BRING ON THOSE KETTLE BELLS ... or maybe not!

I was convinced that the hardest thing about my day today would be getting up at 5.30 am.   I was so wrong!

I will explain just how wrong I was in a moment, but first I hear you asking: why?  Why was I up so early if I wasn’t jetting off on my hols?

Well, because I’ve heard a rumour that the sun is threatening to shine, which means it’s time to squeeze into the summer togs.   Which means it’s time to deal with the flabby bits!

The plan was hatched.  I was to accompany Ellie to a ‘kettle bell’ session at her gym.  Kettle bells are, not surprisingly, kettle-shaped weights, and a kettle bell workout is supposed to burn fat like you wouldn’t believe.    

My two disgustingly fit daughters, and my maddeningly fit sister are big fans of these kettles, and as somebody who doesn’t know much about anything exercise-related, I am inclined to believe those who do.   So come on girls, get those shorts out of hiding, we’re gonna be lean and mean, toned and honed!

I suppose it would have been common sense to stop and think, for just a second, about my workout history…

A few leg lifts with Jane Fonda back in the 80s is more or less it.  Even then I was more interested in my stripy new leg warmers than actually making it ‘burn’.  

More recently I have been known to indulge in the occasional stroll with ‘Trevor’ – my friendly and undemanding treadmill.  We share a chapter from my Kindle whilst we have a little wander.

But for the last 30 years….? 

Have I been inside a gym?  Well, a couple of times.

Have I ever exercised for as long as an hour?  Er… unless cycling all day from bar to bar in Spain counts… then, no.

Have I ever exercised with weights?  Er… never.

Can anybody think of any reason why a kettle bell workout should give me any trouble? 

Course not!  No more trouble than you would expect from competing alongside Olympic swimmers having just got your 25 yards breaststroke badge.

So, there I am, looking good in the lycra, quietly assessing the expertise of my fellow kettlers.    Some skinny, some decidedly large, most many years younger and one or two even older than me.   Should be OK.  I can hold my own with this lot I reckon.   Ellie got me a baby kettle and a mat and we were ready. 

Like all idiots blissfully unaware of the consequences of their actions I urged the class to get started.      

It did.

In the first minute of the warm up I fought the urge to laugh.  I couldn’t help feeling slightly ridiculous.  What am I doing? I thought.  Am I dreaming?  It’s not even 6.05 and I’m jumping up and down like my bum is on fire! 

Let me tell you, by the end of the warm up, all traces of a smile had left my face and I was beginning to get a little worried.

We picked up our kettles and followed the instructor in performing a movement designed to tear your thighs in half and flay the fat from your buttocks.    This carried on for some time.  Then we progressed relentlessly on to torture other parts of our bodies.  I remember feeling distinctly uncomfortable as rivers of blood coursed through my head and threatened to pour from my eyes!

It wasn’t so much that I went a funny colour, more like all trace of any colour drained from my face. 

I turned to Ellie and signalled that I had to leave for a minute and fled from the room.

I never was any good at this, I reflected as I crawled into the locker room and pressed my pale cheek against the cold tiled floor.  Had I been able to breathe I may have become aware of the lingering aroma of a thousand sweaty feet, but, thankfully, breathing was still a little way off.    Even as a kid I couldn’t hack it.  Whenever I ran the 200 metres sprint I would invariably throw up and, on occasion, pass out.  I still haven’t quite got over the kiss of life I received from Mr Wynn.   Even the joy of winning the race can’t erase that dreadful memory. 

So there I lay, hugging the floor, wondering how to deal with my shame.  After a while I hid in the loo and pondered on my predicament.  What do I do now?  Go back in like nothing has happened?  Have another go?  Or just bugger off home? 

Foolishly, I went back in. 

I will not give in that easily I railed – a bloody kettle will not beat me!

Ah well.  Another fifteen minutes and out I came again!  This time it wasn’t too bad.  I had company.  Another lady (of similar age) was draped along the bench in the locker room, so I took up my cosy position on the floor and we had a nice little chat.

