with loads of typos and have to redo it over and over again. If there are double letters (such as letter or running) in a word only one gets typed. It is a real pain having to constantly correct what I have typed in a long paragraph. Even worse is when a password gets rejected because the wrong letters have been entered. Do that three times on some sites and you have to re-register! Arrgh! I keep Greg's one at my mother's house now, so I am never free from the problem. SoI do apologis to anyone who ets a coment from me on ther blog because I do not men to type int h wrong ting, honestly. It's this blimin keyboard.........

The dangers of alcohol

You may have seen a news item earlier last week saying that alcohol was more harmful than heroin. Since then I have been scrutinising online debates in which a few medical experts give their sneering opinions on this.... more harmful than heroin - don't talk rubbish, kind of thing. In my humble experience the majority of medics completely underestimate what alcohol can do and, if they can be bothered to deal with it at all, they come up with unhelpful solutions with no real idea of the enormity of the problem. Unless it has touched their own lives, they really haven't a clue.

The trouble, as I see it, is that alcohol is more readily available in society than so-called dangerous drugs. It can be obtained 24 hours round the clock at supermarkets, petrol stations, bars and pubs. It is available at ridiculously low prices and, if they are clever, even children can lay their hands on it. It is socially acceptable to have a few drinks. It is an ice-breaker, a relaxant, a prize at the end of a hard day. You don't hear the average person saying that about heroin. So, unlike heroin, alcohol is welcomed in through the front door in most homes. It weedles its way in under the pretence of being harmless and waits to pick on someone vulnerable. In safe hands, it causes no problem. The odd tipple before bedtime or after church, the birthday celebration, a fine meal - these are socially and medically acceptable. I suspect in safe hands, the same can be said of heroin. But when the use of these substances turns into an addiction and then a dependency, that is when the argument that alcohol is less dangerous comes unstuck. The alcoholic has no problems getting their fix at any hour of the day and the shopkeepers are only too happy to keep on selling it. At least the drug pushers have to go underground and are not available on every street at every time of the day.


I have learned that alcoholism is an illness, possibly even a genetic mutation, just like cancer or cystic fibrosis. Some people have absolutely no control over their alcoholism, try as they might, because the genes have preprogrammed them to be like that. If that is the case, then having alcohol available on the streets 24 hours a day is tantamount to having heroin on sale at Superdrug or Sainsburys.


I don't know what the solution is, other than to push up prices and sell it only between set hours and only in a few locations. When pubs used to shut at 11pm, people went home to their beds. Now pubs and clubs stay open till the wee small hours and stay open all day. You read about young kids clubbing till all hours and throwing up on the pavements of London, Crete and Ibiza. The young are getting so used to alcohol in large quantities on a reguar basis that I fear, as they age, it will inevitably cause untold damage for them in the future. This is going to put even more stress on an already strained medical system.

I found a sheet of paper Greg had been given in the past, outlining what damage alcohol can do:

Brain: shrinkage, causing general motor and sensory impairment; anxiety; depression; neuroses; phobias; hallucinations.


Oesophagus: oesophageal varices occur as a result of increased pressure of the portal veins, causing localised varicose veins in the throat. These may rupture, resulting in an often fatal haemorrhage.

Liver: becomes enlarged with fat deposits and may be inflamed causing alcoholic hepatitis.


Reproductive area: in men, impotence; shrinkage of the testicles, loss of male sexual characteristics and possible feminisation in the development of breast tissue.

Mouth: increase risk of cancer of the mouth, throat and oesophagus.


Lungs: Reduced resistence to lung infections, colds, pneumonia and tuberculosis.

Heart: Fat is deposited in the heart muscle, impairing its function and precipitating heart attack.


Stomach: chronic gastritis; ulcers; vomiting; diarhoea; malnutrition.


Intestines: inflammation of the intestine wall inhibits absorption of vitamins and iron causing vitamin deficiency and anaemia; varices (varicose veins) which can rupture causing fatal haemorrhage.


Hands: Tremeulous hands; tingling numbness; loss of sensation in the fingers.


Toes: Numbness and tingling in the toes.


Not a very happy list of symptoms, is it? I know for one thing, Greg had nearly every damn one of those symptoms and alcohol took his life. Still unsure whether it's less dangerous than heroin?

