You don’t have to feel unwell to want to feel better...

Physical ills are the taxes laid upon this wretched life; some are taxed higher, and some lower, but all pay something.  ~Lord Chesterfield

I seem to have developed something of a writer’s block, which is why I’ve not been on for a bit.  A daft notion really as I'm not a writer.  I started this for two reasons; to practice writing for academic purposes and to get ‘stuff’ out of my head, including the bad stuff. Yet, although I can whinge with the best of them, I’m not very tolerant of myself about complaining for the hell of it when I consider how lucky we are.  Recent posts have had a 'positive' bent about them but I don’t seem able to find that element here despite being a 'glass half full' person.  I'm not great at telling the right people how I'm really feeling but it is stupid that I can’t even tell you when it all seems shit.

My title is a proverb I picked up at yoga class last week and I suppose for someone in my situation quite a pertinent one.  Hence the yoga class in the first place.  And the diet.  And the exercise – as much as I can anyway.   So I consider that I do my bit, I pay my dues in order to feel well.  Most who know me, especially the ones who know me really well, will say I have a black humour about most things and that’s true to a greater extent – it’s how I get through stuff.  Apparently last week it wasn’t enough.  My headspace seemed to be shrouded in ‘greyness’, a murky feeling that I just couldn't seem to shake off.  I wasn’t especially ill (no more than usual…) but objects seemed heavier, walks seemed further, and everything just seemed that bit more out of reach.

The week started well enough.  The fridge got delivered which I have to admit I was a bit too excited about.  But it is orange so I consider I had just cause for the flushing of cheeks and sparkly eyes look. Then it just seemed to go down the toilet.  I went to yoga on Monday night and I can’t explain why, but nothing ‘gelled’, it just didn’t feel right.  The moves, all that I had mastered in weeks before, just felt too hard and I couldn’t coordinate myself properly or relax my mind enough to focus on the matter in hand.  But everyone can have an ‘off’ day, so no matter I thought, there’s always next week.  Except the feeling persisted, and so did the nausea of the week before.  Again I thought ‘no matter, it’ll pass’.   Tuesday I had to be up at silly o’clock, that’s six a.m. to you, as I had an appointment with the blood-sucker (phlebotomist, I’m being facetious) at the doctor’s surgery.  Anyway, I yawned my way into the bathroom, and started to take off my pj’s.  As I looked down I saw a rash, over my arms, my stomach, my chest – bloody hell I thought, what’s going on now?  Pulling myself together, I showered and sorted myself out.  I got to the doctors in good time (8.30 am) and whilst booking in, asked the receptionist if a doctor could take a look at the rash.  I should tell you that the week before, I had seen the doctor (hence the bloods) and whilst there, mentioned another rash that had been bothering me a few days earlier.  His expression was quite grave as he told me that if I had a recurrence then I was to get an urgent appointment and go back.  Back to the week in question then.  The receptionist’s response was that I could go back at 11.10 and see the locum.  Now I’m not an unreasonable woman and I’d even go so far as to say that I’m fairly easy-going with most suggestions but I did think this was a bit tight on her part.  She knew me, and my circumstances – I don’t think it would have killed her to get one of the docs to have a quick look whilst I was there.  Fixing a smile on my face, I said thank you and sat down.  Why did I do that? Why didn’t I ask a little more firmly if a doc could take a look there and then? It’s not that big an ask.  And yet I didn’t, I just accepted it, had the bloods taken and then seethed all the way home, silently grumbling to myself that I had to go back in two bloody hours!  Nothing like a bit of fatigue management… So, two hours later I trudged back, waited over half an hour, only for me to be told that the rash was nothing and just to ignore it, it would go away in it’s own good time.  Yes, I know I should be pleased and of course I’m glad it’s nothing fatal, but I couldn’t help being a tad miffed that someone couldn’t have told me the good news two hours earlier.  Wednesday was a write-off really.  I had planned to go into town and do all sorts but sometime during the night, some bugger had snuck in and nicked all my energy.  They must have, because Wednesday I had no oomph at all, and my limbs felt as if lead weights were attached.  My hubby went to the supermarket on his own and bless him, brought some flowers back to cheer me up a bit.  Now I read this quote somewhere and if I take notice, technically they should have worked.

