Two weeks ago, I invited readers to ask me questions or to ask me to write about something in particular. I’ve had a few responses, for which I’m very grateful. Thank you to those who responded for your contributions.
This is just a quick note to let you know I have received them and to apologise for the delay in responding. I am not ignoring you, nor have I forgotten to reply. I will definitely respond to all of them, but it may take some time. I hope you will bear with me.
So watch out for answers to questions such as “the correct thing to say to someone with cancer”; readjustments after treatment; living with uncertainty; and surrender and relief.
If anyone else would like to ask me any other questions or would like me to write about how I deal with a specific aspect of living with myeloma, you can find the form on the Living with Questions page in the top menu.
I am not any kind of expert, except about my own experience (and even then, not always), so I can’t/won’t attempt to answer medical queries about myeloma. There are plenty of good sites out there with that sort of information: please see the links on the right. But I will gladly write about how I feel and think about anything to do with my experience of living with myeloma.
All requests are sent to me from WordPress by confidential email, so no other readers will see what you write. There may be a wait, but I will respond. Honestly!
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Three weeks ago, one of my blogmates, who writes Winning with Bipolar, nominated me for an award called the Liebster Blog Award. It’s a blogger to blogger award, a bit like a chain letter (which I’ve never been a fan of), but in a good way – helping to publicise lesser known blogs.
I want to accept and I will… properly! There are several requirements of acceptance, the first of which is to thank the blogger who nominated me, which I have already done, and to acknowledge him here, so thanks JM! I’m tickled pink! I do hope some of you will visit his blog.
However, the other requirements of acceptance are not so simple, so again I apologise for not responding sooner. This will take a little time, but it will happen!
I’ve done it! I’ve survived the first year post-allogeneic (unrelated donor) stem cell transplant. That’s really quite something to celebrate, especially as I’ve not just survived, but I’m doing pretty well… you might even say thriving!
Thursday 16 May was the day to say:
Happy Birthday to me!
Something special was required to celebrate… Number one on my List for Living and gratefully inspired by Helen Fawkes was to go to Paris for lunch. How decadent! How crazy! And as one friend said, “Oooooo! Posh!” What better way to celebrate a momentous event like the first birthday of my baby immune system?! So I could say instead:
Joyeux anniversaire à moi!
I invited nine friends to join me. Some are fellow travellers on the myeloma/cancer journey, while others have accompanied me from the beginning with support and love along the way. So as well as a celebration, it was also an opportunity to acknowledge and thank good friends. Unfortunately, four of the nine couldn’t come for various reasons. I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, Debbie, Helen, Janette and Lynda.
A few weeks ago, I met my transplant twin, Julie, at clinic. I hadn’t seen her for a while as our appointments haven’t coincided and she had lost her phone, so we had temporarily lost touch. Of course I invited her too, as it would be her anniversary the same day. Sadly, although she was very enthusiastic about the idea, she wasn’t able to come either.
Two friends who could come wanted to go to Paris for a few days around that time anyway, so they booked their trips to coincide with my special day and would meet us on arrival at the Gare du Nord.
So the day arrived and saw just four of us travelling. The trip took on an even more decadent aspect as while Helen Fawkes lives in London, so Paris is only two and a half hours away, my little gang started the day in Nottingham so we had an additional two and a half hours each way. That meant a very early start… waking up at 5:00am! Fortunately the excitement of the day spurred me on to leap out of bed and be ready in good time, remembering tickets and passports, to head off for the station.
It was a 06:28 departure from Nottingham for Sam and Janet, with A and I joining six minutes later at Beeston. We’d booked first class tickets on the trains to and from London, so big comfy seats, lots of space and complimentary drinks and snacks helped to ease us awake.
During the morning, I received congratulatory text messages from everyone who’d been invited but wasn’t there, which made me feel like they were with us in spirit.
