The Consultant And The “C” Word…

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Now. As regular readers know, I had an appointment at the Ear, Nose & Throat Department at our local hospital to see a consultant and determine whether there is any underlying reason for my persistent hoarse voice and sore throat.

I was already feeling a little… twitched… shall we say about it as when I checked the envelope for the letter with the appointment time I found a leaflet that I had previously missed, explaining how the NHS aims to see all suspected cancer patients within two weeks. I know this is standard procedure – and a good thing too – but still… it played on my mind.

Luckily, Alex was arriving back in town on the same day so he could accompany me. We met up and went to the reception to check in. Then we waited. And waited. And waited some more… Anxious enough already – I had a nasty suspicion that the examination would involve an endoscope up my nose – I could feel a panic attack approaching – a distant thundering, like a herd of bison on their way, as my fingertips began to tingle, my heart began to race and the flight reaction kicked in.

Right! That’s it! I can’t possibly wait any longer!” I declared, and shot to my feet, racing off down the corridor.

Alex caught up with me by the receptionist’s desk and managed to calm me down a little while the lovely receptionist went to find out what was taking so long. It just so happened I was next in line to be called… so with Alex talking to me soothingly and the receptionist guiding they shepherded me to a different waiting area.

I went back to breathing exercises while I waited a further fifteen minutes, the chant in my head going: “You have to find out… you have to find out…” Then finally it was my turn. Unclenching my hands from the seat, swallowing my nausea and wiping the sweat from my brow, closely followed by Alex, I entered the consultation room.

I was met by a duty consultant – not the one I’d been expecting, which threw me a little – a cadavernously thin, sunken eyed and very tall man, with large meaty hands. He looked at me. I looked back. He introduced himself as Dr. G ~ Somethingunprounceable – in an extremely heavy accent which in my already heightened state of panic I could barely understand.

He was a very rude man. He would not let me explain my symptoms before cutting me off – “Yes, yes, I see you are nervous person – I examine you now.”

Then without so much as a by-your-leave he lurched forwards and seized me by the throat. Eyes bulging, I managed to restrain myself from punching him on the nose. He released me and I fell back breathless in the chair, clutching at my neck.

Yes, yes, nervous person – nothing there. Now we look up your nose.”

Oh Christ,” I thought – then: “Not bloody likely – I’m off!”

Aloud I said: “No thank you very much not today, I’ll be leaving RIGHT NOW let me out let me out.” I leaped to my feet and tried to exit the room. A nurse stood firmly in my way. I (very bravely) burst into tears…

What matter with you? Is perfectly normal exam – I have it done myself!” The consultant said.

I just do not want a camera up my nose – surely there’s some other way!” I squeaked desperately.

No, no, I numb nose we do it now. Only danger is breaking off inside you if you struggle.”

With that he leant forwards and snapped his rather large teeth in my face. A small part of my mind was saying: “No, pull ourself together, this is your chance to find out that your vocal chords are normal and there’s nothing sinister going on.”

All the time in the background I was aware of Alex talking soothingly to me, but what brought me to my senses was the other nurse who said:

Here. You can hold my hand.”

Alex said: “You can do this.”

And so it happened… I’ll spare you the gory details… a set of incomprehensible instructions delivered to me by the satanic consultant, all the while I focussed on Alex’s voice, clutching the nurse’s hand and trying not to break it while my other hand jerked upwards wanting to smack the consultant where it would hurt him the most and me the least.

Finally it was over and the camera was withdrawn from my poor violated nostril.

Oh I forgot, we need still picture, I just put it back in.”

Oh no. No. No. That’s enough,” I said, wiping tears, snot and local anaesthetic from my face.

I looked at the consultant. He concluded that my loss of voice was all in my head and due to my nervous disposition and gave me an appointment for Speech Therapy (really?!) although to be fair I did find my voice as I left the room. I thanked the nurses most sincerely for their kindness and called him a c*&t. Oops.

But really, his whole “bedside” manner left a lot to be desired, he was patronising, condescending and thoroughly unpleasant. On the other hand, I firmly believe that nurses are God’s representatives on Earth – bless them each and every one.

By the way, there are no abnormalities with my throat, nothing suspicious at all, thank you to everyone for your love and concern. Just as well, really, as I don’t think I would be welcomed back in the ENT department in a hurry!

(Just a note, friends – I was unlucky, the procedure itself is usually pretty straightforward, so if needed, do NOT put off having the same procedure yourself.)

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The Seagull

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Thank you Alex for the use of your beautiful photo x

I saw a dead seagull today and it upset me more than it should have done, or perhaps more than I thought it would.

A big herring gull, crisp white feathers and smooth grey wings. Strong, curved yellow beak, but greyish filmy lids closed over fierce proud eyes.