‘At a profound level, energy from nature – or the feelings it evokes in us – helps us transform ourselves…’

Not so in this case.  They were beautiful and I appreciated the lovely thought behind them but I still couldn’t drag my arse into happy vibe zone.  Even a message from another friend about some allotment space couldn’t cheer me up.  To jog myself along, I did what I always do when I’m having a bad day and started to tidy.  If I couldn’t transform myself, then I could transform the flat and cleaning is a good skill of mine (my mother’s doing, long story).  I have no idea why I do this, but every time I have a bad phase I get the urge to tidy.  Strange I know, but everyone has his or her quirks and I guess I’m no different.  Then I discovered the crap vibe seemed to have mutated because then my friend rang to cancel cinema night as she was poorly.  Bummer all round then.  Then I got another phone call telling me that my much-procrastinated-anticipated life drawing class had been cancelled and would have to be put back until 28^th May.  I have to say that this week was shaping up to be a big pile of dog do.  But it couldn’t get any worse could it?

Wrong, it could and it did.  On Monday the nurse had said the pressure sore on hubby’s heel had taken a downturn and wanted to change his pressure mattress.  Thursday the new mattress arrived.  It was supposed to be half the bed size (king size) and if bloody only!  That night I found myself with the kind of sleeping space that meant turning over would have me falling out of bed.  Now I’m no ‘slim Jim’ but I’m not exactly a beach whale either.  When the nurse came on Friday, I think she understood why the mattress was not an improvement, and sore or no sore, it would not be staying.  

Then, just as you might be thinking that the week couldn’t get much worse, on Saturday morning the dog became unwell.  Now, anyone who knows me, even acquaintances, will say that my love for Kato is unending and unconditional.  I realise that I probably project all of my maternal energies onto him but I don’t care.  I can’t have kids, due to another of life’s kicks in the teeth (endometriosis) and consider that coping with the ordeal of a both hysterectomy and early menopause at just thirty-one to be enough of a psychological burden, so I don’t fuss about how much I love the dog or not.  So, whenever anything is wrong with him, I hate it.  I’d rather it was me and what makes it worse, he can’t tell me what’s wrong.  It’s usually guesswork and I just know from the fact he isn’t eating, or he’s not barking at passers- by, or not running around like a lunatic as per normal.  It’s fair to say that Kato is a shih tzu with a very lively and independent personality but when he’s ill it’s like the life has been zapped out of him.  Yet this time he was still eating, still chasing Tinkerbell (our aging cat), still giving it rock all when people went past the window.   Even so, he just wasn’t quite right, and had quickly developed a green-producing cough.  Hubby rang the vet and was told immediately that appointments were for emergencies only.  When he said Kato had a cough, the receptionist said that was an emergency and to bring him straight in.  Check out those massive alarm bells ringing!  When I got there, I didn’t even get to sit down in the waiting room, we were seen that quick.  After a very thorough examination, it turned out to be a chest infection (crackles on the left side – nasty).  Thirty-odd pounds lighter, we left with a hefty prescription of antibiotics and instructions to return on Tuesday, sooner if he got worse.  I have to say that I was feeling pretty pissed off myself at this point – the week had already been bad enough but this was a serious nose-dive.  Anyway, in an effort to improve the mood, hubby and I went into town to get some nice(r) groceries from Marks.  Bless him, he really tried and made huge efforts to cheer me up, suggesting shops to browse in that he would normally avoid like the plague.  My heart wasn’t in it though, so it was a complete surprise to find a gorgeous outfit (for a friend’s wedding) in Laura Ashley that had caught my eye.  Some nice groceries and one expensive purchase later, we returned home slightly cheered, only to find England had been knocked out of the cricket World Cup.  Sunday morning I woke up before my body had, so it took a while for my body to play ball and you know, let me sit up or get to the bathroom without falling over.  I think it must have been the clock change.  Or something like that.  Then my friend rang to say that she was still unwell and wouldn’t be able to come to the Pampered Chef thing or cinema.  Jeez, this week really needed to be over.  Anyway I still went to the Pampered Chef thing and despite the consultant forgetting the clock change, it turned out to be really good and helped to give me a mental lift.  I got to catch up with a friend that I hadn't seen for a couple of years, and for a couple of hours, with some good food and funny company,  I stepped out of my own ‘reality’ .  When I got back, the week had still been shit but I’m sure I returned home as a nicer wife.  I can’t explain why this week seemed worse than usual as most weeks are filled with this kind of rubbish, and can only assume that my illness had caught up with me a bit. 

