Greg's Birthday

It would have been Greg's 61st birthday this week. I did not fancy the prospect of spending the day agonising over what might have been and, as one of my two close friends is holidaying in Cuba and the other is otherwise engaged taking her mother to a hospital appointment, I decided to distract myself by visiting my mother for a week, as it is high time I got on with her gardening and other chores. All this early hot weather we have been enjoying has made the plants and shrubs go berserk. Mine are doing this at the moment.......




The weather has been glorious this last couple of weeks and has lifted my spirits; so too has a steady stream of people visiting me. Apart from the ex-neighbours who came the previous weekend, I had a surprise visitor midweek from a friend whose son used to play with Kay when she was about 3 to 7. They would run around the garden, playing in fancy dress or slide down slides or swing or swings. Now Kay is training to be a doctor and he is a promising rockstar with waist-length hair and a bandana. I can remember him singing his heart out at the kindergarten nativity play! How the years roll by. Yesterday my best friend (the one who is not in Cuba) and her husband came to see me. We had a marvellous day together and I was sorry to wave them off again. I'm off now for a week to visit my mum, so until then...............

Home Alone

Many thanks for all your supportive comments over the last few weeks. They have buoyed me up and kept me going. I am in a strange transition at the moment. For the first time since Greg died six weeks ago, I am officially on my own; alone; widow of this parish; a singleton, for Kay went back to university up North this morning. I took her and her three cases of clothes, work, more clothes, laptop and more clothes to the station and put her on the Inter-City train. We decided to get a taxi across London to avoid having to lug the heavy cases up and down into the Underground. The taxi driver took us along the scenic route in today's glorious spring sunshine - past Buckingham Palace just as they were Changing the Guard;

past Horse Guards Parade;

across Trafalgar Square;

past the various theatres, pubs and specialist bookshops in Charing Cross Road ;

across Oxford Street;

into Bloomsbury and past the British Museum.

There's no better place than London in all its glory in the sunshine. It made my parting with Kay extra special and cheered an otherwise emotional moment. St Pancras Station was heaving with people trying to grab the last seats on the Eurostar train back to Paris or Brussels, as air travel is still disrupted by the cloud of ash spewing out of Iceland's Eyjafjallajoekull volcano. Fortunately Kay had booked a seat on her train up to Yorkshire, so we could take our time getting there. All too soon, I was waving her off and making my return journey home alone. I won't pretend it didn't seem strange, opening the front door and knowing there was nobody else inside. Even stranger was to cook a meal just for myself and sit down alone to eat it. Fortunately Snoopy more than made up for it, by bouncing around to greet me and putting in the occasional wolf howl for extra effect. Then, just when I wondered what I might do to while away a few hours in the afternoon, there was a knock at the door and there stood a woman and her husband who used to live next door to me thirty years ago and whom I have not seen in almost as long. We do however still stay in Christmas card contact and I had written to her to tell her about Greg's death. They came bearing a bunch of flowers too.It was lovely to chat and catch up on thirty years' news. It is amazing how a lot of good has come from Greg 's death. So many people we had almost lost contact with have rallied round to support me. My somewhat shaky faith in human nature has been restored.

As I write, it is growing darker and I have been putting lights on all over the house. It will seem strange that when I turn them out, there will only be Snoopy (and maybe the cat) to wish goodnight to. It's going to take some getting used to.

The stages of grief and stages of life.

I have not written anything in a while because I have not felt like writing.....that and I have been too busy. But if I am honest, I felt too down to write. I felt everyone would already be sick of my regular moaning and whinging, so it was probably best I write nothing at all. But the longer I left it, the less I wanted to write. I sometimes wonder whether I should just stop the blog altogether. After all, my reason for starting it in the first place has now really gone.

Five weeks ago, to the very evening, I watched Greg die. It does not seem five weeks in some ways; in other ways it seems a lifetime. We were together for forty years: thirty-four of those as a married couple. What is five weeks of widowhood compared to forty years as a couple? A mere drop in the ocean and yet already I am getting used to the feel of saying "I am a widow". Already I am becoming a dab hand at filling in the ubiquitous forms, registering my status as "widowed". On Kay's student finance form which we filled in again this week for the forthcoming academic year, I am now the sole parent. Overnight, years and accustomed years of being "married" are replaced with the dowdy label of "widowed". I suddenly feel like I have concrete restraints around my feet, pulling me downwards into a place where nobody will give me a second glance. I feel I should maybe be dressed in black wearing a black net veil or should sit amongst the cobwebs Miss Havisham-like. With the change of status, I feel a tremendous change in my very being. I suddenly feel a hundred and two years old with one foot in the grave. Greg's suffering may be over. Mine seems to just be beginning.

They say there are various stages of grief. They are:

Shock/Denial

Anger/Bargaining

Pain/Guilt

Depression/Loneliness

The Upturn

Reconstruction

Acceptance/Hope

Some stages last a few weeks, others many years or decades. I think I have gone through a fair number of those stages in the last few weeks alone! I certainly have gone through denial - imagining that Greg is still in hospital, as he was there so regularly in the past five years. Sometimes the reality hits me that this time he will not be coming back. I have often felt anger. Why me? Why did he let this happen? Why did he start drinking and let it get so far? Why could we not have looked forward to a long retirement together? Then there is the guilt. I should have not said some of the nasty things I said when my frustration flared up and overspilled into venom. I should not have bought the whisky for him, when he was too drunk to drive to get it himself. I should have done more to bully the medics into doing something to stop him. I have already seen glimpses of the depression I know will definitely hit me, once Kay has left for university again and I am alone with my thoughts and an empty house full of too many memories, good and bad. I don't tell her this, of course. I am putting on my brave I-can-cope-with anything mask for her. But in the last week or so, she has been out twice with friends and slept over at their house, giving me a taste of what is like to turn out the light at night and just hear the sound of my own breathing for company. Those different stages of grief are coming one after the other in quick succession like a roller-coaster at the moment.

On a more positive note, the funeral was beautiful. So many people came up to me afterwards and said how much they had "enjoyed" it. Over about sixty people were there. About a quarter were family; about a quarter were work colleagues; a quarter were friends from the past; the rest were neighbours, close friends of mine and close friends of Kay's. Two (quite separate) people even turned up all the way from Scotland - one, an old work colleague, whom we had not seen for thirty years! The actual chapel service was put together by Kay and myself. We carefully chose the readings, the hymns and the music on a theme of his life in different stages and culminated in the Joni Mitchell song "The Circle Game". I wrote the history of his life which the clergyman read out. The funeral director was extremely helpful and friendly. The Order of Service, designed and printed by Kay, had photos of Greg in different stages of his life too, so it all seemed to fit. A work of art. Greg would have been proud of us. Afterwards we gathered for refreshments at a local club and everyone said wonderful things about Greg. It certainly helped get me through the otherwise difficult day. Greg would have so enjoyed it. Who knows? Perhaps he did.

The lump

A hard aching lump is nestled about 4 inches from my throat somewhere in the middle of my chest. It refuses to budge, to rise upwards and outwards, to erupt into a cry. Instead it stays fixed inside, forcing a smile on my face, pushing me ever on to do all the million and one things that are asked of me at the moment. Officialdom, paperwork, decisions, insistent phone calls.

