Archives: Improvement

We had a lie in today to catch up on some much needed sleep and so went to see Oli this afternoon.

I wasn’t there when they moved Oli to the ward yesterday so was really pleasantly surprised when I walked in to see that he has a tv/dvd player and a fridge that I’m sure is meant for important things like drugs but that we have taken over to store chocolate milk and other vital get-well-soon yummy things.

Oli’s had a very tough day today.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s still doing fantastically well, but I think today might have scared him a little and made him see a mountain that he wants to be at the peak of before he’s really set off.  It appears as though his brain is finding it difficult to trust that his lungs do actually work fine and are capable of working harder than he’s pushing them to.  The amazing team around him have been encouraging him to take deep, slow breaths in order to open up all of the airways and make sure the alveoli at the base of the lungs are being used.

In order to give Oli a bit of help with this, they’ve given him another Neve (our name for NIV – Non Invasive Ventilator), like he’d been using pre-transplant.  The idea behind it being that it takes an awful lot of effort to breathe deeply when you’re not used to it so neve can aid Oli at times thorughout the day and night, especially when he is tired or when his CO2 levels go up.

Oli hasn’t taken to this new Neve much, she’s very much the same as the one he’s used but he now finds the mask a bit claustrophobic (pls forgive spelling mistakes) and has been getting panicky after short periods of use.  The marvellous nurse Jason who was looking after him today managed to finally tweak the settings and adjust the mask and eventually this evening, Oli has been more comfortable on it.  We hope he might use it tonight to help him sleep well, I really hope it works for him.

The other, slightly scarier thing Oli has found difficult today has been the hallucinagenic side effects of the very strong drugs he is on.  Apparently it isn’t unusual (we had actually been forewarned about this by Emily who told us she liked to imagine conversations with her doctors!) but it is never-the-less not pleasant, and this evening after starting with seeing shapes and squiggles led to thinking the bed was trying to swallow him. 

We left him tonight calmer but exhausted and with permission from the docs for his big bro to stay with him in his room tonight.  I really hope he gets some good sleep.  Sleep is so important for the body to heal and he has a hard enough journey ahead already without suffering from lack of sleep.

See you tomorrow x 

Well, someone was listening to me last night, because today has, indeed, been a better day so far. That’s not to say things are all fine and dandy, or that the picture is yet all rosy, but side-by-side with yesterday, today has been a Good Day.

I managed to get almost straight to sleep last night, sometime after 11pm, which is rare forr me these days. Not only that, but I managed to sleep quite solidly, too – no constant waking to switch position or readjust myself. It may have been thanks to having fiddled with Neve and pushed the pressures up ever-so-slightly, or a slightly improvement on the chest front, or simply thanks to complete exhaustion and my body not having any other choice but sleeping it off. My guess would be it was a healthy mix of the three.

Bizarrely, and somewhat annoyingly, I woke up bright-as-a-button(ish) around 5am and couldn’t get back to sleep, no matter how hard I tried. I had planned to lay in a bit today and do my morning dose a little later than usual, but given that I was awake anyway, I decided to switch the plans and get up early and get them out of the way, which would have the knock-on effect of allowing me an earlier night tonight.

I got up, got my dose running and sat myself a the computer to surf around and catch up on the over-night writers’ strike news, during which time my chest was doing all kinds of weird things, making me breathless one minute and fine the next, and I developed a bit of a killer headache.

By the time my drugs had finished, I decided it’d be a good idea to try to get some physio out of the way before I got myself back to bed, so I did another very uncomfortable session – very hard work again. Having said which, I definitely felt the benefit afterwards, even through it didn’t feel like I’d cleared a lot. I did my anti-biotic nebs and then took myself to bed around 9am.

Interestingly, for those who keep tabs on this sort of thing, 9am is also the time that the construction workers begin work on resurfacing the road outside the front of where we live. With the sun beating a nice, hot set of rays down on the bedroom window, keeping them shut was out of the question, so keeping the noise out was also not a part of the plan.

As it happened, noisy as they were, I needed sleep more, and I managed to doze on-and-off for another few hours till the early afternoon.

I rolled out of bed feeling much better for the physio and sleep, grabbed a cuppa with K and chatted for a bit, talked to my ‘rents to catch them up on over-night progress and then headed back for more physio. It was a much better session than this mornings, and much easier, too, making things look brighter already.