Whatever, what I am certain of, is that whoever thinks that the sick or disabled don’t pay their way, couldn’t be more deluded.  Sometimes (or lots of times) despite all efforts to ‘pay our dues’ so that we can feel as well as the next person, there are times when no amount of effort or ‘tax’ is enough.  Something that might be worth considering the next time someone talks about paying their taxes to ‘fund the welfare state’…  

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me...

Sifting through the week hasn’t been all bad, as the colour orange testifies. Also, as you know, on Monday I booked a life drawing class, then had a good yoga session. Tuesday, nothing much that I can remember but with my memory that's nothing new! Then Wednesday, a friend and I went to see a film called Fair Game. My friend loves her films more than anyone I know, and this year had made it her New Years Resolution to go to the cinema every week. At the time she asked me if I would like to go with her, and after some bending of my rubbery arm, and careful consideration on my part (all of one second) I said she could count me in!

I have to admit though that my motives were not completely altruistic. I feel very fortunate to have the friends that I have now, and love spending time with them, but I think it’s fair to say that I'm an introvert. I do though feel that this isn't just a personality trait from birth, that in some way, has been created from external forces, that my experiences may have helped to shape a part of my personality.

The title for this bit of jabbering is a play on words, something my mother used to say to me all the time when I was a kid. Total codswallop if you ask me, it all hurt including the names. I will concede though that words never have in themselves, if anything they've offered precious escape. I suppose I engage with the archetypal activities of an introvert, including a love of reading, as a good story can carry me away anywhere, off to different moods, times, places, and all from the luxury of my armchair. Drawing (another passion) can offer me something similar but when I was a kid, reading offered a glorious escape to whole new worlds, and what they had to offer. Every week, Saturday mornings would be spent at the library, returning what I had borrowed the previous week, then picking the next week’s selection. I’d race home, impatient to start again. Whole books would be ‘absorbed’, eagerly, too eagerly, so that by Sunday evening I’d have already used up my ‘weekly fix’. Finding me without a book in those weekend hours was about as likely as my giving up chocolate (no chance!) and in truth, stepping into those other ‘realities’ was essentially, a way of escaping my own reality.

This passion for books fostered others, drawing being one, and music being another. A life model once remarked after class that she struggled to keep a straight face if she saw me drawing because of the ‘funny faces’ I apparently pull whilst concentrating. I deny the charges. Discovering the joy of music as a young girl lead to a new love in my later teens, that of going to concerts – Simple Minds in ’89 is one that will never be forgotten, for more than just the music and it led to many more concerts/memories after. Yet reading still remains a number one passion for me and I’m not sure anything can really beat it for ‘losing one’s self’ completely. However, one of the cruelties of MS is the fatigue, a symptom that has really affected my ability for intensive reading. So, although it’s not quite the same, going to the cinema offers me stories to escape into, a similar absorption, but without the price of getting too fatigued.

True to my friend’s resolution, I think we’ve been every week. For a few hours a week we get to ‘escape to another reality’. We’ve been very lucky up to now that we haven’t seen anything bad (although Vantage Point will never be forgotten on that score, not a reality I’d ever want to be in…). Ok, some have been better than others, some not so, but nothing bad. Once again, this week we got lucky and I loved our choice. Not a new idea as such but a damning indictment on the American government! And the bonus of discovering a little appreciation for Sean Penn was most welcome, definitely an example of someone who has improved with age…

Thursday offered something similar, but with a twist. The National Theatre has been broadcasting live performances of plays around the world and the current run of Frankenstein was being shown at Lincoln on Thursday night. I was fortunate to get some tickets, very fortunate in fact as it sold out! Unfortunately H was unable to make it, though disappointed as she was at the clash of dates, at least on her part it was for an exceptional reason! Another friend that I had also asked was able to make it however, and I have to say that it was just brilliant. Dark and intense in parts, amusing in some, others were truly horrifying, whilst some were moving to the point of tears. It was another example, much like the cinema, of being able to escape elsewhere, whilst being being gripped to the edge of my seat! I think the same was true for my friend M, and what added to it was the fact we had both studied the book and surrounding concepts at university, having been on the same course.