A few people commented on my previous post what is blindingly obvious, when you think about it. Greg didn't die a few weeks ago: he died five years ago. I lost him to something else a good while ago. Not another woman, but something more dangerous, more subtle. The person he used to be, the one I fell in love with, disappeared off the radar eons ago. I have been on my own, dealing with the minutiae of everyday problems, making decisions, bringing up Kay, socialising on my own for some considerable time. Nothing in the last three weeks has changed in that sense. The only difference is when I come down to the kitchen each morning I am no longer met with the smell of cigarette smoke before I enter the room; no longer faced with the image of him sitting at the breakfast table with his half-empty whisky glass; no longer forced to watch when he later slumbers half-on, half-off the sofa or on the floor. No more watching him retch first thing, before he takes a drink to still his rebellious stomach. No more whisky runs at the supermarket. No more emergency dashes to the hospital. How can I miss these? But the kind-hearted individual, husband and father that he once was is long gone. I grieved for him in my tears by the bucketload over the last five years.

The funeral is next Monday. Family, friends old and new, and many work colleagues will be there. They have been phoning, writing and emailing about what a wonderful man he was, how proud he was of Kay and me, what a difference he made to them. A man they still remember as he was. They did not see the Greg that was left behind once the whisky had done with him. They did not know what a slave to alcohol he had become and how it sucked him in and spat him out on an intensive care bed.

I see my mother and my daughter watch me like hawks. They try to protect or to hover when a subject comes up that might make me waiver. They look for a wobble in my voice or tears in my eyes, but that aching lump stays firm in my chest and refuses to budge. I just cannot cry.

Tributes and tribulations

Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments you left on my last post. I have dipped in to read them, though it's been a hectic ten days since I last wrote. I never knew there was so much to do to arrange a funeral and notify people. Every day of the last ten days has been spent either at bank interviews, or on the telephone, or writing countless letters or emails informing friends, family, utilities and all and sundry about Greg's death. I have had to make endless decisions ranging from what to dress Greg in to what the funeral service should contain, from what accounts to close and what to announce in the local paper. I've also deliberated long and hard what to tell people about how he died and why he died. Some got the full truth, some got a potted version, depending on how I thought they might react. The phone has not stopped ringing. Overall I have been amazed at the lovely things people have said about him. About the Greg he ceased to be about five years ago. Work colleagues on the other side of the world have written beautiful letters about him, some have sent money for flowers, some have said they will attend the funeral even though they have not seen Greg in many years and live a few hundred miles away. Flowers have arrived for me from all corners of the globe. Ten of Kay's old school friends clubbed together and sent the most enormous bouquet of lilies imaginable. I have received more sympathy cards so far than I usually get Christmas cards, some from people I barely know. The volume of goodwill and heartfelt emotion has uplifted us and amazed us.


In reality, Kay and I are one of the few unable to cry. I have not shed a single tear since it happened. Kay is finding it hard too. I think we have built such a high wall around ourselves in order to cope with the last few years in particular, that we are finding it difficult to knock the wall down. It almost seems like it is someone else's husband who has died. I am going through the motions. When people say they are sorry, I nod and don't know what to say. The funeral is in another two weeks' time. I suspect it will probably hit me when the dust has settled and the last person has gone home. Then I'll cry.

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

If anyone needed to be convinced of the horrors of alcoholism, they should have seen Greg during the last five days of his life. I almost felt like taking a photograph and sending it to all the national newspapers. It was harrowing to watch a grown man disintegrate before your eyes. Quite literally. When Greg was first moved to Intensive Care all he had to worry about was the pneumonia he had picked up in hospital. Because he was slipping into a coma, they needed to move him and intubate him quickly. He was heavily sedated so did not know that we (Kay and I and his sister) were there. But as the days wore on, it became clear his body was becoming riddled with all kinds of problems connected either with the alcohol or by diabetes or both. First we were told the liver was now irreversibly damaged and was causing toxins to build up in his body. It was also causing more internal bleeding anywhere from his throat through to his intestines. The doctors tried to stem the bleeding where they could and then new sites would emerge. Then we were told the kidneys had ceased to function. Fluid started to build up, so that he looked as if he has been blown up like a balloon. His skin on his arms and legs was so taut with the build-up of fluid that it started to split and ooze. He had always looked as if he were expecting quadruplets, because the liver was so distended; now he looked as if he were expecting octuplets. The pneumonia continued to take a firm hold and the antibiotics were doing a poor job.

The staff at the hospital were marvellous. I could not fault them. Each and every one of the nurses and doctors were saints. It did not matter to them that Greg was an alcoholic or had brought all this on himself. They left no stone unturned. They did all sorts of corrective procedures to try to halt or reverse what was happening to Greg. If it had not been the NHS, I dread to think what we would have had to pay for such treatment. Because he was in Intensive Care, Greg got a nurse all to himself on 12-hour shifts. They were wonderful. I watched as they injected, took blood samples, administered drugs, bathed, hung bags of saline or blood. Nobody told them what to do: they just got on quietly with it. Let nobody say a single word against the NHS: they were fantastic.

On the day before Greg died, it was clear to us and the doctors that Greg was being kept alive by machines only. With damaged liver, non-functioning kidneys, lungs full of pneumonia and a labouring heart, Greg was unlikely to survive and even if he had, the quality of his life would have been considerably compromised. He would have needed dialysis at best and would spend the rest of his life in a lot of pain unable to smoke or drink ever again. He would also face the prospect of one day bleeding to death. The doctors decided with our agreement to switch off Greg's life-support and let him sink or swim, although we all knew Greg would slowly slip away. At teatime on Friday 5th March, they took out his tubes and switched off the machine. They offered Jill, Kay and me a relatives' room on the ward, which comprised two single beds and an ensuite bathroom.We managed in turns to grab an hour or so's sleep that evening. But by 9pm we sat by Greg's bed and held his hand all through the night. The night shift came on and did all they could to make him and us comfortable. They gave him liquid food and painkillers - just for the comfort factor. Everything to make him comfortable, even though he was unconscious the entire time. They offered to order us a chinese takeaway at midnight (though we declined as we were not in the least hungry - our stomachs seemed in our throats). They plied us with cups of tea all through the night. At breakfast-time, they brought us platefuls of buttered toast and jam to eat at Greg's bedside. On Saturday 6th March, shortly after the day shift came on, Greg's blood pressure began to fall and fall until it was 29 over 25. His heart rate started to reduce, oxygen saturation levels fell rapidly and suddenly his fight against alcohol was over. My Greg was dead.

Greg

29 April 1949 - 6 March 2010

Greg finally lost his struggle with alcoholism this morning. I cannot write more for now.

Intensive Care Unit

I was called yesterday evening to visit the hospital, as Greg's condition has worsened and he had been moved to Intensive Care. They told me he was unable to breathe on his own and would almost certainly die if they did not intubate him. I rushed in to visit him, although he was unconscious and medical staff were pulling him about. He is now wired up to a bank of machines and fighting for his life. He is so weak from the pneumonia and has so many things wrong with him besides. Kay left Yorkshire at 5am this morning and was with me by 9am. Greg's sister drove down from Lincolnshire and arrived at 9.30am. Together we drove to the hospital this morning and put on a united front but our feelings go from pity to anger and all the emotions inbetween. The next 24-48 hours are crucial. Please pray for us.

Medical Bulletin

Buckingham Palace used to put up medical bulletins when one of the Royal Family was ill, so what is good enough for them.........

The doctors did an endoscopy on Greg on Friday morning and found the cause of the bleed .....a varices (varicose vein brought on by excess drinking) in the lower intestine. They have dealt with that (I assume in the absence of any doctors to talk to that they cauterised it) and his blood pressure is back to normal. They are also giving him sedatives to cope with alcohol withdrawal. However he has now somehow contracted pneumonia and is on an oxygen mask as well as antibiotics and can barely talk or breathe. I was phoned just after breakfast and given permission to visit him this morning, even though the hospital is closed to visitors because of the winter vomiting virus, because he is on the critical list. He is as weak as a kitten and has not even mentioned cigarettes or whisky.......yet. Give him time......