Time waits for no man

I was clearing out some drawers at the weekend and came across an envelope containing Greg's personal effects. It had been given to me by the hospital a few days after he died. I was vaguely aware of its contents, having briefly opened the envelope and looked in, but I had put it in a drawer to look though another time, when I felt a bit stronger. As the months went by, I would often go to the drawer for something else, see the envelope and decide against opening it, until the right moment came along. As I say, I was clearing out drawers over the weekend and came across it again. I sat down, took a deep breath and opened it.

Amongst things like his wallet and credit cards was his watch. Still working like, pardon the pun, clockwork and on wintertime too, so it was appropriate it should be found again this weekend, as the clocks had gone back one hour to wintertime again. It made a lump form in my throat and hot tears try to force their unsolicited way from my eyes. Greg has gone, but his watch lives on. How ironic.

Noah's Ark

picture from

The Glory Site and Treasured Graphics

While I was at my mother's, I took the dog for a walk at a well-known beauty spot. Everywhere I went, it was like being on Noah's Ark. People were in twos....old, young, middle-aged. They walked hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm, kissing, even arguing, enjoying a walk or admiring the view. I stood out a mile on my own (even if accompanied by my canine friend).


I know I was effectively on my own and doing things on my own for years before Greg died, but now psychologically it hits me even harder, when I see couples everywhere and I am self-consciously on my own. I suppose I always lived in the stupid hope that one day Greg would recover from his temporary madness, things would return to normal once more and we would ride out retirement into old age together. I am really not ready for another relationship yet (if at all) - Greg and I were together for nearly 40 years, so I would be totally out of touch with the whole dating thing all over again and furthermore I doubt whether I would ever want the risk of things going wrong again. I can even honestly say I am rather enjoying my own company and the calm I have so desperately needed this last few years. However, the thought of having to face couples everywhere I go until I am a wizened old lady also fills me with apprehension.


There are just some things I am not happy to do as a singleton. Going into a pub or a restaurant on my own is a no-no; a holiday or a day-trip somewhere new on my own holds no appeal. I feel as if my life has been put on hold for my remaining years. I don't mean this to sound as morbid as it comes across, because by and large I am coping with things and keeping manically busy, but, with a big milestone birthday coming up in the next few weeks, I already feel decades older than I really am and as if I am sitting on the shelf in God's waiting room.

Even more windows

Back from my mum's and pleased to say that her window experience went a lot better than mine. Some before and after pictures....

Before

General state of windows

Bay window

Upstairs right

Upstairs left

AfterFinished job!!!

Since the photo, I've painted the front door; tidied up/weeded the front and back gardens for winter; chopped down some unsightly branches on a lime tree (which filled the entire back half of my hatchback car including the back seat on the way to the rubbish tip); washed every window in the house; washed every net curtain in the house and some of the over-curtains; hung them back up again; taken my mother to three appointments; done a big shop for her; walked the dog every day; and taken my mum out in the car for little treats. All in the space of ten days. Now I'm back home to resume work on my own house!!!!

Windows

You wanted photos of the windows, so here they are - or at least some of them (I have three windows on the stairs and they all look the same as the one I've shown, so there was no point showing them all!!) I know you are going to think the study and the kitchen windows look pretty much the same before and after, but if you look closely the study window in the "before" had no handle and therefore did not shut at all and the kitchen window was looking pretty tired. In fact when the window fitters removed the old kitchen window, they said it had originally been placed on a rotting wood sill and the whole window would have collapsed in time if it had not been replaced when it was!!! You can click on each photo to get a larger picture.

I've spent yesterday undercoating and top-coating the sills inside. Today I have been ironing curtains and rehanging them, as well as putting things back in their places. I'm off to my mum's for a week to organise her window replacements, but just hope I don't have the same shenanigans with her windows as I did with mine!

Study before

Study after

Kitchen before

Kitchen after

Stairway before



Stairway during

Stairway after

Eureka

The windows are finished. Not only did three men turn up today, two to do the patio window (which took them all day) and one to finish off all the other unfinished windows from last Wednesday, but the sun shone nearly the whole day despite torrential rain when I first woke up. My paintbrush comes out tomorrow to attack the areas around the windows. Meanwhile, I am celebrating a (finally) successful project in my new glassy surroundings with a glass of wine.

No-oooooooooo

Well, guess what, the double-crossing (ahem, I mean double-glazing) men didn't turn up today either, nor did they ring me, so at 10 o'clock this morning I rang them. I felt rather sorry for the man who took my call. I sunk my proverbial teeth into him and would not let go. He said they couldn't send an installation team to me today as they were all out on jobs. "Oh good", I said, "at least someone's getting their windows installed today, but it's certainly not me."

