A blog from three years ago

All the neighbour's lights have come on .

Walked bulldog in bare feet for last walk of the night. Stepped on frog

Frog screamed


I screamed even louder

Bulldog then swallowed frog

I then screamed again

Off to lie down in a darkened room

This still makes me feel slightly sick and vaguely hysterical all at the same time

I do so miss Winnie 

from Going Gently https://ift.tt/3i8hVUt

Clifton

Old advertising on the former "Cross Keys" pub in North Clifton

Most English people are keenly interested in weather forecasts. This is undoubtedly because we enjoy a changeable maritime climate. You never know what you are going to get upon this island on the edge of Europe.

One of the "favourites" stored on my laptop for quick access is the BBC Weather site. There I regularly look at five locations. It's like a compass. I have our city suburb in the centre. North is Penistone. South is Chesterfield. West is Tideswell . East is Worksop. The differing forecasts for these locations frequently determine where I will go when I fancy a good long walk. I like to avoid being rained on if at all possible.

The Old Nurseries in South Clifton

Today I headed east - beyond Worksop and across The River Trent via the toll bridge at Dunham - not Old Tasker Dunham but Dunham-on-Trent. Once across the river, Clint grumbled "Are we nearly there yet?" and I told him that we were. 

Together we breezed into the village of North Clifton which is a mile and a half from South Clifton. Charmingly peaceful villages with numerous attractive homes, they nevertheless have few community facilities - no pubs, no bakeries, no blacksmiths, no shops. Once they had all of these - in the days when villages were vibrant living entities and not dormitories for retirees, incomers and commuters.

Detail of redundant phone box in Spalford

I left Clint snoozing in North Clifton and set off on a ten mile walk over rich agricultural land  and finally along the east bank of The River Trent. I passed a huge field of carrots and another huge field of ridiculously healthy maize. In neither field did I see a single bird and only a handful of insects. In modern farming, it seems that  the quest for profitability means that insects and birds are just an irritation . 

From mid-afternoon, I kept looking at my watch - knowing that I had to get home to make the evening meal - for Frances, Stew and Phoebe would be there. At 4.15pm I was back on the toll bridge at Dunham and at 5.30pm I was chopping onions in the kitchen - the first step as I created a tasty vegetarian curry from scratch.

The Trent west of  North Clifton

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Thought

 This flawed one

Seeks affirmation

From others

That formula

Only brings

Disappointment

For approval

From fellow man

Is a recipe

For regret

From a source

That cannot fill

Our deepest longings

For the One 

Who sustains

Me

Is 

The fixer 

Of my soul

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"... And I came flying"

In the 1990s I was fortunate enough to be enrolled on a six month course specialising in the care of the Spinally Injured patient. This was based at the Southport Spinal Injury Unit , which then had unique experience in caring for patients who had total paralysis of their bodies, including their muscles which initiated breathing. 

Many of these patients would be ventilator dependent for life.

I got very close to one man who I will call Jim.

He was in his thirties and had broken his neck in a car accident . The injury was so severe that he would need ventilatory support over night but could come off the vent during the day after which he could breath for himself albeit only for a few hours. He could feel his face and talk in a whisper but had no physical control over his limbs, body and head.

My shifts were always weekday mornings with afternoons off for study, and so every morning I would take Jim off the confines of the ventilator, wash, dress and feed him and prepare him for physiotherapy 

And every morning he would cry silent tears when woken with suction or the changing of his tracheostomy inner tubes.

One day I asked him about his morning bursts of emotion 

And I remember so well the conversation as we were alone in the hospital gardens, Amid the raised planters, which were specially designed to be viewed from a wheelchair.

They were full of lavender and rosemary as I remember

“ Every night I dream Im flying” he whispered “ And every morning I wake to this” 

And for the first time I properly realised the impact of injuries like his.

I couldn’t speak. 

What could I say? 

I just nodded and rested my hand on the side of his face, where he could feel the contact.

I was going to hold his cold unfeeling hand, but the gesture would have been lost, 

Jim killed himself a year or so later. One of the physiotherapists wrote to me to inform me.

He had simply stopped eating and had refused escalation of care when finally admitted to a general hospital with pressure sores and renal failure. 

There was no Dignitas back then and there was no where to go for a quadriplegic who couldn’t move his own hands to explore the usual methods of ending ones life.

He had to die painfully and without dignity 

Which is a place no one should go.

The above clip is from a film I watched last week called The Sea Inside  ( Mar Adrendro) 

It is about the struggle of a Spanish sailor Ramon Sanpedro, who fought for nearly 30 years to be allowed to die after his spinal injury accident.

It’s a hard watch 

This scene brought my conversations with Jim flooding back 

Of his tears in the mornings 

And his dream flying at night 

from Going Gently https://ift.tt/3iStX3m