It just gets better

Greg's health has been deteriorating even further over the last month. His legs and feet are a dreadful purple colour and covered in scabs (how he gets them I just don't know but they don't heal quickly when he gets sores or scratches). It is largely caused by the diabetes. Since I returned from my mother his mobility has taken a turn for the worst. Again the diabetes/smoking is the problem as well as poor circulation. Instead of being unable to walk just a few yards unaided, he is now unable to walk a few steps unaided and finds climbing all our stairs almost impossible. He has spent the last few weeks sleeping solely on the sofa as he cannot get up to the bedroom. He has barely eaten and has not taken his medication regularly. The only thing he has continued with gusto is the drinking. He is 60 going on 120 by the look of him. Even my 86-year-old mother is in better condition (and that is saying something).

This last week in particular has seen a big change: he needed my help both to sit upright from lying down and to stand up from sitting. He seemed incapable of doing it himself. He walked holding on to furniture. He felt so ill and so fed up with the state he was in that he agreed something drastic needed to be done. .. he agreed to make an appointment with our GP for Wednesday and with some local alcoholic counsellors today to get the ball rolling for a detox.

We saw the GP on Wednesday and Greg pleaded with her to allow him a detox at home. He does not like being holed up with strangers and institutionalised regimes. She refused a home detox as it would require high levels of drugs to wean him off the alcohol and 24-hour medical supervision which he could only get in a proper detox centre. He begged, she continued to refuse, saying she would get into trouble if she even entertained the idea. She encouraged him to keep the appointment with the counsellors today to get their help for a proper detox, as they were the best people to approach. There is usually a long-waiting list for this kind of help, so our hearts sank.

Yesterday, Greg seemed a lot worse and was barely moving at all. He had had no sleep the night before as he could not get comfortable on the sofa, so tried to sleep during the morning while I crept quietly around the house, keepng out of his way. He woke at lunchtime and slowly went from sofa to kitchen chair to toilet to sofa, having to negotiate stairs at every move. I was upstairs in the late afternoon when I heard him call for the umpteenth time, probably to help him sit up or stand. What I found was him collapsed on the kitchen floor and unable to stand. I tried to heave him up but he was a dead weight. After several attempts to get him up, his next remark completely floored me: "Call for an ambulance. I feel so wretched". Long-term readers of this blog know that he hates hospitals, ambulances, any fuss, so you can imagine how surprised I was. To cut a very long story short, the paramedics arrived and took him to hospital, where he is now. I followed on behind by car.

The bottom line is that they are very concerned about his extremely low blood pressure (71 over 56 and at one stage 70 over 35) and have detected internal bleeding. Now they need to find where the bleed is coming from, but high contenders are the intestine, stomach or liver. I am not allowed to visit him as the hospital wards are closed to visitors because of an outbreak of winter vomiting virus. At least he'll get the detox he so badly needs. Sometimes God moves in mysterious ways. The hamster wheel still turns but now on a different axle.

The Hamster-Wheel

Be honest. When you think of an alcoholic or drunk, what do you think of? A down-and-out tramp lying in the gutter? A menacing teenage hoodie skulking behind a wall with his umpteenth can of lager? Twenty-somethings getting plastered on a Saturday night and stumbling to the ground outside a nightclub? We all have our own idea and prejudices.

What do you think of when you see someone in front of you at the supermarket check-out with three bottles of wine on the conveyor belt? If it's tucked among fresh vegetables or salad and a lump of steak, you probably think they are going to have a nice romantic meal in, or a pleasant evening with friends. What if they had three bottles of whisky or vodka instead? Would that change your opinion? I often wonder what people think of Greg and indirectly of me. I worry anyway about what people generally think and how they judge, not to mention the whole alcohol issue. Welcome to my world.

Greg is clinically dependent on alcohol (in other words, if he does not get that regular fix of alcohol, he will get the shakes and hallucinations at best, or go into a coma or have a seizure at worst). Any attempts to come off alcohol would have to be done slowly and under medical supervision such as in hospital or at a detox centre. This is something Greg has gone through several times in the past five years but always inevitably lapsed back to drinking again. Greg WANTS to stop drinking, but the reality is that the drinking does not want to stop him. When he is in the grip of his addiction, it costs too much effort to even think about stopping, too much effort to reduce even by one glass. The addiction is like a continual loop. Drink-sleep-drink-sleep-drink-sleep. With every waking, the fear of withdrawal is the only motivation that drives him to keep on drinking. He is like the proverbial hamster on the wheel. He finds it hard to jump off. He needs that fix.

I have explained before that I have become the procurer of Greg's poison. I enable his drinking. That doesn't sit easy with some people. Or with me for that matter. What? I moan about him drinking yet I buy it for him? What? Hide it around the house when I go away? Organisations like Al-Anon would say that it is best left for him to make his own mistakes. But real life does not always fit into perfect rules and patterns. Greg's health was already bad when his drinking started to spiral out of control six years ago. With heart trouble, poor blood and nerve supply in his legs and diabetes to name but a few complaints, he is now no longer able to walk more than a few yards unaided. Stairs (of which we have a lot in our house) defeat him. Up until fairly recently, he did used to drink/drive but recently his conscience finally got through to him. That and the recent discovery of a consultant at one of his hospital appointments that he was inebriated and driving a car at 10.30 in the morning. His car was temporarily impounded in the hospital car park: he has not driven since. Without me to drive him anywhere he is housebound. Remember, he cannot walk even to the front gate let alone to the nearest shop half a mile away as an alternative. So what am supposed to do ? Do I refuse to buy it for him, watch him go into a coma or hold his hand while he hallucinates? He is terrified of the thought of it and so am I. Supervised detoxes have already been attempted several times and failed. Medics and professionals throw up their hands and throw in the towel. They don't want to know any more. Who can blame them? Alcoholism is a drain on limited NHS resources. We are on our own with this problem and sometimes you have to take the least line of resistence to cope with it.

And so I find myself as much affected by the alcohol as Greg. Each day I too am on that hamster wheel. I have to ensure there are adequate supplies to fuel his addiction. I am ashamed of what I do. It does not sit easy with me. I am enabling him to drink. But the fact of the matter is that he cannot get it himself and he cannot forego it without dire consequences. Because Greg drinks a bottle of whisky a day, I usually buy two or three bottles at a time, several times a week. If I go away to my mother for a week or two, I buy 7 or 14 bottles at a time. Consequently, you can imagine, I stand out a mile from other shoppers and particularly if I were to keep on using the same shop week in, week out. So, each time I go out to get supplies, I consciously try to vary the supermarket or shop I get it from, so that I do not frequent the same place and become conspicuous. Even so, I can't bear the looks from people in the queue in front of me and behind me. I can feel their stares boring through my head. "look at all that whisky she's buying. I bet she's a right bored housewife." I feel myself like the traveller nonchalently walking through Customs with nothing to declare but feeling guilty as sin anyway. I feel the compulsion to let the check-out girl somehow know that I am sober, in control of my money, not slurring my words and can push a trolley in a straight line! The fact is I hate the whisky runs and want to curl up and die. Sometimes I try to put a brave face on it. How do they know that I am not making a wedding cake and am using the whisky to soak the dried fruit? How do they know I am not living abroad in some far-flung outpost and am taking a year's supply out with me? How do they know I am not running a small hotel and the whisky is for the guests? I try to be blase about it and pretend that buying three bottles of whisky in one go is a perfectly normal thing to do. Only I know that I shall be doing the same thing again two or three days later.

