Wrap yourself in my blanket of love Where we’ll hide the hands of time I touch you slowly, embracing your smile I need to let go, I still feel you I close my eyes, I still see you
Shallow words engrave my mind Your lips drift away as I taste your tears Close the door on this searing pain Set free these birds of anxiety Walk the path to my haunted dreams
Is this darkness in my eyes alone? It bears down on my heavy soul Send me to a place where innocence reigns Where I can rest and contemplate my fate
My friend Shaz persuaded me to join her at a well-woman group held in our local village hall.
"I think you could use some advice on how to take proper care of yourself…now that you're fifty", she smirked.
A trifle unnecessary, I thought. She knows that my showbiz age is 29.
She suggested we stop off at the pub for Dutch courage; I wasn't too keen as I wanted to keep my wits about me. I’d seen 'Rosemary's Baby' and needed to be on my guard.
Several large glasses of wine later, we couldn't put it off any longer, we were going in...
I shivered as we entered the coven and was overcome by the fumes of incense and damp wood.
The wine had diminished the nerves but induced the paranoia.
Shaz and I giggled as we pushed each other in to the room which had been set up with chairs in a circle. I spotted a cheap ghetto blaster and prayed we wouldn't have to dance naked with each other.
Women began to arrive in twos and threes, and a few on their own, hiding behind their hair - one lady in particular; she had a beard.
They began to fan themselves while asking "Is it me or is it hot in here?". We sized each other up as we sat on the edge of the hormonal circle of love.
A tattooed teenager lifted a Greggs paper bag to her open mouth as she poured in the remains of a Cornish pasty.
Beardy lady watched while unwrapping a Turkish Delight.
It suddenly dawned on tattoo girl that she was in the wrong place; she had meant to attend the psychic class held by Madame Hazel from the post office.
But before she could make a clean getaway, a vision appeared in a cloud of cheap perfume.
She switched on the ghetto blaster with her fuchsia talons, every move carefully choreographed.
The dulcet tones of Helen Reddy invaded the room as comfy shoes tapped the floor.
Beardy lady almost smiled.
The pink vision stood in the middle of the oracle and drew breath….we all leaned forward in confused anticipation.
"Hello everybody, I'm Katie and I'm here for all of you this evening, gathered together. As I say, I'm Katie".
I swear she did a quick curtsey, though her thong could have been riding up.
Katie went on to explain she used to be a nurse in Kirkcaldy before adding she had recently won ‘Slimmer of the Year' with the Calorie Counter group who meet on Thursdays.
She led the ‘spontaneous' applause and beardy lady looked at the floor.
Katie slowly sat down on the red bucket chair. But for this evening, it was her gilt-edged throne.
We were instructed to introduce ourselves and state how old we felt. I said I felt 29 and Shaz shot me one her looks.
Katie tilted her over-bleached head and stared at me, pouting her glossy mouth.
I saw no signs of life. I don't think there ever were.
She blinked back to life, smiled and introduced herself again before moving onto Shaz who got an attack of the hiccups. I thumped her back and she choked on her Breakaway but it did the trick.
I could sense the hostility from the sisterhood bearing into my very soul.
Katie announced we were all special, I glanced around the room and shifted in my seat as I leant across and whispered to Shaz, ‘Special needs, more like’.
I could see Shaz was getting sucked in. Was I the only one who had noticed Katie was one talon short of a manicure?
Tattoo girl was now chomping her way through a cream horn.
The CD was changed after the opening song, eerie sounds of whale music filled the room, I checked behind me for men in robes or the occasional mammal.
Katie looked at each of us rather menacingly before raising her arms and shouting "Let’s embrace the menopause".
Whaaaaatttt???????
I looked on in bewilderment as she described brittle bones, hairy moles, porridge brain, weight gain, heartburn and so forth.
The incense over-powered the smell of fear in the room.
Katie’s lecture was accompanied by her clumsy attempts at matchstick drawings on a wobbly flip-chart which had seen better days. She invited questions from the group but everyone had lost the power of speech while I had lost the will to live.
Katie threw back her head and let out a random chilling laugh before moving on to weak bladders.
Beardy lady and I almost bonded as we yawned, stretched and strained our necks to see if there was a hint of a Wagon Wheel on the trestle table.