After physio, I got some calories down me and then headed back to bed to chill out with K and watch the first ep of the first season of 24 – a season I’ve seen but K hasn’t and is next on our TV-DVD marathon. I’m amazed at how much I don’t remember from the first time it aired, and also at how much of what I do remember they’ve crammed into the first ep – there must be a whole heap more that I don’t remember to come, which is promising.

After chilling in bed for a while, K gets up to do some more revision and I sit and read GQ for a while, before K heads off to college and I do my 3rd physio session of the day. I’m determined to crack the back of this while I can.

Physio out of the way, I jump online for a while and do a bit of Chrimbo shopping (have to bow to the inevitable eventually, I suppose) and look into a couple of other random bits and pieces while the Shepherd’s Pie Mum made me yesterday cooks.  I sit and eat it while watching the last episode of Extras from the DVD that I’d never got round to seeing, then wash up and get back to the study, going over a couple of old scripts till K gets home.

We watch some programmes from Sky+ and I do some more physio (a really good late-night session, actually), and before I know it my evening drugs are all done and it’s time to hit the sack.  Things are still very up-and-down, and I suspect they will be for a good few days yet, but today’s been a massive improvement on yesterday, and that’s a big step forward.  Well, at least a little one.

I’m feeling awful at the moment – my cold has hit with a vengeance and is dragging me down big-style.  Most irritatingly, it’s gone to my throat, which makes clearing all the usual gunk off my chest incredibly hard as a tickly cough makes doing good-quality physio almost impossible.  Coupled with that, obviously, the gunk that is there anyway (which isn’t getting cleared) is now getting thicker and heavier and nastier with all the cold bugs in it, too, which is making breathing and life in general incredibly hard.  It’s basically one great big heap of can’t-breathe-very-well, feel-like-cr@p, need-to-sleep-for-weeks poo.

Of course, me being me, the easiest and most obvious course of action is also the one that my body objects to the most, namely sleeping.  Because of all the rubbish on my chest which I’m not clearing, I’m loaded up with stuff which is making breathing hard anyway, but as soon as I try to go anywhere near horizontal (or even just slightly leaned-over) it all starts rumbling around even more and giving me even more problems.

So last night I managed a grand total of about 2 hours sleep and that was taken pretty much because my body literally couldn’t keep my eyes open and my brain turned on any more.  No matter what position I was in I would be in some form of discomfort, which was either back pain, shoulder pain, chest pain or all three combined with inability to breathe.  I tell you something, struggling to breathe on a machine that’s suppose to help you breathe is not a pleasant sensation.

So last night wasn’t good and this morning wasn’t much brighter – what with the distinct lack of rest and still rumbling chest.

I have, however, made it through to the afternoon now and things are brightening up ever so slightly.  My biggest problem has been getting comfortable, as whenever my breathing becomes a problem now it causes all sorts of chain-reactions through the rest of my body, specifically back and neck pain which makes sitting in most positions either painful or hard to breathe.

Most annoyingly, it’s the positions you would imagine to be the most comfortable that I struggle with the most – sitting on the sofa causes huge neck pain, sitting in bed causes lower-back pain and breathlessness and sitting in the comfy chair in the living room causes one of the two, depending on how I sit.

Ironically, sitting bolt upright in the desk chair at the computer is currently my most chest-friendly position.  I’ve been in front of the screen for a little over 3 hours now and I’m feeling the best I have all day.  I suppose there’s no excuse for me not being productive, is there?  Although my brain isn’t entirely switched on at the moment.

Anyway, I thought I’d take the opportunity to catch up on some online diarizing and catching up on the US Writer’s Strike, which has got me bizarrely hooked.

I’m hoping a better day, a better throat and some better physio means that I’ll be able to get better sleep tonight and things will duly improve tomorrow.  The resurgence of the cold has coincided once again with the scheduled end-of-IVs, so I’ll be back at Oxford tomorrow but look set to continue into a 4th week of the mega-drugs.  Better than ending up feeling even worse and going back on them in a week or two anyway.

I am very much asleep when the alarm goes off this morning and I prize myself out of bed in a slow and careful manner. Drugs duely flowing, I try my hardest to stay awake while they run through, watching some Making of Toy Story DVD as I do.