Although it gave me an escape from reality in much the same way as books do, I can't say that my reality today is a bad one, but coping with my own health issues and dealing with my husband’s is undeniably stressful. So, for a few hours a week, whether it’s through film, theatre, concerts, yoga, drawing, or even music from my I-pod when I take the dog out, whatever I choose really, I get to lose myself and 'disappear' into another place. What's so special about this week then? I suppose this week, I got to 'escape' more than usual. Such things, with the aid of good friends, come to my rescue when my 'reality' is becoming a little too much, and all help me to smile, if not laugh, particularly when I’m ferreting around giant wheelie bins with my marigolds!

'juicy Blackpool oranges???'

Writing is not an easy task for me and it is proving quite challenging to be doing this everyday.  This isn’t because there isn’t anything to say, quite the opposite really, as I don’t live in a bubble and stuff does happen in this house.  I suppose it’s a matter of sifting through the ‘stuff’. 

Take this week for example; it really does take some sifting. First the bed snapped, ok I know technically that was last week but it’s close enough in time to still be a problem.  Well ok, it’s no real problem.  Yet.  It has snapped in three places and as one friend pointed out, the situation is precarious enough that we could find ourselves waking up in the middle of the night, on the floor if the bed collapses.  Which it could at any moment and truth be told, I’m at pains to work out how it hasn’t and how the bed is still upright.   Sure, the sides are still screwed to each end but bad visions still come to mind every time I get in bed so I’m still describing it here, the reasons for which will become clear.   I’m not panicking though, as whilst it is upright it’s still useable, so no need to crack open the purse just yet.

Then, armed with a pair of pink marigolds, plastic step stool and a walking stick, Wednesday morning found me sifting of a different kind, through an industrial sized wheelie bin, for a blow-up mattress that the carer had thrown away by mistake.  Well not by mistake exactly as it’s no longer usable (last week’s disaster, I won’t go into that here…) but as the NHS provided it, apparently they can get money back for items returned.  Or something like that. Thankfully we have some great neighbours, and the lovely man next door helped with his ‘pick-up stick’, a great little gadget for picking up litter.  Also great for getting mattresses out of bins we found.

Then the fridge started to make funny noises.  No belly laughs here, I’m talking strange.  In fact very strange, with a kind of vibrating thing going on.  Not all the time, just intermittently.  When you tell people something like that, a certain look appears on their face, like you’ve just lost the plot.  Or if the same people are in the know about the bed, then they say, “Well, there’s two of the three, just one more to go!”  Like that’s a help in any way…  Anyway, I had a look on the web as to what the fridge problem might be and frankly, the results were bad. ‘Probably the compressor’ they said, and I’m not too sure about what that is, or of its function within the fridge, but the bad bit is that any problem with this component, essentially means that it would be cheaper to buy a new fridge rather than have it fixed.   As I said, bad, particularly for the purse strings.

Anyhow, I kept to my usual form and thought to myself, ‘see how it goes, it’s probably nothing to worry about’.  Hmm, not a bad strategy till the carer arrived the next day.   Whilst she was preparing hubby’s breakfast, she asked “why is it soft?” Much hilarity and schoolboy mentality followed, to which she responded, “The butter, I’m talking about!”  Now, normally when we get the butter out of the fridge it’s like a brick and we have to leave it for a bit before we can use it.  A bit unfortunate for the purse strings, as one thing I did learn in my fridge ‘research’ is that the compressor has something to do with cooling.  Soft butter indicated my earlier worries were justified.  Drat and blast it!  It’s not all bad though, as we are now the ‘proud’ new owners of a 'juicy' orange fridge, a Blackpool fridge my husband calls it.  Please, please, let that ‘bad things come in threes’ thing be superstitious claptrap… 

What a majestic story!

