Easy, get down off the boat’s slippery gangplank, only have to raise my right foot a bit higher and be careful in the rain. There we are, now, ready to start the climb up the stone steps to the island. Done this sort of thing a million times before, but usually alone, so that I can get the angle right, the exact tip needed. If I don’t quite make it first time with the foot-lift, I can have another go, while others behind me surge amicably past making friendly, reassuring noises.
Not this time. Thinking to be polite, and needing a bit of help with balance, I solicit the help of the friendly bloke clad in the regulation fluorescent jacket, on hand to offer assistance. Believing it needful, he pulls me forward, as if I am like a child and he can hoist me up. Except that, at this new angle, lifting right foot high enough to reach the step becomes impossible. I fall before I get started, and am heaved upright by two or three very willing persons. For me, an ageing, gentrified lady of fifty, the whole experience is exasperatingly familiar.
I hope you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell? Thank you, I am fine, and don’t feel in the least put out that I was effectively pulled off my feet and then raised up like a heavy lump. Being a heavy lump is scarcely a consolation, and if I let it, it could become the latest abject humiliation. Instead, I let the whole thing slide off me and disappear. Result! I have another blog post in the bag.
Except, – Oh God!- there are no handrails on either of the stairways up to the old and dignified room that remains intact amidst the general, geriatric ruination of this castle. So I stumble up and around the spiral staircase doing the landlubbers equivalent of the doggy paddle. Then all of a sudden, as if he knew exactly what I would like the most, a lovely young man appears at my side and offers, “Here, you can lean on me” and we proceed together, happily upright, me moved more than I care to admit. In the general mishmash of emotions bubbling away, it would take only a little something to start me crying. Oh, God, that is lovely music, where is my hankie? There are times when I just want someone to lean on.
Going down is the familiar story in reverse and even less dignified, filled with eddies of fear and uncertainty, while I work out what to do with my elbow crutch – it is dangerous, inflexible and in the way, so eventually I throw it down the stairs ahead of me, just to be rid of it – and then the rest is easier.
Is this yours? asks another helpful lady.
Yes, it is mine. Would you like it?
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September 11, 2014
Visit to the Doctor
Fran Macilvey acceptance, allowing, cerebral palsy, change, choices, communication, gratitude, growing up, Health, honesty, patience cerebral palsy, Fran's School of Hard Knocks 10 Comments
Visit to the doctor.
Rarely, if ever, do I visit my doctor’s surgery on my own account. I have found an accommodation with myself that works well, most of the time, and I know that as I get older I am finally learning to listen quietly, to suspend judgement and to live in the moment more fully. Problem is, I had a vivid dream, the meaning of which was clear, to me, at least. I have always had lots of car dreams: a car, in various states of repair, indicates my physical life and concerns. Small careering fast downhill with no steering wheel….that sort of thing.
So, a shiny, green car in good condition. Green = health, and there is lots of that. But open the passenger door, and under all green health, you can see that the hinge, the lynch pin, is rusted right away, and that the door is only just hanging on. I took this as a warning, that one of my joints needs attention, and made an appointment to ask for a referral to X ray. But my darling GP, whom I have not seen for six years, is unwilling to expose me to any more X rays than is absolutely essential – and I would agree with her, normally – so she gently declined my request, tested my joints and told me there was no sign of any damage that would either show up on an X ray, or affect my range of movement significantly.
She said she would request a referral to physiotherapy and OT, for an assessment, to see if they can make any recommendations. The problem is, as anyone who has read ‘Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy’ will know, I have an insane and quite unreasonable detestation of ‘assessments’ by medical professionals. The very idea is upsetting and I fear that if I go I shall be defensive and upset and probably burst out crying. I need my privacy. Surprisingly, the fact that I have CP appears no-where on my GP notes, but has been documented elsewhere extensively, so while my GP is entirely oblivious of my emotional fragility on the matter, I cannot explain. In this particular instance, I would have preferred a referral. I could hardly sit there and say, “Well, my angels sent me a dream, which means….” So, I am no further forward, except, perhaps, that now I am certain that I should probably go swimming every single day for the rest of my life.
Conclusion 1: Wild Horses will not drag me to any assessment.
Conclusion 2 – I am more or less back to square 1.
Conclusion 3 – I shall need to start taking more care of myself.
Conclusion 4 – So, no change there, then.
I have been swimming this morning and yesterday, so we are making progress. Maybe that is what Spirit were trying to tell me – get moving, girl! Look after yourself. So I shall be cheerful and hope for a miracle. In the meantime, does anyone have any other suggestions?
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