Ellie came to check that I was still alive and I eventually slipped back into the room that was now filled with smart-arsed exercise nuts that I hated. 

However, to my delight, they were on mats!  “I didn’t know we got to lie down!” I cried, gleefully pressing my back to my mat.   Of course we were still expected to swing our kettles about, but it’s so much easier to hide whilst on the floor – and as I had spent most of the last hour on the boards I was getting quite good at it.

Just as I was wondering if it were possible to endure this humiliation any longer, our torturer announced the cool down.    Even that had me foxed!  As if things could get any worse.   When everybody lunged to the left I lunged to the right.   I considered switching, but decided that I was far too embedded in the role of the class dunce to be bothered.   So I just kept a straight face and made out like every body else was wrong.

Ellie tried ever so hard to assure me that I didn’t make a complete fool of myself.  She has even told me that I’m due another session.  Free!   (I suspect the nice instructor lady felt sorry for me!)  But what a dilemma?  Could I possibly return?  In disguise perhaps?  A blonde wig and a Madonna facemask? 

Or, should I visit the doctor and tell her that whenever I do strenuous exercise it nearly kills me?   I suspect she’ll say: “well then don’t do it.”   This would be good advice. 

But no, I’m determined!  I’m going to bully my fitness freak daughters into helping me get fit and when I can get through a whole class of kettle bells without stopping, fainting, throwing up or seeking medical attention, I’ll buy lots of very nice wine and get myself well and truly ‘kettled’!

The Quest for Care

Scarborough is a popular little spot in which to grow old and die.  Indeed, it would not surprise me if bus loads of elderly and ‘not quite well’ folk arrived at the sea front, on the hour, every hour.   Consequently, there are zillions of care homes in Scarborough devoted to the care of the elderly. 

Now, call me niaive, but because of this fact, I imagined that it would be an easy task to find a nice place for my poor old Dad to stay, while Mum had a short break away.

Not a lot to ask.  Having looked after Dad since his stroke five years ago, a little pampering was just what she needed.  Just for three days.  How hard can that be?

Well  … very hard indeed.

Our quest began with a modest list of ‘must haves’.     It read:

Must:

• not stink of piss
• be clean and safe
• be pleasant and comfy.

Off we set, clutching our humble short-list in hopeful hands.  We started at the home that was widely regarded as ‘the best’, having been assured by those in the know that it was ‘just like a five star hotel.’

Well it was pleasant enough but I reckon Trip Advisor would give it no more than a three star rating. 

However, it ticked all the boxes.  Met all our requirements.   

But….

Dad didn’t meet theirs.

He wasn’t allowed in.  He needed too much care.

Somewhat gloomily, we continued with our quest.

We were greeted at the next highly recommended establishment by a female with a personality as dull and grey as a roof-tile.   Our tour of hell was punctuated with references to the pictures on the walls of fellow inmates being entertained.

“They love it.” she said.

And as much as I would have liked to believe her, I could not imagine a bloke sporting a pink wig and a pack of cards quite doing it for my dad somehow…

And then she showed us the ‘cell’.  Not one flicker of shame crossed her face as she pointed out the miserable little room.  A tiny window overlooked a yard that reeked of neglect; drab, faded curtains made no attempt to match the grubby bedcovers; the cubby hole laughingly referred to as the ‘en-suite’ was missing a loo seat, and a hole in the wall where there had once been a grab rail remained unrepaired.  

Five hundred quid they were asking for that!

I wondered what terrible places people must have lived in to think, even for an instant, that this would be acceptable.

We left, so shocked we could barely speak.

The quest continued….

A little old lady, sobbing as though her heart was broken, put us off the next place.   Her frail shoulders shuddered with sorrow and her cries were so pitiful it brought tears to my eyes. 

Nobody took a bit of notice.   This is just what she does apparently.

A room full of sleeping women, looking decidedly dead, scratched the next one off the list.

Men must be lucky enough to die before they get to these places I thought.  I hadn’t seen one bloke since our quest began.