Once the drugs are done I’m about focused enough to run K into work, but when I get home I take myself straight back to bed for another hour’s kip, which is rudely interrupted 45 mins in (just when it’s about perfect snoozing) by the postman, who can’t let himself in again (to the building, that is – he doesn’t try to break into our flat of a morning).

I decide it’s pointless trying to re-claim my 15 minutes and so head for a bath instead, then check my email quickly before Mum arrives to whisk me over to Oxford for my physio appointment.

My CF team in Oxford have recently reached a deal with the physio department whereby they can cross-pollinate departments – whereas I used to only be able to see chest-specialist physios (who are paid for under the CF-care banner) if I wanted to see any other type of physio, it would have to be a paid-for referral either from my GP (who’s in the wrong PCT) or the chest team (who can’t afford the extra fees). Charging issues ironed out, however, I am free to go and see a muscular-skeletal physio who is part of the Churchill team up the corridor from my usual clinic.

What a difference a specialist makes. My two regular physios sat in on the session too, eager to learn the basics of what they could do to help me (and others) out with my neck/back problems, all of which stem from the extra work my respiratory muscles are having to do to make up for the cruddy condition of my lungs. After half and hour’s poking, prodding and manipulation, I can already feel a difference, and the physio promises if I can get up there every week she’ll find 10 minutes to have another go and keep the main parts mobilized, with the eventual aim that I’ll be able to strengthen the muscles back up to pull more weight without so much strain.

After my neck session, I head down to the treatment centre with my regular physio for a regular chest physio session, at which we also do my L-F, which stands back up at a healthy (relatively) 0.8/1.5, which is good to see. Even more astonishingly, my weight has now hit 56kg on the clinic scales, and that’s without a thick jumper on. I’ve NEVER been this heavy before, and it feels like a real achievement.

Back home I feel terrible because K’s had a bad day at work and only been home half an hour but all I can do when I walk in the door is fold myself into bed and fall asleep. Rested an recovered after an hour or so, I try to make it up with Tea (which is usually a good place to start) and she appears not to harbour any of the kind of grudge I think I would given reversed circumstances. It’s times like these that my “frailties” really bug me – it seems such a small thing to ask to be able just to chill and have a cuddle after a bad day, but when I’m tired, especially from travel, I’m really not in a state to do anything. What makes K so wonderful is the fact that no matter what the situation, she never complains at all.

In the evening, an old school friend who’s recently moved back over from France pops round and we have a giggle-some night of pizza and board games. We discover, much to our disppointment, that Operation really isn’t that difficult if you’re any older than about 10. None of us had played it for years, but he’d had it at home and thought it was in marvelously bad taste to bring it round (which we both readily agreed). Naturally, they let me win, since otherwise it would just have been rude.

Another couple of games of Scene It (of which I won neither, let the record show – for those of you who think I must just walk it every time), and B headed off home. My drugs were due later than normal because of bad planning on my part so K headed to bed while I did my last dose, watching some Sky+’d Simpsons and the start of The American President, which I’d recorded a while ago before surfing the ‘net for a while during my evening nebs.

I eventually make it to bed about 1.30am, where I read Kevin Smith just long enough to make my eyelids heavy then settle down for the night.

It’s been a nervous 24 hours here since the cold reared its head and it was made all the worse last night after I spotted a problem with the line into my port through which I give my IV’s.

I noticed while I was doing my afternoon dose that the line had gone a little cloudy, but didn’t think much of it.  By the evening dose, it hadn’t cleared up (as sometimes happens) and had a couple of distinct breaks in the cloudiness which started to concern me slightly.

Anyone with a port-a-cath will tell you how protective they are of them, not least people in my position as the loss of use of a post through breakage or – God forbid – infection is a serious problem: replacing ports is not the kind of thing that can be done on a whim and while it isn’t what you’d term “major” surgery, it’s certainly more than most doctors would like to be performing on someone with end-stage lung disease.

With all these thoughts running through my head, I took the executive decision to not give my next dose of IV’s until I’d been to Oxford to get it looked at and replace the needle and line for a new one.