Still and silent in the middle of the road, carelessly crumpled and neck bent awkwardly back on itself and legs outstretched.

You should be flying free and wild, soaring over the sea, screeching your savage call to carry on the wind. Not here.

You should look down upon seas churned with foam, waves crashing towards the land. Not here.

Not dusty tarmac. You should blink fiercely out of existence into magnificent nothingness.

A dirty city street is no place to die.

Eclogite And Echoes

38519078_277884036277589_5483915063595106304_nAn unusual crystal this, with a strong and fluid energy to it – not surprising when you consider where it came from. It’s actually a piece of oceanic crust that was forced up from Mother Earth under tremendous pressure.

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The pink bits are actually Garnet

Eclogite brings new vigour and energy to the inner “you”, perhaps reflecting the bubbling cauldron of perpetual life it emerged from. At its junction of creation, between land and water, it unites the life force within its wearer or owner, mind, body and spirit, opening and energising the chakras so you can reach your full potential.

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Essentially, too, especially in these difficult times, Eclogite brings hope, dissolving negativity and encouraging recovery.

Speaking of recovery – or rather, not speaking, “croaking” – I have an ENT appointment on Monday to investigate my lack of voice… I hope they don’t intend to stick a camera down my throat … they’ll have to catch me first!

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The consultant can just look at me from a distance and intuit what is wrong. I’m n ot keen on being prodded about. However, my husky croak has made for some interesting conversations with the girls.

Ting and Tooty both share quite a harsh “WAH” of a meow, delivered in varying tones, and I’ve found I have been able to echo their meows quite accurately. No idea what I’m saying half the time (nothing new there) but the cats looked at me curiously and replied too.

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“WAHHHH!!!”

The story of Echo in itself is quite a sad little tale – a beautiful nymph who provoked the wrath of a god’s jealous wife is doomed forever to repeat the last few words of what she hears… Birds are obviously very adept at echoing all sorts of sounds. I remember being fascinated by a mynah bird in the pet shop near us when I was a little girl. Every time it saw me it used to sing Happy Birthday for some reason.

A close relation of the mynah is the jackdaw and a particularly annoying one seems to have taken up residence in the tree at the bottom of the garden. It makes fun of me… every time I call the cats at the moment it echoes my harsh, croaking voice… I swear it’s laughing at me…

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“What? I never said anything!”

Plan Bee…

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I have known Alex’s father, my partner, for twenty years now. In addition to the usual ups and downs you experience within most relationships, he’s also changed a lot of his thinking. Not just to please me, but the sort of thing he sees the sense in. For example, he found me crying after I had accidentally stepped on an earwig:

WHAT’S THE MATTER? IT WAS JUST A BUG!”

No! Earwigs are really good mothers and they will fight to the death to protect their babies!”

I get very worried about bees too. I treat them with a healthy dose of cautious respect since both my mother and my sister are allergic to bees and will have an anaphylactic reaction if stung. I’ve never been stung, so I have no idea if I’m allergic or not and I don’t intend to find out either…

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Generally, then, if a bee (or a spider) needs rescuing, it is down to my partner to get the job done. I was out the other day when we had a short burst of rain. I returned home to find my partner putting my hairdryer away and at the puzzled look on my face – he has very short hair – he explained.

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He had been out in the garden feeding the fish, and as he was going back indoors out of the rain, he found two bees who had been surprised by the sudden downpour. He picked them gently up and rushed back indoors with his soggy casualties.

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Their bee-fluff was soaked, so he tenderly laid them on a piece of kitchen towel, inside a plastic bag, and with my hairdryer on its lowest setting, proceeded to revive them within his makeshift apian oxygen tent.

He was very soon rewarded with signs of life as their legs and wings began to stir, and aas the rain had stopped, took them back outside. He sat them down on some flowers and watched in satisfaction as they flew away.

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” Did you see that Barry?” “Yes Paul – Bee-hold the Light!” (R.I.P. Barry Chuckle, your gentle comedy will be sadly missed)

 

Tomatoes And Toes…

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I was having a conversation with my mother the other day about tomatoes – not unnaturally, I didn’t particularly want a hot dinner during this most unseasonable weather and opted for salad. My mother is not the most enthusiastic of gardeners, but she does quite enjoy growing her own tomatoes.

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She hasn’t had a lot of success in recent years, but Monty Don (that veritable garden god) said that most of the plants were affected by blight or mildew, hence the lack of success. Thus we have eaten shop bought tomatoes and Mother has complained bitterly about the tough leathery skins and watery texture.

Earlier on in the year, my partner casually sliced up a cherry tomato and flung the slices in a pot – he did the same with a kiwi fruit actually, just on the off chance – and lo and behold, we have some healthy tomato plants with tomatoes on too!