Going through Eurostar security at St Pancras, I chatted away merrily to a security guard, saying that we were going to Paris for the day. He reckoned we were leaving a bit late, taking a train at 09:17, to which I responded that we had started travelling at 6:30, which he acknowledged with a shrug and a smile and wished us a great day.
Both the London train and Eurostar journeys ran smoothly, bringing us to Paris for 12:47, where Rhiannon and Wendy were waiting together, welcoming us with big smiles and the obligatory continental bisous on both cheeks, as we came out of the terminus.
Despite an earlier agreement between three of our party, and despite Wendy advising me that only tourists wear them, I was alone in wearing a beret. But it came in handy during the day, as I was easily spotted when we became separated.
I’d booked a table at Brasserie Julien, dubbed “the most feminine of the Art Nouveau brasseries”, only a 15 minute walk away from the station. We were greeted warmly and received superb service, with plenty of joking, a mixture of Français and English being spoken by everyone. The best bit was when one of our party admitted to remembering just one French phrase from school… “Je voudrais un citron, s’il vous plaît” (I’d like a lemon please), which surprisingly but sadly was not needed all day. I’m sure we could have got her to use it if only we’d tried harder.
Our lunch began with champagne, with which we toasted not only Julie (in absentia) and me, but also Debbie, Helen, Janette and Lynda, as well as a friend in California whose birthday it was that day. We also raised a glass in memory of my friend, Abir, a Libyan woman Sam and I had both befriended at clinic, who sadly didn’t survive her stem cell transplant.
While the food was not the very best I’ve ever tasted, I enjoyed my escargots and foie de veau, followed by crêpes Suzettes. But mostly I enjoyed the great company. Not being rushed, we took time to chat, giggle, eat and drink (an excellent Sancerre!), in a very relaxed manner under a beautiful stained glass roof, surrounded by Mucha-esque paintings.
Lunch lasted longer than I’d anticipated, but we still had time to jump in the Metro and head towards Montmartre, where we took the funiculaire up to Sacré Coeur, managing to avoid an opportunistic pickpocket en route. We had a wander around the Place du Tertre and a few of us sent postcards, but hélas, le temps passe vite quand on s’amuse (alas, time flies when you’re having fun)!
There was no time for a drink at a terrace cafe. And somehow we didn’t get around to buying a beret for Sam or Rhiannon. We made our way back to the Gare du Nord à pied, all of us wishing the afternoon could have been a bit longer.
We hugged goodbye to the two remaining in Paris and made our way up to the Eurostar check-in. The rest of the evening/night was spent rolling rapidly through Northern France and Southern England with any one of us yawning or nodding off at various times and none of us talking very much, but all of us brimming with grins, memories and bonhomie.
Thank you to my lovely friends for joining me in this crazy idea and making it such a delightful day, more special for being so brief and so wanton. As Sam put it, “when else am I ever going to be invited to go to Paris just for the day?!” So eloquent, Sam!
Living with myeloma by its very nature is about living with uncertainty. And living with uncertainty means living with questions. Actually, uncertainty is something we all live with, whether we are aware of it or not. But people with myeloma and other cancers/life-shortening diseases get to cosy up and face it intimately. It can be a tough stand-off, especially if you are someone who needs to have answers and stay in control. But it can also be a liberating gift if you can surrender to not knowing and not having to know. I know that sounds a bit hippy-dippy, but that’s how I experience it when I’m handling it best.
Some time ago, I created another blog, linked to this one, called Living with Questions, in which I posed questions to you, my lovely readers, to help me consider and find my own answers. But I haven’t continued writing it for over a year.
I had a few problems with it… WordPress had a glitch where it didn’t automatically publicise the new blog in the same way it does with this one, so I think a lot of people didn’t/couldn’t find it. Maybe because of that, I didn’t get many replies, so I lost momentum.
There are lots of things that I want to write about here and questions frequently pop into my mind that would be great to ask there. Unfortunately, now that I’ve discovered I like writing, I’ve also discovered a number of other activities that I want to do, so I don’t get to write as much as I’d like because of time and energy limitations, not to mention finding the creative headspace.