They've promised me Wednesday now and they're sending two teams to make sure it's all done.Watch this space........................

The never-ending story of the double-glazing men

When we first moved into this house two decades ago, the wooden windows were rotten and needed replacing, even though the house is not all that old. As we couldn't find anyone interested enough to replace them with wooden frames, we decided to replace them with UPVC ones. The small family firm we found had done many job in the locality and we were pleased with what they did for us.

Roll forward two decades to 2010. There are some windows on the side of the house (up the stairwell) and a few others that we did not have done at the time, but now need some attention, and, as the health and safety clowns these days insist on proper scaffolding towers in case their darling workmen have to climb the dizzy heights of more than 6 foot, painting has become ludicrously expensive. I therefore decided it would be an investment to get them double-glazed as well as a very large patio window. The family double-glazing firm still advertise in the local paper and are still very successful.

About two months ago I called them and they came round very promptly to see me. George (the son of the original owner and now the Chief Director) and Bob (who proudly told me he was Bob the Builder!) were both very nice and helpful and didn't try to push anything on me like you hear of in some gory double-glazing tales. In fact, quite the opposite. They let their reputation speak for itself. Within 24 hours,all the paperwork had been sent through to me, I had paid the deposit and a date for installation was set. The 29th September. Bear that date in mind, dear reader. I repeat the 29th September. I could have had the job done earlier, but I wanted to start the project well after Kay had gone back to uni. My mother also needed some windows replacing at the front of her house. The previous owners of her house had had the back and sides of the house double-glazed but had not done the front. Now after years of trying to nurture the wooden frames, they too were going rotten and so, yes, you've guessed it, I decided to get my trusty local double-glazing firm in to do her windows too. About a month ago, George and Bob paid a visit to her, while I was there, and again with no pressure my mum decided to press ahead with her order too. Her installation was agreed for mid-October to give me time to sort out my house after my window installation before turning my thoughts to mum's. Their surveyor turned up separately at my house and then weeks later at my mum's house to measure up precisely, noting to the exact millimetre every nook and cranny and angle.

As you are probably well aware, the 29th September was this week. Now they have had two months to prepare for this and I appreciate that they operate a "just in time" system, whereby they only make up the windows a day or so before they are needed. It means they don't have to store huge amounts of raw materials unnecessarily in their factory and it also helps cashflow just to make up something before it is needed. However a week before they were due to come I got the first sniff that something was not quite right. They rang me up and said my patio window would need to be installed on another day as they would not have the kit for it in time. Surely they could have planned two months earlier for the kit to arrive "just in time" before it was needed? Not wishing to be a party-pooper, I said of course I didn't mind the job not being done on the same day and agreed with them that the patio window could be installed separately two days later on Friday 1 October. A day or so beforehand, I scanned for weather reports and, as luck would have it, on both days, heavy rain was forecast with blustery gales on the Friday to boot.

On Wednesday 29 September, the installation team turned up - a man in his late thirties and a boy of about 17. They were there to install the five windows, remember, three of which are on the stairwell. The man was shaven-headed and had a whole poem tattooed on his upper arm. I didn't get the chance to read it, as it seemed rude to stare at his arm whenever I did get the chance to get up close. He seemed pleasant enough though and proceeded to knock out every window first, leaving gigantic big holes in the house, big enough for an elephant to step through. The rain rained and the wind blew and I put on an extra layer. The young lad tore protecive covering off the new windows, carted out old windows, even clambered onto the roof to guide out an old window over the top landing, swept up broken glass. I plied them with that good old British staple - numerous cups of tea and chocolate biscuits - and tried to keep myself (and the dog and cat) out of their way. However by lunchtime, there was a second hint that things were not boding too well. Mr Tattoo told me that two of the three stairwell windows were not the right measurements and he had just told head office that the surveyor obviously needed a new tape measure. The windows would have to be remade and he would fit them on Friday when he came back to do the patio window. Meanwhile he would temporarily fit the ones he had brought with him and "foam them up" so they would stay in place and be watertight. The surveyor would apparently bear the cost of his mistake. (It would have been so much cheaper to get a new tape measure!) Mr Tattoo said goodbye to me mid-afternoon on Wednesday, saying he had got as far as he could, although only one of the five windows were actually finished. Two were almost finished (quite why not completely, I don't know) and of course the other two would be replaced again on Friday along with the patio window.