After a late-night phone call with Mum, we hastily arranged a lunch-time pick up when she finished work (trampling all over any other plans for the day she may have had) and I settled down for the night after pumping another mini-monsoon of First Defence up my nose and downing a handful of Vitamin C caps to try to ward the cold off, too.

For once I slept absolutely beautifully.  Without my morning dose of dugs to do, I slept clean through till 10am, when K’s alarm woke me.  Lucky it did, really, because it didn’t wake her, so she’d have been in a spot if it weren’t for my eagle-eyed sense of hearing. (Yeah, I know, that confused me, too.)  That said, I’m sure she’ll jump to defend herself having already been out of bed once to answer the door to a nice delivery man.

A quick call to my team in Oxford and the ever-brilliant Cass opened up a slot for me early in the afternoon.  I checked with Mum and we were all good to shoot on over once she’d got her morning at work out of the way.

I got up slowly and rumbled around the house, hesitantly waiting for the cold to hit with full force, but nothing really materialised.  My sinuses were much less clogged and though I struggled a little with my physio first thing, I managed to clear a good bit and get my nebs done before Mum arrived.  I grabbed some Lucozade for the journey and hopped in the car, leaving K at home for a study session with a college-mate.

Cass looked me over and gave my port a quick once-over and agreed that it didn’t seem to be anything too untoward, although she’d never seen anything like it either.  She swapped my needle out and reaccessed me, giving it a good flush to check it out and all seemed well.  We agreed that although the cold doesn’t seem to have taken hold, an extra week on the IVs wasn’t going to do any harm.  I can’t have been there more than 20 minutes before Mum whisked me off again, but it was worth the 3 hour round trip for the piece of mind it gave me.

We got home just before half-three and I connected up my afternoon dose of IVs and hit the sack to recharge my batteries.  I woke an hour later feeling really quite energised, hit my nebs and did some physio before dinner.

I think – touch wood – I’ve managed to ward the cold off, so am hoping that another good night’s rest and another day not doing too much should keep me back on the well-wagon and I can look forward to another weekend with family and friends.

Off to catch tonight’s episode of Heroes now – we’re all addicted and we’re only a few weeks from the end of the season!  Hooray!

So Saturday night was a bit of a bump, but Sunday and Monday have been a much more even keel – I’ve stayed resolutely on the positivity band-wagon, although I may have slid sideways a couple of times.

Yesterday morning vanished into nothing – a brief wake-up call at 7am to do my morning drugs dose, but the rest disappearing under the covers after another late night.

Shortly after the turn of noon, having stumbled out of bed, K’s Dad swung by with the visiting boyfriend of her Hungarian cousin.  Actually, technically, I don’t think they’re cousins, but once you get into the Hungarian side of the family I’m afraid I rather lose track of her clan.  I can only just keep track of the English side, but that’s because they’re inconsiderate enough to have 2 Uncle Peter’s, which is just foolish if you ask me.  I don’t see why they couldn’t have drawn straws for a name change to help me out just a little.

I digress.  T’s English was immaculate (handy, considering the state of my Hungarian) and it was really nice to meet him and chat.  K was revelling in getting first-hand details of all the goings on with her Hungarian cousins, one of whom is due to have her first child any day now.  K was keen for T to let his other half know that being an Aunty is “the best thing in the world”.  I ventured to point out that I daresay being a Mum might be considered to top it, but I always get shouted down.

They didn’t stay long, since K’s Dad was taking T off for a round-the-houses meet-and-greet of the rest of Team H over lunch.  I should think he got back to his apartment in London absolutely shattered after getting through the whole gang.

In the evening, we headed over to my ‘rents to catch up with them and have a gorgeous roast.  I know everyone always says it, but my Mum does the BEST roast dinners in the whole wide world and last night she even managed to out-do her usual high standards.  It was but a whisker short of perfection. (The whisker being Tio’s, their lovely little cat, who brought us a wee mouse as a pre-dinner snack).

After dinner we played chilled out and played games for a while before K and I headed home as everyone but me had to be up for work in the morning.  Not that it means I get a lie in as I had to be up for my drugs anyway.  Sometimes you just can’t win.

Today has been a generally un-taxing day.  I’ve not felt 100%, but it’s most just tiredness, largely caused by a busy weekend and the usual end-of-IV-run lack of decent sleep.  Having to be up every 8 hours to do drugs doesn’t sound like a bind, but when you figure it means you only ever get around 6 hours of sleep at a given time, it starts to wear you down a fair bit.