I’d like to re-initiate the idea of Living with Questions, but I’m going to flip it over and ask you lovely blog readers what you’d be interested to read about, or what questions burn for you. This also gives me the chance to meddle around with WordPress contact forms. The geek in me is happy!
So, if you’d like to interact more with me and other readers of this blog, then please feel free to fill out the form below and let’s see what comes out of it…
It could be questions related to myeloma, illness or recovery therefrom. Equally it could be questions about life and living. Either way, your responses will remain confidential, unless you’d like me to mention you.
Thank you for humouring me.
If you want to send me questions at a later date, there is now a page with the same form on it. You can find it in the top menu or just click here.
The title of this post comes from last week’s photo challenge on the Daily Post at WordPress: From Above – Change your perspective on something. Share a photo
of a subject which you shot from directly above.
Inspired by the challenge, here is my photo…
What on earth is it?
Well, it’s me of course… from above.
To be precise, it’s me with a new haircut (more on that later)… from above.
More disturbingly though, it’s me, even further from above than I ever was…
Yes, it’s true…
I have just found out…
To add extra enjoyment to your blog reading experience, please play this video…
I am shorter than ever before…
I have lost height!
I have never been particularly tall. In fact, you could say without fear of contradiction that I am petite. Even in England, a country that isn’t full of statuesque Scandinavians, towering Teutons or mighty Maasai, I am a bit on the short side. However, when I say short, I only mean that I measure 5’3″/160cm. It’s not exactly a talking point. People do not stop and stare at the short woman.
According to Wiki, dwarfism in humans can be defined as an adult height of less than 4’10″/147cm, so it’s not like I have any sort of dwarfism. I’m simply a tiny bit closer to the ground than the average British woman – but not by much, it turns out…
I’ve done a little research to find out what the average height is for a woman in the UK and I’ve found different answers – an article on the BBC News website from 2010 states: “The average woman in England… was 5ft 3in tall.” The Wiki page on Human Height shows an average of about 163cm/5’4″, as do responses on Yahoo! Answers. I know, I know, none of these sites are especially reliable – well, maybe the BBC. Nonetheless, the point I am making is that at most I only fall an inch below the average height. That is, I did until the other day…
I had to attend a new clinic the other day, for an issue totally unrelated to myeloma. I will blog about it when I know more, but it’s nothing to worry about. As usual, measurements are taken and I found out that I currently weigh in at 65kg/143lb/10st3lb, which is more than I’ve weighed at any time in the past two years. I wasn’t particularly surprised as I had noticed a tightening of the smaller clothes I had to buy after losing so much weight when I was first ill and going through initial treatment. In fact, I was not only not surprised, but quite pleased – weight gain is a sure sign of recovering health… and plumpness!
(That is, as long as you’re not taking steroids, which along with other side effects, can also lead to weight gain… and plumpness!).
Imperial version: What I wasn’t expecting and which was a huge surprise was the nurse reading my height measurement at only 5’1½”! That’s 1½ inches less than I have been for the past 30+ years! That’s 1½” less than I always reply whenever I’m asked about my height. Well, no more it seems!
Metric version: What I wasn’t expecting and which was a huge surprise was the nurse reading my height measurement at only 156cm! That’s 4 centimetres less than I have been for the past 30+ years! That’s 4cm less than I always reply whenever I’m asked about my height. Well, no more it seems!
To her credit, the nurse tried several more times to measure me, with me facing different directions, straining to hold myself as upright and stretched as possible. It was quite laughable to be honest, but I appreciated her willingness. To my dismay though, every reading came back the same: 156cm. Unfortunately, I didn’t think to take a photo at the time. I really wish I had. I want proof!
I must have been measured many times over the past two years. Frequently treatment doses are calculated on patient size, which isn’t always only based on weight. How come I’d never before encountered having shrunk to 156cm/5’1½”?