Katie felt the need to demonstrate a pelvic muscle floor exercise; she lay down and arched her back as her pink lycra buttocks contracted, she let out sounds that should only be heard in a cheap motel room.
I don't think that performance was anything to do with the menopause.
She invited us to feel her pelvis contracting, everyone leapt up to cop a feel as I grabbed the last Gypsy Cream.
Beardy lady seemed quite excited but she remained seated and picked fluff from her ski-pants.
Tattoo girl's shaking hand pulled back the ring on a can of Lilt as Katie was man-handled by women in cardigans.
Katie rose from the floor like a phoenix rising from the ashes and looked a little flushed as she breathlessly promised "Your pelvis will be your friend, if you treat her well. Especially in the autumn of your descending years. As I say."
She proceeded to hand out various leaflets, one contained diagrams and pictures that no-one needs to see, not even well-women.
I glanced at a leaflet with the heading Ann Summers Party!
Now I understood the point of her little pelvic display; only the battery-operated appliance was missing from her seedy floor show.
I looked around the group and pictured these women in Nylon baby-dolls, marabou handcuffs and chocolate-coated nipples.
I suddenly felt quite queasy.
I dragged Shaz out of the room, leaving beardy lady perspiring over the Rampant Rabbit price list.
We deeply inhaled the fresh air, it felt good to be outside. I shook Shaz by the shoulders and made her swear that we would never, ever go to any of these evil meetings again.
We returned to the pub to celebrate our escape from Salem while Shaz felt her face for hairy moles.
The doors opened and tattoo girl walked in with beardy lady, they ordered Cokes and sat in silence.
I looked at Shaz who was now testing her arms for brittle bones.
My eyes searched the room for any signs of sanity.
I was fighting a losing battle as I spied a tipsy Madame Hazel staring into her glass of wine as if it was her cherished crystal ball.
I received two invitations in yesterday's post. One to an exhibition in North Berwick called 'Meet your Maker' which celebrates 'British Silver Week' and another inviting me to be screened for Bowel Cancer.
Oh, the irony.
Sadly, I’m unable to attend the former but I’ll accept the latter. I'm used to hospital tests since they've become a regular part of my life over the years….
Picture it, London, 1993. I felt queasy whenever I ate or drank anything and bubbles moved around my stomach and sides.
I put it down eating and drinking too much over the recent Christmas holidays and decided to lay off alcohol and chocolate for a while.
After more sleepless nights and a growing stabbing pain in my side, I went to my GP surgery and he diagnosed trapped wind and recommended peppermint tea.
I came away dissatisfied but relieved that he didn’t seem too worried.
But I was in more pain with each day and the weight was dropping off me at an alarming rate, I looked like I had an eating disorder and my eyes began to bulge from their sockets.
I called the GP out and he noticed my distended stomach and asked if I was pregnant! But he stuck to his original diagnosis and didn’t feel the need to take any tests.
He was called out a second time as I was finding it hard to walk and couldn’t keep anything down, including water. He was clearly annoyed and wrote a prescription for anti-nausea pills while insisting that over-indulgence during the festive season was to blame.
By now I was feeling delirious and not thinking straight.
The following day I felt faint and dehydrated, my skin was virtually translucent. The receptionist refused to book him out a third time saying I had to come into the surgery instead.
I gently pulled on a track suit over my very large stomach and could only manage to put on my slippers. People stared at me as I struggled to walk a straight line. I must have looked like the walking dead, if only they’d known....
I arrived at the waiting room and collapsed with exhaustion and dehydration, the receptionist called for an ambulance while my GP panicked.
A patient dropping dead in the surgery isn’t good for business.
Fortunately, a friend burst through the doors in true cowboy style, after picking up my phone message, and he drove me to the hospital at break-neck speed before the ambulance had a chance to arrive.
I was rushed onto a trolley and everything happened so fast, I had a tube rammed up my nose and into my stomach which ignited the poison in my body.
It was like a scene from 'The Exorcist', except my head didn’t spin round. Though, I used a few similar expletives. I was fitted with drips and rushed over to the radiographer who suspected fibroid complications but when it emerged that my bowel had perforated, I was taken down to the ward and prepared for emergency surgery.
My friend called for back-up and they contacted my family who were freaking out as they had no idea I was seriously ill, but neither had I.