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There is such an amazing variety of colour in tomatoes… orange, red, yellow, but I was momentarily amused to see these purple tomatoes the other morning. Why? They reminded me of my toe… on Friday night, my partner and I went out for dinner at our usual curry restaurant. I ran nimbly up the stairs (so I thought) – and caught my toe on the edge of a step.

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Laughing blithely inside at my clumsiness (and hoping no-one else had seen) I carried on. It was only half an hour later I thought: “No, actually that REALLY bl#$dy hurt!!!!”

My shoe seemed uncomfortably tight and the whole of my toe was throbbing. I gently eased my foot to the edge of my shoe and saw a smallish purple bruise. Reassured, I shoved my foot back in, but when we got home I was dismayed to see that the whole toe was now an interesting shade of purple. And swollen. Like one of those tomatoes.

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It’s almost probably fractured, but not enough to warrant a cast… and to be honest, it’s been quite interesting watching the bruise develop… a whole rainbow in my shoe!

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Who Ate All The Pi’s…

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No, not really. And obviously don’t eat stones either… not good for you… although I have a distant childhood memory of eating both sand, soil and catfood – purely in the spirit of exploration. Not as a regular food choice.

The pi’s that I mean are these wonderful shaped round stones, with a hole either in the middle or towards the top of the crystal, so it can be threaded on a cord or chain and worn, an item of both fashionable and practical jewellery.

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Pondering the Meaning Of Life… 

Due to their circular shape, they are also sometimes known as “doughnuts” (mmm…doughnuts…) but they are also symbolic of the circle of Life, the path the sun follows in the sky and basically the entire concept of wholeness.

These pi stones encourage awareness of the eternal pattern – we’re born, we live, we die … and so on, because the energy that we are never really dies, it just re-emerges in a different form or way. Pi’s are wonderful tools for use in healing and energy work, and in addition to the symbolic shape, there are the crystal benefits too.

The main photo is Lepidolite, the most recent member of the family, courtesy of Alex from when he went to Bristol. Lepidolite is a good stone to wear next to your skin as it actually contains lithium, as used in antidepressants, so it helps with anxiety, panic attacks and depression. It’s pretty and sparkly too…

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BEE HAPPY!

Then, of course, the basic starter kit as I like to call it, of Rose Quartz, Amethyst and Clear Quartz. Rose Quartz is a kind and caring crystal, stone of infinite love and compassion. Amethyst, again another lovely crystal – sorry, I know, they’re all lovely… and even if I meet a crystal I can’t get along with, I can still find something to admire – traditionally used to guard against drunkeness. But I use it more as an anchor as it is highly effective at both warding off negative thoughts directed at you, and also any self-directed negativity that you may feel bubbling up within you is gently soothed away.

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Rose Quartz and gladioli…

A comfort then, rather like the reassuring steak and kidney pie dinner on a wintry night. Pies have a long and honourable history, believed to be a Greek creation dating from the 5th century. Essentially, they started life as handy containers for savoury fillings, but now, obviously, there is a wide variety… the whole thing, top and bottom, encased in pastry, just a bottom, just a top, an individual rolled up thing – although we are straying into Cornish pasty territory there…

I must confess… I don’t really like pies. They seem to promise much and deliver little, and if my mother serves pie for dinner I invariably infuriate her by taking the lid off, generally giving it to a conveniently placed dog and dissecting the contents… rather appropriately I feel, since in mediaeval times pies were also known as “coffyns”.

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Shepherd pie!!

I think though, what finally did it for me with pies was when I had actually managed to find a decent brand, with a reasonable filling of chicken and asparagus, where the pastry wasn’t too stodgy either.

I left it on the baking tray for a minute while I went to fetch something and when I came back, Ting was curled up asleep on top of it…

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Summer Son

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He was born to her in the middle of the year, when she was bright and warm, full of love and hope. He slipped easily into the world from her body and at once she felt his absence within her.

However, she nurtured him carefully in the outside world and poured all her love and hope and soul into her son, with his eyes as blue as summer skies, hair as gold as ripe wheat and smiles as warming as the Sun himself.

Mother and son formed the perfect unit of two, never needing anyone else, their spiritual footsteps so closely linked they were like one person. Her son grew and thrived.

When does it begin, the slow inexorable divorce of child from mother; the loving, inevitable withdrawal, as he chose his own paths, his own way, and the life that was once so closely bound to his mother’s diverged.

He kept a part of himself for her; but her boy, her bright boy, into whom she had poured her life and soul, left her.

Autumn crept into her bones and winter settled in her heart; yet still she hoped he would return to her sometimes, and bring a little brightness with him, restoring a little of her own youth.

She was grateful, then for the windows of social media that allowed her to look through at her son’s life and glimpse a little.

Eventually, the soul cold winter triumphed and she gave in on a day not unlike the one on which she welcomed her son into the world. It was only later, when he was checking his messages, that he found out she had died.