So that’s it, I thought; I am a shrunken woman, a smaller version of myself – hopefully not a lesser person. And yes, I do know the adage that the best things come in small packages… but I was already a small package – I really don’t need to get any smaller. But, I figure, it’s not the end of the world, I don’t have a big issue, or even a small issue about it, just that it was a rather dramatic discovery.
Most people have variations in weight throughout their lives, even on a week-to-week basis at times. Most people though tend to attain an adult height and stick there until age/osteoporosis kicks in. Even then, I think the usual rate of height loss is about one centimetre every ten years and that doesn’t usually start until around age 50. I’m only 51!
As far as I know, I don’t have osteoporosis, but I do have myeloma and myeloma weakens the bones. Way back when I was first diagnosed, I had a full skeletal survey; in other words, a full body, head-to-toe x-ray. This was to determine how much bone disease the myeloma had caused and to gauge how likely I was to experience any fractures.
It was at this point that I found out I had a holey head: lytic lesions in my skull. Additionally, I had lesions in one femur, both humeri and my pelvis. One thoracic vertebra (T7 to be precise) was damaged and I had four or five fractured ribs. I’d not noticed anything other than middle back pain – that’d be the T7. It was also at this point that they told me I was at no further risk of fracture. I wrote about it here.
What didn’t happen at that time was any conversation about loss of height. I understood that the damage to T7 had caused it to become misshapen, but as I never actually saw my x-ray, I have no idea if it was fractured, compressed or just mildly wedged like in this diagram (not my x-ray).
I may ask to see my x-ray from 2011 when I’m next in clinic. I may even ask for a new x-ray to see if it has deteriorated further. I experience back pain in the same place almost every day and although it’s not severe, it does disable me at times, stopping me from doing certain things – some I can live without, like hoovering and washing up, but others I’d like to have a choice, like gardening and cooking/baking. I know that there are procedures that can be done to alleviate such pain and lessen the chance of kyphosis, so it would be useful to have a discussion about them, even if it’s to find out that they wouldn’t be suitable for me.
Anyway, today I was at Daycase, not for myself, but accompanying a friend who had to have some treatment. A great opportunity I thought, to get a photo of my decreased stature. So I popped into clinic and asked a nurse if she could measure my height, which she duly did. And then I asked her to take a photo, which she kindly did, with a curious look on her face…
Not quite as curious as the look on my face when she read out my height and showed me the photographic proof…
Yes, it really does read 158cm/5’2″! Can I have grown an extra 2 cm/¾” in the past week? I doubt it! Can two different hospital departments have different measuring equipment? Maybe all hospital measuring equipment is dodgy and I’ve not lost any height at all?! I am truly perplexed… but for now, I will believe today’s results and consider that although I have lost height ‘from above’, from my previous 5’3″/160cm, it’s not as much as I thought last week!
Now I’ve begun thinking of any possible places to have myself measured… Let’s hope it doesn’t become an obsession!
By the way mum, I know you will relate to this post in a big (or should I say, in a little?) way!
My haircut experience will have to wait for another update. This one is plenty long enough… or should I say a tall enough story?!
On 16 April, I was eleven months post-transplant. That’s almost a year! And what a celebration I’m going to have for my one-year anniversary, on 16 May! But for now, I’m quite content with quietly appreciating how well things are going, as is my consultant, whom I saw in clinic on Thursday that week. More on both these topics later.
After a six-week break, it all felt strangely alien, less comforting, less like ‘the community centre’ than usual. I saw a friend and one or two familiar faces, but it felt more like the kind of occasional hospital appointment that ‘normal’ people have from time to time, that you attend, see the clinician and leave promptly, to get on with your day – like a place you don’t belong and don’t wish to belong, unless you’re yearning to be a doctor, nurse or medical receptionist.
Going to regular clinic appointments has been a huge part of my life for over two years. As they are now decreasing in frequency, it feels strange, like I have to let go of something that however unwanted and unpleasant, was nonetheless a safe place, where I am amongst peers, people who understand, with whom I do not need to explain, a place where I belong and where very little is expected of me because I’m ill.