The anaesthetist prepped me and watched carefully as I began to feel drowsy. I wondered if my last image on earth would be a man wearing paper knickers on his head.
After surgery I was put into ICU and woke up briefly and stroked my stomach for any hint of a stoma bag. I had been warned that one may be fitted as a temporary measure but was relieved to find I was bagless. I happily drifted back to unconsciousness.
Hours later I awoke to find my weeping parents sitting at my bedside and holding hands, I was freezing and my teeth were chattering but I managed a half-smile before drifting back to my dreams.
My family continued to watch me sleep over the next few days until I woke up and glanced around for the horse which had been sitting on my stomach.
My parents were still holding hands; I swear they hadn’t moved from their seats since they first arrived.
The medical team checked me over and the nurses gave me a bed-bath and I felt a bit more human again but incredibly weak and confused.
I looked in the mirror opposite my bed and didn’t recognise myself. My skin was grey and my cheekbones jutted out while my teeth seemed too big for my mouth.
The most upsetting thing was my bulbous eyes which were soulless and empty.
The nurses soon moved my bed to face the window instead.
A few days later, my consultant gently explained that I’d had peritonitis . He said that If I hadn’t gone into hospital when I did, I wouldn’t have survived the next day as I would have succumbed to blood poisoning.
Apparantly, it had got to such an advanced stage by the time they operated on me, that I had given them serious cause for concern and I was in a critical condition for a few days afterwards.
Blimey, no wonder my parents hadn't left their seats. I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. They had removed benign tumours and parts of my ulcerated colon. The main diseased area had also been successfully removed and my bowel repaired.
I will always be indebted to the skill of my surgeon who endearingly apologised for the length of my scar!
It took a while to sink in that I had been dying and also the GP hadn’t acted sooner. Anyone in their right mind would have taken one look at me and sent me to hospital. I had kept friends and family at bay with my deluded reassurances but the GP should have seen the signs that something was very wrong.
The consultant was none too impressed with the GP's casual attitude towards me and lack of observation and I believe several phone calls were made to his surgery from the medical team.
I had a team of specialists fix more drips into my hands and neck. They advised me to sleep sitting up due to the fluids running through my body, plus the cables were like spaghetti junction.
As I tried to sleep propped up by pillows, I empahised with the Elephant Man.
As more drugs were pumped into my body, the more my skin was stretched, it felt ready to burst at the seams some nights. That was the most painful part of lying in bed as my body doubled in size and I struggled to catch up with the changes. I had my own room and my family and friends took turns to stay with me, often bringing a sleeping bag and napping in the armchair beside me. The nurses made allowances as they knew they wouldn’t stand a chance telling anyone to stick to visiting times!
A couple of friends performed a drag act and they visited me en route to a nearby pub where they were appearing. They came dressed as Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell and lit up the ward as they sashayed over to the drinks machine in their jewel-encrusted dresses and full slap.
Sadly, they didn't perform for us but they caused quite a stir and brightened up everyone's visiting time!
My walls were decorated with cheery cards and a photo collage and my visitors all added their photos which gave me much joy. My parents bought in a duvet and pillows plus a selection of nightwear and fluffy towels.They bought me daily reading material, I was never short of books, magazines and newspapers.The nurses knew where to come for something to read in their breaks.
Everyone helped by doing my laundry, washing my hair and keeping my room cosy with plants and fresh flowers. They tried their best to make it a 'home from home' and it certainly helped to have familiar things around me.
My mum insisted on cleaning my room herself after seeing the somewhat incompetent efforts of the hospital cleaners. She’d arrive every morning with her cleaning box and a mop and bucket. Even the ward sister wasn’t about to argue with her!
My best friend brought in a TV and VHS recorder. My friends would rent films from their video shop and we had lots of film marathons as they kept me company through the long evenings or they would sit and hold my hand when I felt low and far from recovery.
Their kindness overwhelmed me and I know that if any of them became so ill, I would want to take the pain for them.
The nurses were angels of whom I have the utmost respect. They genuinely cared and I became very close to a few of them. Whenever I had unpleasant tests or painful examinations, I could see the tears in their eyes as they saw the fear in mine.
They helped retain my dignity during times when it was easy to lose.