Today didn’t really promise that much. I wasn’t too fussed by this but I’ve increased one of my medications, a muscle relaxant called Baclofen, as I’ve been in quite some pain over the past few weeks. My rehab doctor seems to think that the increased spasticity levels in my muscles could be the cause and suggested that I increase the dosage. Not by much, just by half of a tablet, that is, 5 measly mg. My other half can knock back these little beauties like Smarties, up to 80mg in a day and feel nothing at all. I’ve been taking this extra dose for 2 days and I’m knocked sideways! So, I got up feeling pretty wretched today and struggled to get myself going. The nausea (another gem of a side effect…) wasn’t really doing much for me and as I sat there nursing my cup of tea, I have to admit that I wasn’t in the best of moods.

Eventually the effects starting to wear off and picking myself up, I started dealing with the day’s jobs in hand. Tackling the never-ending pile of filing was the first order of the day, only for me to be interrupted by the phone. Not that I was too heartbroken about that, filing isn’t top of my favourites list. Only, one of our carers was calling to ask why her wages still hadn’t gone into her bank account. One lengthy phone call to the bank, several threats to change banks, and many more swear words besides, the issue got resolved.

After the filing finally got done, I got to writing the reply letter to the care agency that had overcharged us for mileage, yes that’s right, for mileage, which basically was telling them that credit notes would not suffice, as we would not be using their service again. Ever. Then it was the call the water company about the astronomical bill. More tedium followed but eventually it got done.

At this point, my husband had already gone off to the supermarket so, after a bit of web surfing time, I started with getting tonight’s tea on. Beef stew, and as I was using shin of beef, I needed to get cracking. I had just floured the meat when I saw my other half coming back from Morrisons. Just a few things, he had said. The box on his knee told a different story. If only the box had stayed on his knee. As I opened the outside door to let him in, the contents were spilling nicely over the pavement. So you can see how the day was panning out…

Anyway, contents picked up and ‘few bits’ put away, I got back on with the stew. Three-twenty p.m. in the oven and this beast needed three hours at least. Step-father-in-law (even harder to say, trust me) was due at five-thirty and he was always early.

Five p.m. and SFIL (I can’t type that mouthful every time!) didn’t disappoint my expectations.

Finally, at seven-twenty p.m., I settled down to eat – the beast had proved awkward and taken four hours instead. Despite having taken the trouble last year to create a ‘proper’ dining area, it's typical in our house to eat off our knees, whilst watching TV. We flicked the channels and finally settled on a programme called ‘The Wonders of the Solar System’. Anything to avoid Eastenders. But then it started to get me hooked. The presenter’s passion for what he was talking about was infectious, and suddenly we found that we really were watching, rather than just having noise on, like we usually do. Now I can’t pretend that I’ve retained anything that he said – my brain is like a sieve at the best of times, never mind on a ‘bad day’ like today. But there was one thing the presenter said that really struck a chord in me, “what a majestic story”, his description for the life and death of a star. I’m no physicist, so am not able to relay the stuff he did, but I did get that carbon, the universe, the stars, the sun, the moon, are all things that are crucial to our existence. The majority of us rarely take notice, as it’s just there, seemingly part of the everyday, the inconsequential. And yet it isn’t. Most of us concern ourselves with the humdrum, the trivial stuff, the banks, and the care agencies, the boxes on the floor. Stuff like that, whilst the real story, the big one, has been going for billions of years without too much of a mention. Relatively speaking anyway. Today was no different, I’ve relayed to you the humdrum, the petty and the trivial, largely ignoring the big one, and no doubt tomorrow will be much the same. But it has made me think, just for a little while at least, in the midst of all my 'stuff', of what’s happening out there. What a majestic story.

It's a matter of choice...

Well I said I would and actually did it.  I booked a life drawing class.  Just one session, wouldn’t want to go overboard now would I?  Never say I don’t keep my word.  Saturday, April 2^nd at nine thirty in the morning I shall hopefully be standing in front of an easel, preparing to make the first mark on the paper.  And that’s where you know I’m serious because if I’m prepared to be out that early then it’s a sure sign I mean it.