This morning. Greg asked me to bring some whisky back with me, when I went out. At the supermarket, I gingerly put three bottles on the conveyor belt. To be honest I was not in one of my confident moods today. I was flicking glances as usual behind me to make sure there were no neighbours or people I know in the vicinity. As the check-out woman started to run the items through the laser-reader, she picked up the second of the three bottles and said jokingly "Oh my goodness, things aren't THAT bad are they?" I froze like a rabbit caught in the headlights. All I could think of as a lame reply was "oh yes they are!" She thought I was joking. She was not to know I was not! Would she have commented if I had had three tins of beans or three packets of orange juice? I scrabbled together my shopping, paid the bill and rushed out of the supermarket, choking back the tears. I really do not want to do this any more. I really don't. This hamster has had more than enough.

I Just Called To Say I Love You

Forget me not

I heard some shocking news on my dog-walk in the park yesterday. Two weeks ago, a local girl deliberately jumped in front of a commuter train and killed herself. She was 18 years old and had been in the same kindergarten class as Kay. Although Kay changed at the age of 5 to another school for her infant and junior years, we would occasionally bump into this girl around the locality and swap news. Her mother walked her dog in the same park as me and, when our arrivals coincided on rare occasions, we would stop and chat about our girls - both only-children, both bright and clever, both our pride and joy. The story goes that the girl was being bullied at her London university and had just been dumped by her boyfriend. The results of the inquest are still to come.

I hate to think she had nobody to turn to and was so desperate. She was still living at home too. The news is haunting me. It keeps rolling around in large technicolour pictures in my mind, when I make a cup of tea, sit at the computer or walk the dog. The thoughts won't go away. They remind me how tenuous life can be and why we should never stop telling our children (even when they tower above us, however old and grey they get, and despite all the daily chores that pre-occupy us) that we are always there for them in times of trouble and love them very much, no matter what they do or don't do.

To BT or not to BT

Well, I am back again from my "holiday", though things did not go entirely according to plan. At my mother's, I was supposed to i) get broadband set up, ii) meet up with my best friends for a reunion and iii) have a relaxing time (well relatively) away from Alcoholic Daze Towers. Well how many of those do you think I achieved successfully?


Let's take i) to get broadband set up. I had decided that, given the infrequency and varying duration of my visits to my mother, setting up a permanent broadband hub was not worth the monthly cost and I decided/was advised that a pay-as-you-go dongle was a better option. As our home broadband is provided by British Telecom, I decided to get the dongle from them too, but dealing with a large company is never straightforward.


Since Christmas we had already been having problems with BT, as they also supply our freeview TV channel system (BT Vision). The TV had been playing up and and we had arranged for a BT engineer to call. The appointment was made a whole week in advance but the engineer did not turn up. We rang BT and were told the order for him to visit had not gone through to the right department. We were promised the order would now definitely go through but we had to wait another week. When that appointment was due the engineer again did not turn up (surprise, surprise)and again we were told the order had not gone through to the right department (yawn). What is it with these large orgnisations? Is there some huge switchboard centre somewhere just swallowing up orders or throwing them in the virtual waste bin? Anyway, third time lucky an engineer did come eventually and sort out the TV problem.


When I subsequently decided to get a BT dongle, I was slightly apprehensive. Well, I was more than that, but I always live in hope! I was told there would be an 8-day wait and I was assured several times that the dongle would be sent to my mother's address. Suffice to say, the appointed day for delivery came and went. No dongle. Then Greg phoned me to say that a BT parcel had come to our home address. When he opened it, it was not a dongle but an unsolicited hub phone (we are still not sure why that was sent to us and even what we are supposed to do with it, but hey ho BT have since told us we can keep it, as it was their mistake!) They then promised they would deliver the dongle to my mother's address the following day and I am pleased to say that it DID finally come and I was able to access broadband for at least the second week of my holiday.


ii) As for meeting up with my two close friends from university days, that went pear-shaped too. The day before we were due to meet up, the one went down with a nasty cold and, as the other has to avoid exposure to such viruses wherever possible, the reunion weekend was cancelled, literally at the last minute. Such a shame, as were all so looking foward to it. All dressed up and nowhere to go.


iii) As for relaxing, I did manage to have a lovely time with my mum and help her around the house into the bargain, but the fortnight was unfortunately marred by Snoopy falling sick. He had a personality change while he was down there, became very morose and hang-dog-looking, was pooing for England with what looked more like cow-pats than anything else and lay lifeless on the bed, not even lifting his head when anyone came into the room. Definitely not his usual self. I sought out a vet nearby and Snoopy was diagnosed with colitis. Over the week, he got gradually better with antibiotics, steroids,painkillers and special diet; I got gradually poorer because of the vet's bill (to the tune of £110, as there were two consultations and all the medication.) I am pleased to say Snoopy's now fully recovered and glad to be home to chase the cat and ruck up rugs. Phew. Was definitely very worried about him for a few days.

On my return I have decided to have a bit of a personality change and am going to rename myself Addy. Rosiero was not my real name anyway and people were calling me all sorts - Rosario, Roseiro, Ros to name but a few - all very confusing, so I decided to play on the Alcoholic Daze (AD) and it morphed into Addy. Hope this will be easier to identify me with the blog title in future. I feel like a new woman..... as John Terry might have said !!

In memory of my Dad

I am off for two weeks to be with my mum again. You'll be pleased to know that I am taking Snoopy with me this time, as I am going by car. Now I have a laptop at long last, I can take it with me too and hope to keep in touch with the blogging world and emails rather than having to wait till I get back and plough through what I have missed. I hope to set up broadband at my mother's, so it will be a bit of a luxury for me. I am going for a number of reasons: to do a lot of household chores for my mum; to take her out and about; to get away from the alcoholic daze madhouse; to spend some time with my two bestest friends (we are having a long-needed reunion weekend nearby); and to be with my mum for "a very important reason".


The 1st February is a very important date in our family calendar. It is the date my dearly loved father was ripped from our midst nine years ago. I have not always been able to be with my mother at this time, as in the past I had other commitments, but this year, thankfully, I have the freedom to do as I choose. My father was (to me) a very special man who almost didn't make it past the age of 14 let alone the age he reached. His life was remarkable. I wrote about him before here. Not a day goes by when I don't look at a huge photo of him by my bedside. He is sorely missed by me and my mother who still sheds bucketloads of tears for him - they were soulmates. Dad was instrumental in giving Kay her love for medicine (see here). He would be so proud of her and so upset to see what has become of Greg and me. I sometimes "talk" to him and ask him for his advice. I like to think he is listening. I still miss him so very much. It does not seem possible that it is already the ninth anniversary.

Bacherlor daze

I have just returned from a few days away at my mother's as she had a few hospital/optician's appointments to attend. I did not take the car with me this time, as the weather forecasts had predicted more snow and ice. I did not want to be stranded anywhere en route, so I took the train instead. Because of that, Snoopy could not come with me as I could not lug all his belongings (bed/bowls etc) as well as mine.

Number of days away from home to help my mother: 4
Number of days enjoying myself : 4
Number of days Greg and the animals were left to fend for themselves: 4
Number of essential medical pills consumed by Greg: 0
Amount of food taken from the fridge/freezer in my absence: 0
Number of times Greg got dressed in my absence: 0
Amount of walks Snoopy had in my absence : 0
Number of times Snoopy and the cat were fed: not known
Tax forms which he insisted he was going to complete this week: 0
Number of bottles of whisky consumed: 5*

* hidden around the house before my departure as Greg is clinically dependent on them, but cannot drive or walk to get them himself! Once a day he rang me to ask where the next bottle could be found.

more photos

Is supper ready yet?