“When you have cancer your life is changed for ever. At times it seems to spin out of your control. There are big question marks against all the things you thought were certain.
And yet there is one thing you can reply on. The regularity of your treatment. The chemo sessions and all the other associated appointments are comforting. Having a medical schedule gives your life shape and it gives you back some control.“
Three weeks ago, I took my first solo long-distance drive to West Wales (4-5 hours) since the transplant. I had been feeling quite anxious about it, as up till now, when I’ve travelled that far, a friend has shared the driving with me.
As I drove, with my choice of music playing loud enough to sing along, the roads clear, the winding pass to Aberystwyth absolutely gob-smackingly glorious, with the sun shining, the sunroof open, sunglasses on – yes, it was THAT sunny day! – I began to notice that I was okay.
I was doing something quite normal, without needing help or rest (or steroids!) .
Of course I was tired and needed a couple of Paracetamol once I arrived, but I did it… on my own! And who wouldn’t be tired and aching after driving 4-5 hours?
Great celebratory driving music!
While I was driving, I had a revelation – a minor epiphany. I realised that, for over two years, I have had an identity as an ill person. And I have been ill, so that’s not only hardly surprising, but it’s totally allowed. With that unbidden identity came some advantages, advantages that I am loath to give up. But now that I am beginning to feel well… perhaps it’s time to ditch the old identity? Perhaps it’s time to quit thinking of myself as an ill person? Perhaps it’s time to give up the sneaky advantages? To see myself differently? To take up life’s challenges with a slightly shifted perspective? So I decided to no longer think of myself as an ill person. It seemed like a radical, and slightly scary idea.
Whereas following the autologous transplant, I noticed improvements in my stamina, morale and general recovery on a week-by-week basis, over a fairly short period of time (around 3 months), recuperating from the allogeneic transplant has been much slower and longer, not to mention a bumpier and more anxious ride. At times it has felt like a permanent state, something that would never end – that I would always be in recovery.
To some degree I’d grown to accept it and I’d adapted to it. But although acceptance allows me to be okay with my current reality, adapting to it can be a way to retreat from the world and no longer reach for the things I want, maybe no longer even allow myself to want. Well, if you can’t have or do something, it’s better not to want it than to feel frustrated and disappointed.
So giving up my identity, my status, as an ill person feels like quite a daunting, psychological giant step. But, at this point, a realistic one… Although the recuperation process is not completely over yet, I definitely notice improvements, maybe not week-by-week, but certainly month-by-month. I look back at what I was able to do or how much rest I needed after doing things and I see that these days the doing is more and the resting is less.
Finally and slowly, I’m learning to trust the process, to trust that my energy is improving and will improve enough to have a good life, that my appetite for life is growing stronger and will continue to grow, that I am in remission and that there is a good chance of a long remission. I may have turned some invisible corner…
It’s a strange state to be in. When someone asks me how I am, or, something that happens ever more frequently these days, when someone tells me how well I look, I still find myself wanting to add on a protective get-out clause, a leftover from being ‘an ill person’, like “I’m ok… BUT I do still get very tired.” I am re-training myself to respond with a beaming smile and a hearty “Yes, I’m doing really well.”
No, I’m not exactly the same as I was, I’m not completely well as I knew myself three years ago. I do still suffer with fatigue, I do need to manage my energy and I can’t easily do certain chores without getting back pain, but I have friends with all sorts of pains and conditions that they manage, take tablets for and live with. They don’t constantly tell me exactly how their condition is unless it has flared up or they’ve had a crisis. And more importantly, they get on with life, within the restrictions of their health conditions. So what’s the difference?
Thinking of myself as a well person, or at least not an ill person makes a real difference to how I face life and how I spend my time. Successfully driving to Wales felt like a real challenge and was a gratifying eye-opener. Once I arrived, I applied my new-found sense of ability (as opposed to disability) to pull my weight and play a more active part in activities. Not using my illness, or fear as a reason not to do things. And not needing quite so much looking after, although that’s always nice from time to time… even if you’re not ill.