I did manage to catch a movie I’ve been trying to peep for a while now, which actually ended up disappointing me greatly, so I’ll not even go into detail here.  Suffice it to say I’ll not be awaiting the next QT flick as eagerly as I did this one.

Tonight, once K got in from work, apart from nebs and physio, plus another 20 minute bike sesh, we’ve basically just been in front of the telly finishing off the third season of Lost, which just totally blew us away – it’s amazing.  If you’ve never seen it, you absolutely have to go out and get all three seasons in their box sets now and check them out – they’re completely compulsive viewing.

Now there’s just time for another dose of drugs and a catch-up on some of last night’s telly while they go through and it’ll be off to bed and start again in the morning.  I’m determined to be productive tomorrow.  Watch this space.

I haven’t been this excited about random developments for ages. I don’t think I’ve actually EVER been this excited about developments relating to fitness-type stuff. But I’ve just climbed off the shiny new exercise bike sat not 3 feet from this screen and I feel fantastic – this biking lark seems like it might just be the key to breaking the back of this fitness-malarky.

It’s such a bizarre feeling to sit on the bike and be doing real, proper exercise but not to feel completely breathless and deflated by the whole thing – to find a type of fitness which is enjoyable and beneficial without being a real battle of will power to push through the pain/breathlessness barrier.

It appears that the slower slope of desaturisation that I was talking about yesterday is much more significant than I’d first thought and that I can actually go a lot longer on the bike than I’d hoped without gasping for air or feeling like I’m going to keel off it. Rather, I can actually get to a stage where I can really feel the muscles in my legs being worked hard and doing some stretching and improving of their own.

It’s indescribable to feel that I’ve found something which can make the “working” parts of my body feel included in the day-to-day running of life – like their being paid at least a cursory bit of attention rather than being glossed over in the fight to keep the lungs ticking over.

I keep having all sorts of qualifiers about the relation of current treatment/steroids etc to the improvement in my chest and exercise tolerance and everything else swirling around my head at the moment, but right now I feel so good, so happy, that I don’t want to sit here and qualify things.

It’s not often these days that I get a chance to just sit and be excited about something going well. And I know that “not-so-good” may be just around the corner – as it is for all of us – so I’m blowed if I’m going to sit here and not let myself enjoy this feeling for tonight.

I’ve found something I can do physically that doesn’t make me 2nd best to a 3-year-old child and much as you may laugh, that’s a really, really big thing for me. Tonight, even if it’s “for one night only”, I’m enjoying it.

Big smiles and hugs to all!

Up to Oxford today for my mid-IV once-over, during which all signs were pointing to “pretty good”.  “Good” is obviously a relative term, but compared to last week, where I was perched on the verge of a bit of a down-turn, things are doing pretty well.

Lung function is up to 0.75/1.5 from 0.7/1.2, which is a goodly leap (18%/30% from 17%/24%) in the space of a week, my sats are holding steady around the 90% mark on 2l O2 per minute and my exercise tolerance is improving.

Yesterday we took delivery of a brand new exercise bike from the lovely Fitness for Hire, a company who loan out exercise equipment so you can see whether or not you’re likely to get into the habit of using it without throwing away a whole heap of dough on something that’s just going to sit and gather dust.  We’ve loaned it for 4 weeks for starters and if it doesn’t get used, it’ll just go back, no hassle.

The theory is, according to the Physios-Who-Know, that working on a bike is easier on the chest/lungs than step-ups with Goliath as the tendency is not to desaturate so quickly.  I don’t know why that is, or exactly how the process works, but what it basically means is that by using the bike I will be able to do more exercise without getting so out of breath.  This, in turn, should mean that I can make my muscles do more work, rather than my lungs stopping me before my muscles really get a work out, and the muscular improvment will serve to improve the flow and use of oxygen around the body, meaning that I require less oxygen to do everyday tasks, which means I get less breathless while doing them.

Theory is all well and good, but we know how my body likes to throw googlies (or curveballs, if you’re more comfortable with the American vernacular), so having the option to bail out on the purchase of a hefty piece of equipment is a good option for right now.