By now, Mum was considering cancelling the pampering.   As it was, she would never have been able to carry the bag of guilt that she would have had to pack if she left Dad in one of these places.

The shortlist had long since been chucked in the bin and we now just barged into every care home we passed.  I was unable to cross the threshold of any of them without humming The Who’s “I hope I die before I get old…”.  If there was no offending smell, we would hang around long enough to talk to a member of staff.  If they couldn’t help us I begged them to recommend somewhere.

I was told by one very professional lady that they weren’t allowed to recommend anywhere as it was unprofessional for them to ‘name’ places, but …  if I were to do the naming, she suggested, a nod or shake of her head would indicate if it was acceptable.

Fair enough, I thought, and proceeded to name as many care homes as I could think of.     I watched the professional lady’s face register horror as she shook her professional head, time and time again.   

I’m not sure if it was her desperation or ours, but eventually, her lack of professionalism got the better of her and she recommended what turned out to be a lovely home. 

Unlike the others, this home was interested in Dad’s personality and not just his care needs and not only did it more than adequately tick the boxes on our ‘must have’ list but it also had two male residents!

Dad had a very comfortable, relaxing stay and Mum had her three days of pampering.  Obviously the bag of guilt went too, but it was manageable.  

But what of the poor blighted souls that become trapped in those places that cause professional people to shake their heads in horror?   

What of them?

35th Wedding Anniversary

If someone had told me 35 years ago today that I would spend my 35^th wedding anniversary caring for my terminally ill husband, I would still have said ‘I do’.  

Because they would also have had to say that during the next 35 years we will both achieve much of what we want from life.  We will see almost everything we want to see, go to almost all of the places we want to go.

Three wonderful children, who have much to be proud of, will enrich our lives.   We will be blessed with healthy and happy grandchildren.  No family feuds will break the ties that only family can provide and whilst our children will follow many and varied paths, they will ultimately come home.

There will be countless ‘ups’ and very few ‘downs’.  We will pursue an active and fun-filled social life, where parties are the norm.  We will enjoy a life that rewards our collective efforts.  Nigel will build successful businesses and I will achieve academic and professional fulfilment.   

There will be laughter every day and no tragedy or sadness great enough to mar our happiness.

So, whilst our 35^th wedding anniversary will find us both simply trying to get on with the business of living, we will still find time for a wheelchair race around the house.

Everything comes to an end.    It’s how we get there that matters.

"Don't forget me..."

A few weeks ago, quite without warning, Nigel said, “Don’t forget me, will you?” 

Now, admittedly, he could have simply been a little worried that, as I’d just parked him on the loo, I might pop upstairs, indulge in a glass or two with my sister Paula, get slightly pissed and forget he was sitting there.  Or, as I suspect was the case, he could have meant … don’t forget me.  Don’t forget the real me.  Don’t forget how I used to be. 

Whatever he meant, it got me thinking. 

It is, of course, inconceivable that I could forget him.  But I do understand how easy it could be for some.  Our grandchildren, because of their youth, must have already forgotten how things used to be.  Our granddaughters especially, being that little bit younger may, even now, believe that their granddad always had a wheelchair and a strange, somewhat scary voice.  Our grandsons can probably still remember sharing more sporty activities, but time will steal their memories just as surely as it will steal their granddad. 

    

The inherent characteristics that define any progressive illness mean that forgetting is all too probable.  A disease like MND gnaws away at you slowly.  A little bit more of you disappears every day.  As your abilities evaporate, along with the morning mist, so too does your sense of self.  Like a victim pursued by a relentless stalker, the person you once were begins to hide.  It is immensely difficult for your personality to remain in tact when each new day wakes you with new loss.  One day you can hold your cup, the next you can’t.  One day you can stand, the next you can’t.  One day you can walk one step, the next, you can’t.    One day you can breathe, the next you can’t.  Everything that you can do and everything that you love to do is taken from you.  Bit by bit by bit. 