Someone tell Mum that Twelfth Night is over.

Please!


Did you want something........?


...otherwise I'll go back to sleep.

My favourite picture

Dulwich Divorcee has kindly nominated me for a meme to display my favourite photo and say why. It has certainly challenged me because there are any number of different types of photo I could put up, but to chose one to be the all-time favourite is another matter.

If sheer quantity of photos were the deciding factor, it would have to be one of Kay. I have thousands of photos of Kay. Her godfather once joked that when his own daughter was a baby, he took thousands of photos in the first few weeks and had them developed in the one-hour processing service. Then when the child was a toddler, he took hundreds of photos and had them developed in the 24-hour service. By the time the child was a teenager, there were only a few photos here and there which were sent off annually to the developers and returned a week or so later. We found this story amusing at the time, but oh so true now. There are several albums of when Kay was a small baby and perhaps one as a toddler and one to cover the entire teenage years. However, it is not to Kay that I look for the source of my photo, as our anonymity is paramount to my blog story.

I then look through all my holiday snaps and there are indeed places which have delighted me and conjured up all sorts of memories when I look at them. Some are of the places where I lived abroad and others where I just passed through. But trying to choose one over the other is difficult. They are all special in their own different ways.

The one I have finally chosen is of Snoopy, our loveable dog, as much a member of our family as any human. Let me tell you why I love this photo and the background to it.........

When Kay was a toddler, we decided to go on a camping trip. She loved it so much, we went lots of times after that. Our favourite place for a weekend escape was in the New Forest and, if you have never stayed there, it is well worth a visit as the wild horses roam all over the roads and forests and even in and out of the designated campsites. We have seen many a pony stick its head inside a tent if it smells food. But one year, when Kay was about three, we camped on a sheep farm up in Yorkshire for a change. During our summer evening stroll round the farmyard, Kay was attacked by one of the farmer's border collie sheepdogs. It wasn't a vicious attack, thank goodness, as the dog was chained up and could only reach so far, but it did manage to grab Kay by her trouser leg. It was a close call. Fortunately Greg was able to give the dog a hefty kick and it released its grip. We were later told by the farmer that the dog had been taunted by the farmer's grandchildren earlier that day and the dog was obviously getting its own back on the nearest child to come near it, which just happened to be Kay.

To say Kay was traumatised by that event is an understatement. She would cower whenever she saw a dog coming towards her and refuse to pat a dog despite our reassurances or those of the owner that no harm would come to her. By the time she was seven, it was beginning to take on phobia proportions and, because Greg and I love dogs and had both had dogs as family pets when we were children, we decided it was important to get Kay over this fear as soon as possible. We were going to get Kay a dog.

Kay was OK about the idea but less so about the practical reality. On our first visit to Battersea Dogs Home, she was fine looking at the dogs as long as they were behind the bars of their cages, but when she excitedly chose a black labrador cross breed called Charlie to inspect more intimately, she later backed in utter terror against a wall of the room we had been shown to, as soon as the dog was brought in to get to know us. Sadly we did not take Charlie home that day and even had a complete rethink about getting a dog at all. We returned to Battersea several times after that, as well as other rescue centres in the area, but always with the same result. Kay was terrified close up to any dog. Eventually we accepted that Kay would only be happy with anything with a leg at each corner, as long as it was a cat or a hamster or a gerbil. I remember Greg saying with vehemence that we were not having a rodent in OUR house, as the little critter might get loose and we would never find it again in our house with all the stairs and hiding places. So we settled on cats and ended up chosing two kittens at a rescue centre not far from us. As they were not ready to leave their mother yet, we had to wait a while and visited them once or twice to see their progress before the handover. On one such visit, I mentioned that we would have really liked to get a dog and the kennel maid didn't need telling twice. She dragged Kay and me over to an enclosure where there were two puppies remaining from a litter of six. They were a cross between a Manchester Terrier and a German Shepherd. The Manchester Terrier gave them the colouring; the German Shepherd contributed to their size. Of the two puppies, Snoopy was the runt of the litter, very submissive and therefore much more suitable for a little girl, particularly one who was nervous of dogs. Snoopy also needed some tender loving care and therefore a quiet home with a little girl and lots of love was a perfect match for him too. We went into his enclosure and he rolled on his back and widdled in the air. It was love at first sight.....for him, for Kay, for Greg and for me. We signed on the dotted line straight away.

A week later, once all the innoculations and paperwork had been done, we were the proud owners of two kittens and a puppy. It was bedlem toilet-training all three of them, working out the general care for them and coping with their anxieties at being abandoned overnight. I can remember Greg sleeping on the kitchen floor in a sleeping bag to keep all three company for the first few nights. (They were the happy days before Greg became an alcoholic.) Kay was delighted with this new menagerie and would invite all her friends over to see them and pet them.

To cut a very long story short, Snoopy did the trick. He got Kay over her fear in a flash. As she grew, so did he, so she was not at all afraid by the time he reached full adult height. Because of his size and colouring, many people think he is a doberman. If I had a pound for every time I have been asked if he is a doberman, I would be a millionairess, but his head is a different shape for a start. He looks as if he ought to tear your arm out and he can be quite an alarming sight when he rushes to greet callers at the front door, but in reality he is such a soft, gentle animal who would more than likely lick you to death. He has his own pet passport and has travelled abroad many times in the car with us. Because of his sensitive nature, he does not like to be left alone, so we always make a point of taking him with us, where at all possible, rather than leave him on his own in the house. He still does not like to be left alone at night and because we are rather soft in that department, we have allowed him to sleep with us in the bedrooms and (shock, horror) even on our beds. Fortunately he is not a smelly dog, in fact he has the most amazingly comforting aroma about him, which makes you want to nuzzle into him, and he does not drool either like some dogs do.

And so to THE PHOTO...... I have chosen this particular one of Snoopy because it shows such detail. If you click on it, you will even see his lips. I love all the little whiskers round his mouth too. Those lovely brown eyes can just make you melt and give in to him. They follow you around until you are forced to put on your boots and take him for a long walk in the park. I have this photo on my laptop desktop. We shall certainly miss him when he goes to that big kennel in the sky: not something we like to think about too often, particularly as he is nearly eleven. He has not only served his original purpose but has enriched our lives with his love and devotion.

Rather than nominate anyone to do this meme, I shall open it up to the first five to comment. Meanwhile, here is that picture of Snoopy..........................

New year, same old stuff

A new year always makes us feel full of expectation that things will change for the better. As you progress through the previous year and get towards the end, there is a mental and physical countdown towards the Christmas festivities: buying in food, presents, decorating the tree etc and after that another countdown to the very end of the year. Then, one minute you are at 11.59pm on 31 December, awaiting that stroke of midnight, raising glasses to the future, hugging friends and family and the next you are jettisoned into a new year and it is 00.01 am on 1 January: a whole new year ahead of you. Like a Time Lord, that minute between being at the end of one year and the beginning of the next is very disorientating and makes you feel that you ought to embrace the new year with a new you. I am sure that is why people make new year resolutions, otherwise they could surely try to give up smoking/start a diet/exercise more/donate more to charity (or whatever people resolve to do) in June or in October or on the May Day bank holiday.

I suppose I always hope that Greg is miraculously going to stop drinking overnight, which, I know, is a physical impossibilty as he is clinically dependent on drinking and cannot suddenly go without alcohol without serious medical implications. He would have to be weaned off it slowly with drugs, as has happened several times before in the past when he has been hospitalised. And so I start a new year with much looking the same, if not worse than before.