So while I didn’t do much washing up – that really hurts my back – I did manage to sweep the kitchen floor at the hostel. I wasn’t up to the disorienting hubbub of the large group, but I happily connected with friends in ones and twos. I didn’t go for any long walks or cycle rides, like some of my very active friends, but I did walk up the mount at Mwnt with some of them. Admittedly we took the path with a gentle incline. Enjoying the view from the top and seeing a porpoise was wonderful.
I wonder if the reason I felt so odd at clinic last week was due to my internal identity shift… Maybe I don’t belong there right now… at least not in the same way as I have done for the last two years…?
It’s only a vague sense just now and I feel reluctant to put it into words in public, in case I’m expected to run out into the world, take up full-time work, take up full responsibilities, give up the welfare benefits I receive, give up my blue badge, not to mention other support that I get because I’m ill. I also have a vague unease about tempting fate. But it’s a beginning and the very fact that I am able to willingly embrace no longer being an ill person, is probably a reliable sign that it may no longer be the case.
Tuesdays come around each week, regular as clockwork. These days Tuesdays see me going to Derby. Well, it makes a change from weekly visits to clinic… but that was on Thursdays. Anyway, my weekly visits to Derby started last summer through an exciting opportunity that came my way…
A few months after the stem cell transplant last year, I was beginning to feel stronger, a bit more human. I certainly wasn’t ready for paid employment, as I was very much still recuperating, but I wasn’t feeling too bad in between the languishing fatigue and I wanted to do something good with the energy I had. I find that doing good generally makes me feel good and feeling good is definitely part of my recovery plan.
I’ve always been a big fan of voluntary work and have volunteered for a variety of projects and organisations over the years, from mediation to mentoring, narrowboating to coaching youth at risk, reading with youngsters and Playback Theatre. And a few years ago, I initiated a Big Lunch in my neighbourhood to bring people together. Volunteering is a bit of a healthy addiction for me.
So, I had begun to think about volunteering as a way forward… a way to re-engage with people, to do something of value, to gradually re-build my confidence and stamina, to gently test my energy levels without putting myself under too much pressure and to hopefully shake off the growing anxiety and depression that was lurking. But I hadn’t actually made a move until I got a phone call from a friend.
Simon works for Community Action Derby, an organisation that supports local voluntary and community groups. Amongst other roles, Simon takes the lead on a community reporting project called Citizens’ Eye Derby, which uses digital media (video filming, interviewing, blogging) to tell stories and report on issues happening in and relevant to the local community, with the aim of raising awareness and improving life for people in Derby.
When he told me about the project, I thought it sounded interesting and exciting, which was exactly the response he wanted from me, because he wanted me to join the team. I think he also wanted to support me in my recovery. Thanks Simon! x
I had no prior experience of filming, not even making home videos of children or pets doing cute things, but Simon reads my blog and he thought that my writing skills would be an asset to the team. I could learn the filming and editing skills ‘on the job’.
That was back in July and I’ve been a voluntary community reporter since then. When I first started, I was a gibbering wreck, still quite lost in the pit of depression, lacking confidence and feeling that I had precious little to offer. I don’t think I contributed much initially, even in conversation. I was really not in a good place.
But over the months, I’ve not only been able to contribute and come out of the depression (thanks to good support and Fluoxetine [Prozac] as much as volunteering), but I’ve also learned heaps of new skills, and watched delightedly as my confidence has grown. I’ve met lovely new colleagues, both volunteers and paid staff, I’ve interviewed and filmed some really committed, admirable people. I really enjoy the work and the great team we have.
Initially, we worked on short films about different volunteering experiences, such as young people using hip-hop to engage with other young people, older people challenging feelings of no longer being of value, a visually impaired young woman supporting other disabled young people and one of our team members, Debbie’s experience of volunteering at the Paralympics.