I have to say, having had a wee spin on a bike at Oxford today, it certainly looks promising as a less intense form of exercise.  Obviously, there are different levels of resistance and speed settings and a whole host of other options, but the great thing about it is that the very basic starting point is easily managable, giving a lot more leeway in terms of turning things up or down as my chest may dictate from day-to-day.  The trouble with step-ups is that they are very set-in-stone – it’s a set distance, with a set weight (my body-weight), over a set time.  The bike, on the other hand, has myriad ways of making things easier or harder as my body goes through it’s yo-yo routine.

Once again – and as usual – we’ll wait and see what comes of it.  I don’t want to get too over-excited at something that’s just going to fall by the wayside again, but the promise is there for something with potential.

Sadly no progress on the script today, because the trip to Oxford has pretty much sucked the energy out of me, so it’s probably a night in front of the TV tonight, maybe catching a flick or something.  But it’s been a positive day, so I’m not going to moan about a little bit of tiredness at the end of it.

Today I am tired. Today made no sense. I think it’s because I’m tired. But really, it made no sense.

I woke up this morning at 6.30am – that’s really early. Luckily, it’s not dark, because the clocks have gone back. So I woke up in the light. But it was still really early. I didn’t get much sleep last night. It was past midnight when the light went out and I then spent the next hour or so getting to sleep, where I then spent the next four or five hours dozing and waking every hour or so to readjust my position because either a) Neve was coming off my face, b) my shoulder was hurting because of the port needle or c) I was lying too much over on my chest and giving myself breathing trouble.

I woke up grouchy. I don’t think many people wake up at 6.30am happy, but when you’ve slept badly two nights in a row, coupled with not sleeping long enough two nights in a row, coupled with being on really high doses of the most drowsy-making drugs in the world (with the notable exception, perhaps of sleeping pills, which I suppose really ought to win the most drowsy-making award and if they don’t then they should really have a different name, or get their makers sued under trading standards) then it’s pretty hard to wake up at 6.30 in the morning without being grouchy.

I did my drugs. This involves (at the moment) doing about 10-15 minutes worth of injecting solutions from a syringe down the tube then connecting up a big bubble-thing which works like a drip, but in a different way. (That doesn’t make sense, does it? If it works like a drip, then it must be a drip; if it works a different way then it’s not like a drip, is it? Told you today didn’t make sense.) That takes an hour to go through, then it’s a couple of quick syringe squirts and hey presto, all done.

So the whole shebang took me up to about 8am. Every Monday morning, I have a delivery of portable oxygen cylinders to give me enough to move around for the week when I want to go out. Invariably, the delivery driver arrives at 9am. Looking at the clock, tired and grouchy, I decided I didn’t want to go back to bed for an hour just to get woken up as I settle into a nice sleep to have to get up and answer the door. So I try to occupy myself to keep myself awake until 9.

Dutifully, the lovely Brummy gent turns up and drops of my new cylinders and whisks away my old ones. Following which I retire to bed for a catch-up nap, aware that I have to be up no later than 11.30 to get ready to go to the hospital for a physio appointment and drug-level check.

I clamber into bed and strap on my Neve-mask, only to discover that the condensation in the mask has done something – I don’t know what and boy, do I wish I did – which makes something on the mask make a really loud, annoying clunking sound every. Single. Time. I. Breathe. In.

Annoying? Slightly. Grumpy-making? Exceedingly.

After, oh I don’t know…. 5 minutes of trying, I give up and clamber out of bed, thoroughly bad-mooded for the day. I wash the mask up, in an effort to have cleared whatever the problem is for tonight, and sit myself quietly on the sofa to start reading Ian McEwan’s Atonement, which I’ve finally wrestled from K and am keen to get through before having the whole story spoiled for me by people who’ve seen the movie.

Bizarrely, all the time I’m sitting reading, I’m perfectly awake and alert, despite having had not enough sleep and being beside-myself with tiredness when I’d gone back to bed. As soon as I got up from my perch, however – to make tea, to fetch things, to do anything at all, really – I was exhausted. My chest was heaving, my legs felt like lead and my eyes couldn’t have been heavier if they’d entered a Weight Watchers programme and won the prize for world’s worst dieter by gaining their own body-weight three times over.

I was not a happy bunny.