Thursday was bright and sunny with blue skies. Unlike Friday. On Friday the autumn leaves were swirling in circular patterns, the trees were bending in half, the rain was pounding down and creating huge puddles on the patio. Oh joy. Up at the crack of dawn, I made sure the patio curtains were down, all furniture nearby removed, walls washed and scrubbed. Curtains were either put in my washing machine or taken to the launderette to put in the gigantic one there. By teatime, I would be the proud owner of new windows and clean curtains (with years of nictoine stains washed out and smelling sweetly). At 10 am I got a phone call from the firm's office. Mr Tattoo had called in sick, so there would be nobody coming that day. However, as a special one-off, they had twisted someone's arm in another team to finish off the other windows and install the patio window on Saturday intead. They apologised profusely. What could I say? It wasn't their fault someone had called in sick. It happens to the best of us. In fact, if anything, I was a teensy bit relieved that my fourth kitchen wall was not going to be bashed out and exposed to the heavens raging outside.

Before and After

And so here we are today. Saturday. Up at the crack of dawn. No weekend lie-in for me. Busy busy busy inspecting and making sure everything was ready. Cat and dog bowls removed, so no splintery glass would fall in amongst the chicken and rice kibble. And there I sat until midday, too afraid to start anything major in case they arrived. I rang the office at 11 and got an answermachine. Well, it is Saturday. I rang again at 12 and from somewhere a voice said I would take my custom elsewhere. It might have been me! I slammed the phone down. Half an hour later, a very apologetic installation manager rang back. He said he could not contact the relevant installation team as they were not answering their phone. He had no idea what had gone wrong. He said he was as disappointed as me, as he had been at the factory till after six last night checking the order through and loading the van ready for this morning.

He promises me they will come on Monday to sort everything out.

Remember, I have to repeat this experience down at my mum's. Lord help me.

Scars

I haven't been to Al-Anon for about six weeks now, what with Kay at home over the summer, or visits to my mother, or last week's trip up north. I thought I'd better put in an appearance this week. It struck me for the first time, that at the moment I am really in a better place than most of the others there. Although, naturally, I would give the world to have Greg still here with me, the nightmare of my situation has gone. I can relax at last. The hamster wheel is turning much more slowly, I can breathe easily, turn the light off at night knowing all is calm in the house and buy what frugal things I need for myself without filling up the supermarket trolley with bottles and more bottles. I am my own master. I now make the decisions what to do or not, what to spend or save, without having to pass it by another person. (Not that Greg was dictatorial about those things, but in an equal partnership, we always chose to agree on things first rather than insist on our own way.)



The majority of others at Al-Anon are still in the midst of their nightmares, with their partners or parents or children still doing the drinking or at best undergoing yet another detox, which for now will bring sobriety but only for as long as the patient is physically locked up for ten days and on medication. Once the key is turned and the patient is out on the street again, they will more than likely be looking for their next drink yet again. When depends on how long their willpower will last out - a few hours, a few days, a few weeks.


Most at the Al-anon meetings are weary, crushed, even numb. That was me a year ago. Thankfully, my nightmare is over, although at a price. The alcoholism has gone, but so has Greg. I am a victim of the alcohol, although I did not drink it and it did not kill me. Although I am in a relatively good place at the moment, Greg's absence is a glaring big hole in my life, ever reminding me of that nightmare.


Whether I shall ever totally recover worries me. There are some people I have met at Al-Anon who have been parted from their alcoholic loved ones for decades, either through divorce, separation, death (or in the case of adult childen, marriage and moves away from home). But they still need the crutch of Al-Anon as they feel they are "damaged goods" or victims. Their confidence or self-esteem has been battered by long years of being in the alcoholic's shadow, of being physically or mentally worn away until only the outer shell of them now exists. They still weep at the memories that never go away. Years of having to pretend to the outside world that everything was fine, yet coming home to violence or aggression or arguments and shouting. Whatever the severity of the drinking, it takes its toll on other family members emotionally and sometimes sadly physically.



I have tried my utmost to be strong - both before Greg died and since. Goodness knows where I get it from, because up to now I have always been timid, shy, socially-anxious and withdrawing. Maybe that comes from being an only-child. But I am damned if I am going to let this beat me. That is why I have been so determined to keep busy and get on with life, to draw up decorating projects and to oscillate between my home and my mother's home to get all the chores done. But sometimes in the wee small hours of the morning, when I lie awake in an empty house and hear nothing but the clock ticking, I am worried. I worry about the slow-developing scar this alcoholic experience is leaving and will leave on Kay and me, long after the alcoholism has passed through our lives and gone.