As the team have developed skills and confidence, we are widening our repertoire, getting a bit bolder and tackling weightier issues, campaigns and problems affecting people in the community.
Having identified an issue we want to explore, we work in small project teams of 2-4 people. We usually start off by doing some research online or through contacts, trying to understand the issue as much as possible from all angles, to see what is already available in the public domain, including any other films or articles, to see what has not been said or asked and to discover any controversial views on the subject.
We draw up a preliminary storyboard: a flexible outline of what we want to cover, which direction we want to take, etc. Then we contact relevant organisations and individuals to explain what we do and find out if they would like to share their story with us.
The next step is to agree dates to interview and film the participants, having a conversation first about what we and they wish to cover, explaining how we work and allaying any concerns about ‘performing’. As well as speaking to the organisations involved, we especially want to capture the voices of individual local people who are affected, so an organisation will ask their users/participants/clients if anyone is willing to be filmed or recorded.
Once the filming is completed, we usually have a lot of footage, out of which we need to create a film. This involves compiling and editing the clips into an order that makes sense, sometimes requiring a change in the initial storyboard, adding cutaway shots, voiceovers and titles, and finally the Citizens’ Eye logo.
The editing is definitely the longest part of the process, but it is so satisfying when there’s a watchable film that makes a strong point at the end of it. Once it’s ready, we upload it to our YouTube channel and to the Citizens’ Eye Derby website, where one of the team will write a blog post to introduce the video. And then we hit the PUBLISH key!
Please feel free to visit the website and subscribe to the blog if you’re interested to see how we develop.
The first film I was fully involved in focused on a truly supportive mini community that has developed amongst neighbours living in a cul-de-sac. I really enjoyed interviewing Arthur – he was so animated and had so much to share… There was a LOT of footage we didn’t use, as we try to keep the films as brief as possible, to keep the attention of our audience. I’m hoping we can go back to film him again about one of the other topics he was enthusiastic about.
On the weightier side, we recently published a film about the rise in the use of food banks in the city. Derby is not alone in seeing an increase in the number of people in food poverty. Austerity measures are cruel, demeaning and create poverty, not wealth. Sadly it’s a nationwide problem… and this in the seventh wealthiest nation in the world!
I’m very proud of this film because it’s the first project that I led and the project team of Suzie, Rebeca and I worked hard to make it an impactful piece of reporting. I hope you agree.
On the back of this type of work, Citizens’ Eye is now receiving attention and invitations from people/organisations wanting us to help spread their concern/issue, or wanting to share the work they are doing to improve things for the community. This is one of the aims of Citizens’ Eye, to help local people, groups, organisations to share their stories.
Watch out for upcoming films on cuts in supported housing, alcoholism in Derby, the work of the BME [Black and Minority Ethnic] Network and Local Area Co-ordination [LAC] – building social capital at the individual and community level.
As we grow, we also intend to share our skills and offer training to local groups so that they can create their own videos and blogs. With this in mind, two of us have been asked to work with Media Trust (who helped the project with initial training and support), to devise training that we would provide at no or minimal charge to help local groups get started with digital media promotion. This is a great opportunity for me to bring my training experience into play and to work with one of the team members who has a degree in Broadcast Media and professional experience of film production.
If I had not been ill…
If my employment contract had not ended shortly after I was diagnosed…
leaving me with free time without having to go back to work quickly…
If I had not needed to regain my confidence and rebuild my stamina…
If I had not been faced with the adversity of myeloma…
If I had not written about it…
I would not have known that I can write… and nor would my friend, Simon.
If, if, if… I may not have had this opportunity, from which who knows what other opportunities may arise… like maybe making a short film of my own? (See my List for Living).
Thank you Benjamin Franklin, for your wise words!
All views expressed are my own and are not necessarily shared by Community Action Derby, Citizens’ Eye Derby or other members of the team.