I wrote many letters to family and friends to whom I apologise, as I’m sure they read like the rants of a lunatic woman...if my hospital poetry is anything to go by.
Clearly, I blame the drugs.
I had a few setbacks during those months; I managed to get pneumonia and the junior house doctor was so worried on hearing the news that she rushed to my bedside after returning late one night from a rare weekend away.
I’ll never forget that and her look of concern as I opened my eyes.
But there were amusing times too, the nurses would sneak into my room to watch ‘Neighbours’ at lunchtimes, only for the ward sister to bellow at them to get out and then sit on the bed and watch it herself.
One nurse was a talented mimic and would take my temperature as Bet Lynch or change my drips as Dot Cotton. She should have had her own TV show, she was hilarious and boosted everyone’s spirits no end.
Many of the nurses used their holiday leave to work in other hospitals (and sometimes their own) as agency nurses to top up their NHS salary. It was shameful to see them work so hard yet earn so little.
Days passed into weeks which passed into months. My visitors slackened off as they needed to get on with their own lives and families but they'd visit me on a rota basis and my parents still made their morning visits.
It was quite a trek for them as I was in Hillingdon hospital and they lived in Fulham but no matter how difficult the journey or how exhausted they felt, they were always there with a smile and a hug that was more healing than any medicine.
My brother drove from Bristol every Sunday to join the rest of my family who would spend the day with me. I always looked forward to Sundays, we would catch up with news of their week and play board games with the kids.
And as I became less dependant upon machines, they would wrap me up and pop me into a wheelchair and take me into the hospital grounds. My brother and sister would walk either side of me holding the drip stands like guards of honour.
It was glorious to feel the fresh air on my face and hear the noises of the outside world.
Even exhaust fumes smelt good. When I was alone, I would look out at a tree from my window with its branches bathed in January's white snow which dripped crystals in the February rain. They would dance naked in the March winds, grow emeralds under the April sun and flirt with pink blossom in May.
I felt like Rod Taylor’s character in ‘The Time Machine’ where he would watch the shop window mannequin change outfits as his machine raced through the time.
I had a brief period of freedom in early-April, when it was decided I should have a trail recuperation period under a district nurse's supervision, so it was agreed I'd stay at my sister’s family home as they had a large house with a garden and were able to accomodate me and my drips on the ground level.
My friends came to see me at my new abode and my sister was fabulous and never complained as her house was invaded by visitors and she made endless cups of tea for everyone.
Even a couple of the nurses came by in their own time which was lovely and we had a good gossip away from the steely eyes of the ward sister.
But I soon had a relapse and returned to hospital….
It was a distressing time for everyone and I became quite poorly again and had to have white and red blood transfusions but I was determined to get my strength back and go home once and for all.
I was put on 24 hour observations and I slowly began to recover from the relapse. I was able to eat baby portions of liquidised food and my digestive system slowly adapted to the changes. It was a treat to have something other than ice cubes or mouthwash to look forward to.
I gradually began to regain my strength and optimism and it was time to be unleashed back into the community. I felt very emotional as I said my fond farewells to the nurses and doctors to whom I owe my life.
While we may all have the occasional moan about the NHS, I received first class treatment at Hillingdon hospital, and the medical team couldn't have been more dedicated and worked tirelessly on my recovery.
But before my sister could take me home, I had a small operation to have a Hickman line inserted into my chest, this was in case I needed emergency treatment and medication could be fed swiftly into my body. The Hickman line had to be flushed out every day with a syringe but sometimes a blockage would develop and we’d have to go back to hospital where they would produce an enormous comedy-size syringe to rectify the matter.
We half-expected a giggling Babs Windsor to run past in her nurse’s uniform pursued by a guffawing Sid James in stripy pyjamas.
Over the weeks which followed, I lost all the excess bodyweight caused by massive fluid retention only to discover I was seriously underweight and all my muscle tone had collapsed from months in bed.
But thanks to the physio's exercise plan and the nutritionist’s diet sheets, I steadily regained weight and looked and felt much healthier for the first time in months.
After spending a couple of months in my sister's excellent care, I returned home. There were a few tears as she left me in my flat but we knew it was something we both had to do sooner or later. It was a long, arduous process and possibly harder on my family and friends. I have since discovered they were warned during my relapses that my life was in serious danger. They comforted each other behind closed doors but they never showed me their tears.