At Christmas, I tried to keep things jolly for Kay's and my Mum's sakes. Kay and I decorated the hall, the stairs, the lounge and the kitchen with tinsel and baubles and trees. Everything sparkled in the glow of the house and contrasted with the frosty, snowy weather outside. I bought copious amounts of food (estimating the feeding of the five thousand) and we chomped our way though turkey and five vegetables on Christmas Day, Boxing Day and several days thereafter. There were platters of chocolates, nuts, dates, more chocolates. We groaned and ate, ate and groaned. (I've put on a good half-stone to prove it!) We watched films on TV and tried to be jolly.


But Greg had other plans. He continued his drinking regime, seemingly not impressed that it was Chrismas or that Kay and my mother (or, God forbid, me)might want something different of him just for once. He spent most of the Christmas days, dressed in a dressing gown, his legs bare and covered in sores or yesterday's spilled tomato soup that he had heated up for himself. He made no effort to wash or comb his hair. On Christmas Day morning he opened his presents with us all in the lounge and then passed out on the sofa where he stayed until lunchtime. I meanwhile had been slaving away cooking the turkey, the five vegetables, the starter, the dessert and all the trimmings. I woke him about 20 minutes before lunch and suggested he might get freshened up (euphemism for "have a wash for once in your life") and dressed. Just as I was about to serve up the starter he sat down at the table - in his dressing gown, bare sore legs and clearly he had not washed either. I asked him to please make an effort, just for Christmas lunch and you would have thought I had asked him to recite the 17 x multiplication table naked in Trafalgar Square. He shouted and ranted that I was being unreasonable and he continued to shout and rant all though the starter and into the main course. He had no appetite and most of his meals ended up in the bin. He flaked out asleep on the sofa for most of the rest of the day, only participating to rant and rage when I asked him if he wanted any supper. Apparently I was making a fuss in asking him that simple question and he did not want a fuss. The remainder of the Christmas days followed a similar pattern, so that Kay, my mother and I tried not to engage in any conversation with him for fear of setting him off. My mother would even ostensibly steer the conversation away from any controversial subjects when she saw Greg's temper rising and sometimes it worked.

I tried to be the all-singing, all-dancing act to make things good for Kay and my mother. Kay is an owl and likes to stay up late to watch films on TV; my mother on the other hand is a lark and wakes at the crack of dawn, so I found myself forcing myself out of bed to bring my mother her early morning tea in bed (despite her entreaties for me to have a lie-in) and I stayed up long after the call of duty (on one occasion until 3am) to keep Kay company in the late evenings. One night, however,I was so exhausted, I promised myself a lie-in, took a tablet to help me sleep and withdrew at midnight to the spare bedroom with the dog. At around 6am, Snoopy nudged me awake. I groaned and told him to lie back on his bed. Thankfully, he did and I went off to sleep again. At 6.45am he nudged me awake again. Drowsily I invited him to jump up on the bed beside me. As he settled down alongside me, I was vaguely aware that he was trembling. In my half-sleep, I imagined he must be cold, so I reached for his blanket on the floor and covered him over. But still he trembled and at some point in my subconsciousnes, I realised this was not right and sat bolt upright in bed. As I went to open the bedroom door, he made a noise and ejected the entire liquid contents of his bowels onto my cream-coloured bedroom carpet. As we went down the four flights of stairs to the kitchen he offloaded another two dollops of liquid mush all over the floor and yet another lot in the garden. I was awake by that point and far from thoughts of making the first cup of tea, I was up to my armpits in disinfectant, carpet shampoo, soapy suds and kitchen towel. Not the best job to wake up to or at any other time for that matter. I was just feeling pleased with myself a good half an hour later when I had cleaned all that up, when Snoopy decided to vomit in two different places as well. Poor thing had obviously eaten something dodgy to be emptying out from both ends. I am pleased to say that, after that, he made a quick recovery and has been fine since. Not so my carpet unfortunately: I shall have to get in an industrial carpet cleaner at some stage in the next few days.

So now it is a new year - the end of a decade - twenty ten or two thousand and ten (however you prefer to say it). The expectation of new life, changes, sweep-clean. Out with the old; in with the new. My hopes soar, as always, to hope for better things, good health, wealth and success, but looking at Greg, I see an old man, wizened by the alcohol, in physical agony, too apathetic to eat, wash or take medication, on the brink of another medical crisis. His sole drive is to maintain the level of alcohol in his system for fear of withdrawal symptoms. His consumption now teeters on about 1.5 bottles a day (about a litre) of whisky despite his promises a few weeks ago to reduce from the one bottle he was on). So he is moving in the wrong direction ever further away from abstinence and from good health and ultimately from me. And somehow already on this fourth day into the new year, I just know this year is going to be tough.

O Come all ye Faithful

I went to the local supermarket this morning to get all the Christmas food I can only buy at the last minute such as vegetables, cream, cheese, bacon for the turkey and pigs-in-blankets. I always try to avoid going out on Christmas Eve as it is always so busy and in any case I like to spend the time at home getting organised, preparing and cooking. I thought I was being extra clever this year by going not only the day before Christmas Eve, as I usually do, but TWO days before. I have arranged to collect my mother from her home and bring her here tomorrow (I have been dithering about when best to do it as I was waiting to see what the weather was going to do and whether we would get snowed in), so today was really my last chance to get the last-minute food in.

Despite the fresh fall of snow last night, on top of the snow still lying around from last week, the main roads were clear and I only needed to slip and slither the car out of our cul-de-sac. When I arrived at the supermarket car park about a mile away, I encountered my first exposure to pandemonium. There was hardly a space available in the enormous car park. We are talking upwards of about 800 parking bays and nearly every one full. The ground was awash with slushy snow and huge puddles full of floating ice. I drove around and around until I found the last parking bay in England! This should of course have let off alarm bells but I valiantly sailed through the icy air into the oasis of the store with my trolley expecting the usual number of customers. What met my eyes once I was already cocooned in the warmth was utter chaos. I could not believe my eyes. Was there a war on? A lorry drivers' strike maybe? Armageddon on the way? The crowds were pushing and shoving (I have the bruises to prove it); there were trolley jams in every aisle; there appeared to be impromptu coffee-morning meetings being held in the middle of some aisles; they were four deep picking over the clementines and brussel sprouts. While I was waiting my turn hoping to have some contact with the tubs of custard, I had a trolley pushed up my back, as if I were invisible and not myself waiting for some large person with a trolley in front of me to budge. The staff looked just as fed up as they tried to stock up the depleted items with replenishments. To start with I politely hung back to let others through narrow bottlenecks (caused by huge pyramids newly-stacked in mid aisle of exciting offers like mince pies or turkey foil) but after it became apparent that it was every man for himself, I sharpened my elbows and battled forwards with a blank I'm-not-to- be-messed-with look. The touble was, a few others had that same sort of look too and carried it off far more menacingly than me.

I am pleased to say I made it to the checkout with only a few bruises and most of my sanity vaguely intact, though to be honest I was that stressed I might have had a bit of trouble remembering my own name if pushed. As I left there were more people adding to the throng. There were several cars eyeing up my car bay as I backed out of it. I suspect they might have had to call in the local constabulary to deal with the fights. I was glad to be out of there. On unloading it all at home again, I realised I had forgotten the gravy. I'm certainly not going back there again. Do you think I can get away with turkey in a custard sauce instead?

Happy Christmas

Things start to get busy over the days leading up to Christmas. For a start, tomorrow, I have to have my boobs squashed flat as a pancake in one of those medieval torture-chamber mammogram machines. It's a routine three-yearly check-up that we poor old fifty-somethings have to go through and I don't much relish it. It always hurts and the whole procedure can only have been invented by a man. If men had to have their genitalia pincered paper-thin in a similar fashion, they would have invented an alternative pretty damn quickly.