It took some oomph for me to make the phone call to book it but once I had, I felt a kind of mini ‘weight’ lifting.  Carrying around that burden of fear can be quite a heavy load to bear.   I said before that I thought the root of my procrastinating was fear; fear of failure mostly, but then I also recognised that I’ve never enjoyed being in the spotlight.   So being observed with anything, and I mean anything, is something I try to avoid.  Even when I go on a diet it’s something I keep private so I don’t have to answer when people ask how I’m doing with it.  I’ve lost seven pounds by the way.  Just in case you’re wondering.

So what dragged my head out of my arse this time?  The devastating events in Japan did.  As the news on TV relayed the shocking scenes last Friday, and continued to do so through the weekend, I couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of it all.  A friend was right when she said ‘it’s ok to be sad’ and I did, terribly sad, at times moved to tears, but I feel ashamed to say that it wasn’t just for them; it was also for my own feelings of powerlessness, my inability to do anything about it, or for them.  Donating money just doesn’t seem enough but it’s all I have to offer.  That, and my heartfelt wishes for the Japanese people to have the strength to get through this. 

Having an illness like MS can often make me feel powerless, particularly with the fatigue side of things.  And apparently it is not an illness that the Japanese have much experience with, but I don’t imagine that the feelings of the two situations compare that well.  As one man continued to run and run, desperately trying to get away from the water advancing behind him, I couldn’t even begin to understand what he must have been going through, nor could I place myself in his shoes for when he stopped, realising that he couldn’t outrun the water.  The enormity of something like that is almost too awful to bear, when he realised he has no choice but to accept his fate.

For me, by doing certain things, such as following a regime of taking a daily cocktail of medication, I can to some extent outrun my illness.   There may well be a time when I too will have to stop running but that certainly isn’t now. That man had no choice but to bear the burden of his circumstances.  I don't have to bear the burden of fear all of the time.  Whether I do or not, for now at least, is ultimately my choice.  I can't always promise that that I'll be brave enough to face some challenges.  Yet after seeing everything that has been on the news, I did think to myself ‘Monday morning, I will make that phone call’.  I do have a choice, and the privilege of having choices, any choices, I hope is something that I never take for granted.

 

 

 

 

Softly, softly, catchy monkey...

I think I said last time that I had wanted to do this so that I could be inspired to write something; it's now two years since my (first) last post so I'm guessing something went a bit wrong somewhere. I'm always doing this.  My home is full of journals, diaries, notebooks, you name it, anything you can write on short of papyrus, where I've started to write, sometimes for two or three days even (!) and then nothing.  Zip, zilch, nada.  I only found this attempt because I wanted to follow a friend's new blog, and after trying to set up a new google account, was informed that another one existed.  At first I was amused, because of what I had written before, and then it struck me that it was just another example of something I always do. Procrastinating.  Putting off today what can be done tomorrow.  Or next week, next month, next year.  Maybe never.  

Only I don't call it procrastinating.  For me, it's 'considering my options'.  Or 'thinking about it', 'mulling it over', you get the picture.  Call it what you will, but throwing caution to the wind is a very scary concept to me, which is why, as a little girl it could take up to an hour for me to choose my ten pence worth of sweets.  I swear that the same said friend breaks out in a sweat if we go into a supermarket together, especially if it's Waitrose.   I'm the same with just about everything, what to wear, what to eat, how to have my hair, or whether to buy that dress or not.  Even at university I couldn't make a choice about what essay questions to answer.   I didn't need to worry about my university deadlines, my other half used to do all the stressing for me, so much so that he was almost ready to chug the valium down by the bottle full by the time an essay was due.  For me it was fine, or so I'd kid myself as I worked through the night, using a well-worn phrase 'I work best under pressure'.  It’s a useful strategy to use sometimes because I'm not likely to suffer any ills due to impulsiveness, such as having my hair cut off and then wishing I hadn't, or eating a cake too quick and then wanting to be sick, or even (heaven forbid!) impulse-buying an outfit only to sweat the arrival of the bank statement!  