Oh yes, there’s more… but this time, it’s nothing to do with a boil, abscess or wound, you’ll be glad to hear. This one is a cautionary, yet amusing tale…
As you’ll know if you’ve followed my blog recently, I was house- and dog-sitting for my cousin in East Sussex. She has a lovely house, with two rabbits (outdoors), a big cat (usually very close to the Aga) and two very loveable black labradors.
My friend and I arrived the night before they went away, partly so we could spend some time with them and partly to receive instructions on pet care, central heating, Aga cooking, keys, etc. Meanwhile, my cousin’s husband spent some time drawing maps of local walks for us to take the dogs.
All instructions received and understood, we went up to bed reasonably early, tired after a long drive, leaving the family to do their last bits of packing.
On Wednesday, we said our goodbyes before I went off to see the nurse. They left before we returned, with promises to email if required. The wonders of technology and a very organised woman… I received the first email before they’d even boarded the plane!
Later we took the dogs for a long walk, using one of the maps provided. It was very cold, but with suitable clothing and boots, also quite lovely, with views across fields and over the South Downs. The dogs had fun, running around chasing each other and were remarkably amenable and well-behaved, coming back to us when we called them. The biscuits we had in our pockets may have helped. We came home tired and well-exercised – all of us!
The evening consisted of feeding everyone, then lounging in front of the fire with the hounds. All very relaxing.
Before bedtime, we let the dogs out for a last wee. We had been instructed to move the dog beds in front of the Aga, remove the back door mat, give them each a Bonio and give the younger dog a piece of kindling wood to gnaw on, before putting up a baby gate to keep them in the kitchen, which is open plan into a corridor.
Now, we’re both previous dog owners, so we knew to make sure there was no food in evidence on the table or counter tops. Everything checked, dogs cuddled, patted and praised, lights off and up the stairs to pyjama land.
The next morning we came down to a drama…
On the floor was my mediMemo 7 weekly pill box case…
in pieces…
chewed…
plastic pill boxes and pills scattered around.
Initial response: PANIC! OMG! What have they ingested?
Visions of hauling them off to a vet, at 7:30am, pumping stomachs, inducing vomiting, possible long-term damage, sick dogs. Not to mention huge vet bills, shame-faced confession, ruined holiday for my cousin, end of restful house-sitting venture… and possibly forever after! Well, I’m sure you can imagine!
Second response: slightly calmer consideration of the evidence…
Apart from the chewed up case and one cracked pill box, there were a few loose tablets on the floor, only one of which was broken in two.
None of them seemed to have been chewed or even licked.
Along with the bits of shredded case, we picked up the tablets and the pill boxes and counted what was there… then compared it with what should have been there.
PHEW!!!!! All was as it should be… even the broken tablet was all there, just in two halves.
Fortunately, I’m not taking anything too toxic… antivirals, antibiotics (two types) and antidepressants. I can imagine our initial dramatic reaction might have been worse if I’d been taking chemo or steroids, as I have done in the past. OMG! It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Fortunately, dogs generally don’t like taking tablets and usually need coaxing with dog food or some other disguise to fool them into swallowing pills. And fortunately, the thrill of the chase must have been more exciting than the spoils themselves.
However, lesson learned… All pills were immediately relegated to the bedroom, far out of sight, sniffing or chewing temptation. Sorry dogs – you’ll just have to make do with Bonios and kindling wood!
After everything and everyone calmed down, I could laugh about it… a kind of semi-hysterical, letting go of tension, relieved kind of laugh, but nonetheless laughter rather than tears.
I do seem to be quite good at creating a lot of unnecessary drama scenarios, don’t I?
Sorry G, P, L & J. Hope you’re still having a great holiday! x
Three weeks ago, one of my blogmates, who writes Winning with Bipolar, nominated me for an award called the Liebster Blog Award. It’s a blogger to blogger award, a bit like a chain letter (which I’ve never been a fan of), but in a good way – helping to publicise lesser known blogs.
Happy Birthday to me! 