Snow permitting (and we have had a fair bit of sleet/snow in London today) I hope to collect my mother by car after the weekend and bring her back to the alcoholic daze madhouse for the Christmas period. She did say she wouldn't mind if she spent Christmas on her own. I was not sure whether that was code for "please don't make me endure yet another Christmas with Greg" or whether she was just being considerate, trying to spare me the drive in both directions, as she hates to see me chasing my tail, which I invariably do. Anyhow, I have said there is no way I would see her spend Christmas on her own with a solitary chicken leg for her lunch, so she will be with us, whether she likes it or not. Greg spends most of his time asleep on a dining chair downstairs anyway, so my mum, Kay and I will be separate from him in the lounge upstairs. We'll try our best to eat as much chocolate as we can and fall asleep during the films.

Kay is already back from uni and we have been having lots of girlie chats and catch-up conversations. She seems so mature after just one term and is fascinating to listen to.

I leave you with the following carol to get you in the Christmas mood. Many thanks to all of you who over the past year have offered advice, a shoulder to cry on, or have just been there for me. I appreciate it very much.

Happy (or should that be merry) Christmas ....from Rosiero

Easy Christmas cake

There is still time to make a cake before Christmas and I thought I'd share this highly unusual
recipe with you.

INGREDIENTS

1 bottle of whisky

250 gm butter
1 cup plain flour
4 large eggs
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1 cup brown sugar
1 teasp. baking powder
2 cups dried fruit
1 tablesp. lemon juice


METHOD

1. Sample whisky to check for quality.

2. Take a large bowl. Check the whisky again to make sure that it is of the highest quality.

3. Turn on the mixer. Beat the butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one spoontea of sugar and beat again.

4. Make sure the whisky is still OK. Cry another cup.

5. Turn off the mixer. Break two leggs, add to the bowl and chuck in the dried fruit. If the fruit gets stuck to the beaters, pry it loose with a drewscriver. Sample the whisky again to check for tonsisticity.

6. Add two cups of salt, or something - who cares? Check the whisky.

7. Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one handful of brown sugar, or whatever colour you can find. Wix mel. Grease the oven. Turn the cake tin to 180 degrees centi-thingy.

8. Don't forget to beat off the turner. Throw the bowl out of the window. Check the whisky.

9. Stagger down to the local supermarket and buy one of their cakes. Pretend you made it yourself. Drink the remaining whisky.

Please do not try this at home!! You have been warned.

The Christmas letter

Every year, for some considerable time now, when I write my Christmas cards, I include a computer-written round-robin letter in them, telling people what we have been doing during the past year. First, it saves having to hand-write a letter to every one of the hundred or so we send cards to, secondly it keeps people we haven't seen for a while up to date and thirdly I actually love receiving similar kinds of letters from other people at Christmas. If I have been unable to see them for two, three, four, ten years, it is a nice way of catching up with their news. I also keep copies of my own letters, so over a period of time, I can look back and see what we did in any given year. One of our acquaintances has said in the past that they felt insulted receiving the same printed newsletter from us sent to all and sundry, but apart from that one person, most have said they look forward to receiving them and hearing our news.

Over the last few years I have had increasing trouble knowing what to write about Greg. Only a small handful of people know there is anything wrong with Greg apart from his diabetes and heart trouble. They know nothing whatsoever about the alcoholism. The first person I ever shared the problem with, about four years ago, was Greg's sister and for a long time she was the only other person who knew. Then my mother witnessed things at first hand when she stayed over with us one Christmas. Then a year or so further on, Greg's mother (who is sadly no longer with us) found out. Gradually I felt brave enough to share my dilemma with my two closest friends and finally, eighteen months ago, Kay's teacher, who needed to know in case Kay's school work suffered. In fact, it was the telling of the teacher that finally pushed me into writing my blog, because that was the first (and only) person outside close friends and family whom I had told and that seemed to give me courage to get things off my chest into cyberspace. However, apart from those six people, the rest of our circle of friends, neighbours and family know absolutely nothing at all. Some might have guessed (certainly neighbours in recent months), but most have no idea at all. I have often had to make excuses to others about Greg's absence from social gatherings, about why he doesn't drive anywhere these days or about his hospitalisations. The usual excuse is that he has problems resulting from diabetes and the poor circulation in his legs. It is true he has those complaints but they are not of course solely the reasons for his absences, inability to drive or hospitalisations. I have even blamed his absences on the fact that he has to babysit for the dog. I sometimes wonder if I should just come clean and tell everyone the truth as the situation arises, but then I feel I might somehow be disloyal to Greg, doing the dirty on him, washing our linen in public. (I suppose the same could be said of this blog, but then I do try to cover up our real identity, so Greg's privacy is protected.)

Up until this year there was always equal news in our newsletters about all three of us. However, my Christmas letter this year contains lots of news about Kay and myself. There is a very small paragraph buried in the middle just to say Greg had been ill in hospital again and was now housebound. He read my draft through a few days ago and commented "there's not much about me in it". What more could I write? That he drinks all day? Watches TV from morning till the following early morning and naps on the dining chair at odd times of the day? That he has all sorts of illnesses building up from the excess of alcohol? That his hygiene has gone to seed? That he never goes anywhere or does anything? Perhaps I could make up something, such as he is planning to climb Killimanjaro or has taken up stamp-collecting? I asked him what he would like me to write instead. He thought for a minute and then said my draft was fine.

Accolades and Setbacks

Thank you Rebel Mother

Thank you Infactorium

On the accolade front, I should like to thank Infactorium and Rebel Mother for thinking of little old me when handing out the above awards. I really am amazed that people think of me as worth reading. Remember, I am doing this partly to get things off my chest, partly to alert people to the problems of living with alcoholism and partly to reach out to others in the same boat. That anyone should think I deserve a reward honestly comes as a bit of a shock. Anyway, many thanks Infactorium and Rebel Mother. I have pounced on so many people of late with awards, that I feel it is time to leave them alone , and not pass on these awards for the moment, although I am sure there are many who deserve it more than me. Hope that is all right.

So far as setbacks is concerned, you may remember I was having my cholesterol level monitored (see here) and had managed last time to keep it down (and avoid taking statins) by sticking hard to a self-designed diet full of pulses, oats and fruit/veg. The doctor had asked me to have another fasting blood test six months later and I went for the results of this a few days ago. I have to admit my "diet" had gone to pot over the summer and autumn months and I was not eating porridge any more (not one of my favourite foods I have to say), and had been comfort-eating, as I always do when I am stressed, with such naughty things as chocolate peanuts, chocolate anything and crisps. But I did partly deliberately go back to eating rubbish to see what effect it would have on my cholesterol levels. I knew things were not looking good, because my waistbands were getting a bit tight. (I think my clothes must have shrunk in the wash, ehem!) Anyway, the doctor confirmed my cholesterol levels had risen again. She asked if there was any history of strokes or heart attacks in my family. Most of my mother's side have gone with strokes; most of my father's side with heart attacks. I could see the horror on her face. Given my age, the genetic risk and my high levels of cholesterol, she said she should really be prescribing me statins. I have tried to hold out against statins, because of the known side efects of these little blighters, but I waved the white flag and agreed to start , with the proviso that if they made me ill, I would stop. So I have been taking them for the last few days now. I must admit, it means I can eat a rubbish diet now and again without feeling too guilty, because the statins will do their stuff overnight to eliminate cholesterol. Watch this space. Another blood test in two months to see what progress the statins have made.