Like everything, there is usually a price to be paid for this approach.  Decisions that are considered too long, too often, that is, being put off all the time can have their own consequences, such as the cringe-worthy event suffered by me in that sweet shop, trying to make that week's painful decisions.  Or the first night I had to inject myself for real instead of just practicing on a rubber ball like I had for weeks on end.  The results of that little fiasco stopped me from procrastinating about future injections sharpish, and please, no pun intended!  However, the results are more-often less painful to the mind or the body, and are usually just downright annoying, such as when a much-haunted dress isn't available in my size by the time I've decided to buy it. 

It could be said though, that less time wasted on choosing what essay questions to answer, could have earned me a much greater prize, such as the possible First suggested by Neil, my dissertation mentor.  Who knows, personally I think I got the result that best fits my abilities.  I'm no brain-box so it's not something I worry over too much, as for me, the prize was getting my degree at all, particularly with all the stuff I had going on at the time.  Yet lately I’ve been floundering, wondering what I want to do with my life.  I’m happy enough being married, with where I live, how much money I have but I still feel as if there is a lack of purpose.  It’s not really something I can put my finger on but I’ve spoken with friends who have experienced the same thing.  The alarm clock gets set but there isn’t really a reason why, apart from numerous hospital appointments, and forgive me for this but I’m greedy about wanting more from my existence! So, I’ve had a lot of thinking to do. I have had wild and crazy ideas about getting a job, even checking the job ads and various websites to see what’s out there.  All I do see, is that I would have to work silly amounts of hours to get any reasonable sort of income, which would then be a fast track to being laid up in bed!  Scratch that idea! Then I thought about picking up another course, not a bad idea really and I have studied some other stuff since finishing my degree.   What to choose though?  And this it where I seem to have reached a bit of a road end.   I don’t feel that I’m done with the studying and would ideally like to utilize my degree in whatever I choose next but I also know that I want somehow, to have a future that contains purpose.  Don’t get me wrong, my degree was brilliant and I think anything I chose next, would offer purpose to some extent, but I suppose I’m greedy as I want something that would offer a role or identity, other than being a wife, an unpaid carer, or even a person who has MS.  Sure, studying for a Masters, or any course for that matter, would give me a reason to get up and out in the morning but nothing much would really change.  The end result would bring me back to where I am now. 

So, back to the thinking, really hard about the things I enjoy and what inspires me.  Art is one thing.  Reading.  Going to concerts and exhibitions.  Learning crochet.  I want to learn how to play the guitar.  The practice of all things creative really, whether it’s drawing, arranging flowers, or even if its baking cakes.  I have to say that I do love baking cakes, especially Christmas cakes.  Last year I made thirteen of them, from scratch and gave them away as presents.  I loved the whole creative process, from planning the amounts needed at the start, to tying the ribbon around the cellophane at the end, but part of the joy really came from giving the gift.  Learning guitar would have to be a hobby choice rather than one for life’s fulfillment, as my musical ear isn’t a strong point!  For me, drawing is a beautiful art form but I don’t think I have the ultimate talent to become a fulltime artist, and really, neither it would feed my hunger for academic learning in the end.  I’ve been hugely fortunate to be part of a great book club for some months now and part of what’s great about it, is the meeting new people, reading books and thrashing out our responses and ideas, whilst drinking tea and eating cake.  Similar to my uni days in fact, except then it was looking at art and artifacts that we got boisterous about, not books (although we did read some great stuff – thanks Jim!).  I’ve already established in my own mind that academic learning has to feature somewhere, so I need to find something that would take both of these in account.

So, where does all this jabbering on lead me?  True to form, I’ve decided to take my usual approach.  I’ve some ideas in mind, but I think rushing things would be a mistake.  I realize that my approach all points to one thing.  My fear of failure.  Yet I feel vindicated in this, as too often I’ve started something only for it go belly up due to being ill myself, or being over-stressed at hubby being ill.  ‘Softly, softly, catchy monkey’ is how I’ve decided to play this and the first step will be to sign up for a life drawing class and see how I get on.  Just one session for now.  Wouldn’t want to rush things now would I?