And it doesn’t stop there.  As your physical abilities abandon you the disease seeps into your soul and tries to claim your spirit.  Hope is the first to depart.  Without hope, it’s not too difficult to see how your natural optimism, humour and sense of fun could begin to fade - as frustration, fear, disappointment and despair become your constant companions.  

You can understand how tempting it must be, as you are forced to adopt the clumsy, ill-fitting guise of the invalid, to withdraw to a place that is safe and unchallenging.  A place that doesn’t ask too much of you, doesn’t expect you to fight to hang onto the person you used to be and doesn’t want you to do, say or think much at all.  It must be easier to shrink into the seclusion of the shadows and seek refuge in the unfamiliar and yet strangely comforting fog of invisibility, than it is to battle incessantly with an enemy that you simply cannot beat.  But the deeper you retreat into the fog, the harder it is for others to see you.  The harder it is to remember. 

Thankfully, Nigel, you haven’t vanished into that fog.  You have not allowed yourself to be swathed within its shroud and I haven’t lost you yet.  When you were diagnosed with MND at the age of 52, we didn’t expect to be able to say “Happy 58^th Birthday”.   But here we are.  In spite of the fact that we are confined in this awful place, we’re still happy.  We have each other. You still have me.  I still have you.  And I can still see you.

For my shame I can’t remember how your voice used to sound before MND retuned it.  But there are lots of things I will always remember and lots that I’ll never forget.

I’ll never forget our first date.  How the butterflies leapt in my stomach as we held hands on the bus.  How we both wore brown suits and how giddy I felt because we kind of ‘matched’.  

I’ll never forget the first time we stayed up all night and greeted the dawn by walking in the long grass, wet with the morning dew.  Everybody should walk in the long grass at least once.  

I remember how we fretted when we took that bank loan to get your business started and how hard you worked to become established.  We needn’t have worried.  There are very few buildings left in Scarborough that have not been adorned with your scaffolding.

I can’t stop myself from smiling as I remember how proud I used to feel when I’d see you swing like an ape from the scaffold.  At 50’ high, you’d hang upside down, leap from lift to lift like a mountain goat and throw heavy boards around with such ease and precision that you’d think they were archer’s arrows.

Neither will I forget you and Stivvy showing your bare arses on stage in the nightclub for no other reason than it made you laugh.   Equally unforgettable are the countless nights you’d come home from work, half naked, having had the clothes torn from your person in the pub, because that was fun too!

And while we’re on with nakedness and bare arses…exactly why did you drag me out of bed that night and chuck me out on the street with not a stitch on? 

Like everybody else, we’ve had our battles and I won’t forget those infrequent but important ‘walks and talks’.

I will always remember how you would sit facing the door of any pub or restaurant or indeed any room that we happened to find ourselves in.  There you would be, sword arm free, ready for action - just in case marauding villains invaded our space and you had to save us all.   I always knew I’d be safe.    You never left any room in second place.

How vivid are the memories of those nights when no microphone could be left unguarded.  Long before Karaoke was invented, you would steal the mike from the poor innocent DJ and lead the audience in hearty and heartfelt renditions of army and rugby songs whether they liked it or not.

You must remember every Saturday afternoon when the house throbbed with the vibrant strains of your favourite music and how you quite unwittingly nurtured in our children a deep and everlasting appreciation of Pink Floyd.

And how could I forget those magical mornings as we welcomed the sunrise whilst sitting on the Esplanade sipping champagne?

So, no, I won’t forget how you used to be.  How you still are.  I won’t forget a single day of the time we’ve had together.  Whilst MND might have stolen our future it hasn’t touched our past.  No matter how much this disease tries to cloak you in its disguise, the real you will never become invisible to me. 

But there are certain things that I can forget…

I can forget that you are dying when I see the devil dancing in your eyes.  I can forget to be gloomy when we can still giggle and forget to feel forlorn when the house is filled with family.  I can forget to be mournful of what might have been and I can forget to yearn for yesterday when we still have today.  We still have now.

Let’s remember that.