Rollercoaster

I seem to be on a proverbial rollercoaster at the moment, hence my absence over the last few weeks. There have been lots of highs, lots of lows and some scary white-knuckle bits in the middle. Quite frankly, I'd be glad to get off onto terra firma for a while if I could.

For a start, I am leading a dual sort of existence in two places sixty miles apart. One is with my mother. I went to visit her at the beginning of November for two weeks. We had a great time together, sharing laughs and memories. I also did the usual hard work felling two enormous holly trees and taking then to the local dump. I prepared her garden for the winter and took anything extraneous to the dump. I shredded loads of paperwork and took that to the dump too. I washed net curtains, cleaned windows, filled her larder and freezer with food and walked the dog inbetween. I don't mind hard work. It can be therapeutic and helps me work out and de-stress. In the middle of all that my mother got a call from the local hospital - they had had a cancellation and they were inviting her to have her other cataract operation while I was still there. So I was able to drive her to the hospital, hold her hand while we waited in the conveyor-belt queue, drive her home again, remove the eye patch the next day and administer the first antibiotic eye drops.

Then I had to get back home to run my other existence. The one where I live with Greg in a semi-nightmare world. He is back to drinking big-time. Back on a full bottle of whisky a day. Back to not eating. Back to not caring for his hygiene. In addition he has had upset tummy problems which alternate between constipation and diarrhoea. Because of his leg problems and inability to walk very fast, he is not making it to the toilet in time. I shall spare you the graphic details of what my involvement is when his diarrhoea meets his inability to walk quickly. Let's just say it is not pleasant. The words he uttered to the social worker in hospital when he declined her offer of back-up services at home keep coming back to me. "We can manage" Like hell, we can! While I was away at my mother's he managed to drive himself to the local hospital for some laser treatment on his feet, supposedly to help with the tingling feeling in his feet caused by the diabetes. He had several sessions. He also had to see the diabetic consultant on one occasion and, smelling drink on him at 10.30 in the morning, she refused to let him drive home, ordered him a taxi and made him leave his car in the hospital carpark. He picked it up the following morning - still intoxicated. He rang me at my mother's to tell me and was so humiliated and embarrassed..... unfortunately not enough to make a jot of difference to his drinking.

The best bit of the rollercoaster has been that Kay came home this weekend as she had a prizegiving at school and had to pick up her prize and A-level certificates. It was great seeing her again, as it was the first time we had seen one another since September. We have spoken on the phone lots, emailed, texted on our mobile phones, but not met. Either she has been busy with academic work or making new friends, so there has not been an opportunity up until now. For those who have asked, she is settling in well now and making friends from all over the UK and beyond. When she walked through the door, she looked so much more confident and older. We nattered a lot and she showed me some of her essays - written in entire gobbledegook, so far as my non-scientific brain could decipher. How she can cope with all that bio-chemical jargon is a mystery. Greg and I did foreign languages at uni, but bio-chemistry is a language all on its own! I put her on the train back to uni last night, but our parting was not at all tearful. She was happy to be returning to her new life and I was happy that she was happy... but roll on Christmas!!!

Kreativ Blogger Award

Nechtan recently very kindly passed on to me the 'Kreativ Blogger' Award, for which I belatedly thank him. I always feel so false accepting such "awards", as, after all, I am only telling my story, but accept it I do and very humbly so. The rules of the award are as follows:

1. Thank the person who gave this to you.
2. Copy the logo and place it in your blog.
3. Link the person who nominated you.
4. Name 7 things about yourself that no one would really know.
5. Nominate seven 'Kreativ Bloggers.'

1.2. and 3. I've thanked Nechtan above, linked him and put the logo on.

4. Now to the difficult bit. Can I scratch together 7 things about me...Hmmm....let's see

i) I have a special attraction to Cornwall, because my husband and I were engaged whilst on a holiday there and spent our honeymoon there a year later.

ii) I adore Thomas Hardy novels.

iii) I am currently fascinated by anything to do with Charles Darwin.

iv) Kit Courteney has reminded me that I have a thing about numbers and can get quite excited if the clock reads, say 12:34 or 12:21 or 09:09. Anything where it seems to be numerically in a pattern.

v) I love going for long walks and kicking up leaves in the autumn.

vi) I would far rather skip the main course and go straight for the dessert.

vii) I am hard of hearing ( a genetic condition) and have been for the last twenty years. Don't feel sorry for me..... it can come in very handy sometimes.

There. I bet you are all glued to your seats with shock or excitement or both! Oh well, suit yourselves.

5. And so to the nomination of seven others..... There are so many creative bloggers on my reading list, but I have chosen those whom I have not burdened for a long time. Sorry if I have chosen someone who is busy at the moment, but feel free to decline if you want to. I understand.

Working Mum on the Verge
Not Waving but Drowning
Rebel Mother
Just Twaddle
Fat Frumpy and Fifty
Retired and Crazy
Liebfraumilch and Lipstick

P.S. Off to my mother again for another ten days. Back soon.

Halloween time again

Yesterday history repeated itself in a strange kind of way. This is what I wrote last year......

We live in a small cul-de-sac off a fairly busy road in London. There are 32 houses in the cul-de-sac and everyone knows everyone else by name. Quite rare by any standards, let alone in somewhere as large as London. The children all play with one another and are in and out of one another's' houses. It was great when Kay was growing up, because, as an only child, she always had someone to play with at the click of a finger at any time of day. There is a new generation of children now since Kay outgrew such things - out playing on their bikes, pushing toy prams, playing football. The cul-de-sac is a village all of its own and we are quite separate from the goings-on in the main road. Halloween is always a special time here, when all the cul-de-sac children go around in a large clump knocking at doors to trick or treat. The grown-ups go round with them, keeping a safe distance so as not to destroy their child's feeling of independence, yet watching over them in case they fall into the wrong hands. In the past, when Kay was little, I was known to host small dinner parties for the children before the tricking and treating commenced. On the menu would be bloody eyeballs (scoops of water melon), followed by dead man's fingers (sausages) with worms in blood sauce (spaghetti in tomato sauce). Kay and I found one of the home-made menu-cards yesterday while we were searching for the battery-lit pumpkin.

Before it got dark, we prepared a basket full of chocolate mini bars to hand out to any callers that might come by and hung the plastic pumpkin on the front door. At seven o'clock yesterday evening, then, Kay was getting ready to go out to a teenage party at a friend's house. All black dress, high heels and red lipstick. Not a pointed hat or white sheet with holes for her. Definitely not cool. Suddenly the doorbell rang. We opened the front door to find about twenty monsters, ghosts and ghouls standing on our doorstep. They ranged from those who could barely toddle and still in nappies to those who were at the age of eleven or thereabouts. All looking fabulously scary and holding out bags for their treats. Their parents stood much further back, shivering in the chilly night. Wanting them to work a bit for their treats, we playfully asked the group what they would do, if we did not give them anything. A little witch, not much older than four with blonde ringlets, acted as spokesperson at the front of the group.

"We would trick you", she shouted. The others all nodded and giggled in agreement.

"So what would that involve?", we asked.

The little blond witch thought long and hard, biting her bottom lip, and then blurted out with all the aplomb of the Godfather delivering his sentence.....

"I'd say BOO". Her little face was a picture. In fact, I'd say a real treat. The chocolate bars were passed around.

Swing forward one year to last night. A few changes but more of the same. The same little group knocked on my door, standing a few inches taller and one year older, with a few more younger ones in nappies added to the crowd. There they stood giggling and expectant. The parents stood further back shivering in the cold. Two hundred miles away Kay was getting ready for a Halloweeen party with her new friends. Was I scared by all these little ghosts and witches? Not a bit.... I felt toasty warm inside remembering the lovely times I had with Kay at that age.