I was told that it was unlikely my body could ever cope with a pregnancy due to the extreme surgery I had undergone and the assault on my organs over the last few months.
Oh, and just for good measure, an early menopause was predicted.
True to their word, the menopause invited itself into my life in my early forties. I should have taken Lily Savage’s advice: Go shoplifting and blame it on the menopause.
I still take steroids when necessary, and will do all my life, but I got through it all….and people have gone through far worse than I.
So, now I live with Crohn’s Disease and mostly I cope okay, some days are a drag but I look out for any signs of a flare-up and deal with it as best I can. There are some foods I need to avoid but that can change at any time, it will always be trial and error where my diet is concerned.
On the whole it’s about awareness and prevention rather than cure. My medication take its toll on my body rather than the condition itself.
Crohn’s Disease can vary from person to person. Some have extreme symptoms and others may have an occasional flare-up without it causing too much inconvenience, or even the need for medication.
My post-surgery outcome was more to do with the rapid escalation of my untreated condition and the damage from the peritonitis. I’ve met plenty of people with Crohn’s disease who go on to have kids and lead very active lives.
This is just my experience and not one that is typical of other sufferers.
Before I close, there is one last hospital story which I would like to share with you….
I was often wide awake during the night, so I'd try and read or watch a video. One particular night, I found myself slipping down the pillows and was unable to lift myself because of the drips, so I pressed the buzzer for help.
The nurse came in and got me comfortable and then left the room. But the same thing happened again because the back-rest was set too low.
I pressed the buzzer a couple of times and started to panic as my breathing became rapid and then a doctor appeared and quickly tended to me.
He pulled me up and reset the back-rest. He told me not to worry about anything and closed the door behind him.
The two night nurses came and explained that one had been in the loo and the other was in the medicine room and didn't realise I was unattended.
‘Its okay’, I replied, ‘a doctor came in and adjusted the bed-rest for me’. They both looked puzzled and said that doctors weren't on the wards during the night unless they were bleeped by the nurses.
They said I must have been dreaming but they couldn’t explain about the back-rest and how my pillows were all freshly propped up. They asked what the doctor looked like and I realised I couldn’t remember his face, only that he wore a white coat.
The following morning the ward sister quizzed me but I still couldn’t recall his face.
It remained a mystery to everyone as the only doctors on call that night hadn’t come onto the ward, or into my room.
I’m a quarter of a century old. No wonder I’m knackered. Well, I thought this was the best time to make my first post....
Bugger me, I’m a blogger.
Saga hasn’t knocked on my door as yet but I’m ready for them with their cheap insurance, scary health warnings and magazine subscription….maybe they’ll actually print one of my rejected articles now I’m one of them.
I’ve been looking at old photos and scanning them onto my laptop. I've also been playing with Photoshop to remove creases and dog-eared corners.
Cheaper than botox, I find. Mind you, I'm proud of any laughter lines, they all tell a story and what stories I have to tell from over the years.
I was born and raised in Fulham where my parents put love and humour before anything else. Like many of the families living on our estate, we took great pride in our home and filled it with fun and music where everyone was welcome.
Of course, we witnessed some spectacular screaming matches amongst neighbours but they were soon forgotten with the shake of a hand and a glass of the usual. The kids all grew up together and we shared holidays, toys and dreams.
My older brother and sister always looked out for me and we're still the best of friends. Our dad is very much alive and kicking. He's one of the old school: always suited and booted, even if he goes for a pie and a pint, and he says it like it is.
Our mum passed away twelve years ago, she was only in her early sixties. Her passing created an abyss in our lives which can never be filled. But we're left with memories as precious as gold dust and I raise my glass to her. If only I could steal a few seconds of time for one more hug as I catch the familiar scent of her perfume and the warmth of her heart.
But I’m one of the lucky ones, I've no sob story to tell, just a collection of tales that span across the years which may, or may not, amuse, move or inspire you. I’ll let you be the judge of that.
I just want to unashamedly reminisce while looking towards the future. And I'll comment on whatever comes to mind during the trials and tribulations of my daily life.
So, you know where I am...in case you feel like joining me for a virtual cocktail sometime.