By the time K got up I was happily reading away, but ready for some morning physio, which is never fun at the best of times but when you’re tired it becomes a peculiar kind of torture – long, drawn out, unpleasant, occasionally painful, sometimes exhausting, often breathless and very, very hot (this morning, anyway). Needless to say I ended in a mildly worse mood than I start – impressive, huh?

I did manage to lever myself into a bath and chill out for a fraction of an hour before throwing some clothes on and getting ready to head off to Oxford, only to be phoned and told that the physio I was supposed to be seeing had broken her tooth and wouldn’t be able to see me today, so could I come Wednesday instead? Of course, I said. Why not?

But here’s the weird thing: having not gone to Oxford, which I took to be a blessing on account of my overwhelming tiredness anyhow, my body then decided that actually, it was feeling pretty happy and perky. After 5 hours semi-sleep, a 6.30am start, a morning of trial after mood-blackening trial, I found myself suddenly feeling an urge to sit at my keyboard and write – to carry on with my screenplay with which I have been having so many recent tussles. (For “tussles”, read: “hit a structural bump which sapped all creativity and forward-momentum and left a big black mark against my 5-page-per-day copy book for the last month or so”)

So all afternoon I’ve been beavering away on my screenplay without so much as a care in the world, pausing only for the occasional break for food, water or the odd episode of Lost (just keeps getting better).

I have no idea what my brain is doing with itself, nor what my body is up to at the moment. My chest feels like it’s improving, but my sleep certainly isn’t. My mind is lost in a mire of lethargy which saps any mental strength and positivity right out of it, whilst still apparently providing me with enough drip-fed muse to be able to carry on doing the kind of creative writing which is usually the first thing to desert me when I’m feeling rubbish.

Literally nothing about this day is making any sense to me right now. But I guess that’s just because I’m tired. Can you tell?

The good news is, I don’t have a cold. The news-that-isn’t-really-good-but-considering-
how-bad-“bad”-could-have-been-really-can’t-be-counted-as-being-bad (phew!) is that my body is keen to make me perfectly well aware of the fact that’s it’s been working very hard thank you very much and has decided to tell my legs, head, arms, neck and just about everything that’s not a vital organ to stop working for the time being. Essentially, my body is currently the French rail system.

Still, compared to dealing with a cold, I can definitely put up with feeling a bit tired and finding tea-making a chore. If I had to spend the next week in bed doing nothing and seeing no one, I would happily accept it for not having a cold. As it is, I am hoping to be able to make it over to my ‘rents tomorrow night for the Rugby, although there is the slight hitch that I may expend so much energy on screaming at the telly (judging by the semi-final), I may not be able to drive myself home.

(I’m acutely aware that the end of the last paragraph will have been hopelessly lost on my American cousins who look in here, so for translation’s sake: there’s a World Cup (think “world series” which actually involves other countries) going on in the sport of Rugby (“Football” without the nancy-boy pads and tea-breaks every 30-seconds) and England (that’s us) have made it to the (Grand) Final, which is somewhere akin to the Texans making the Superbowl (ie, so outlandish at the start of the competition that if you’d suggested they might do it, people would have either laughed in your face or had you committed).)

I’ve made a deal with my body – limbs and all – that I won’t do anything at all during the day tomorrow besides rest and refuel so that I can enjoy the game in the evening, and that I will do the same on Sunday so I can enjoy a meal in the evening with my bro, who’s deigned to reappear from the far side of the world where he was “working”. I use the term “working” very loosely, as he mostly seemed to spend his time sitting up a mountain finding it hard to breath. Heck, I do that in my own living room – I don’t try to call it work.

The only possible barrier to the deal on Sunday is that the Saints are live on TV, but judging from our performances so far this season they aren’t likely to be causing me a great deal of excitement or giving me much cause to scream at the telly. More likely I’ll be slumped in resigned resignation (it’s doubly bad, you see) as they let another 2-goal lead slip away and wave good-bye to another 3 points at the hands of some woeful defending while George Burley makes excuses about us “playing well”.

Still compared to spending the weekend lying in bed with snot dribbling out my nose, my throat closing up in protest, my chest kicking off in a major way and the beginnings of the mother of all chest infections, I think I can handle any sporting disasters coming my way.

It’s all about perspective, see.