On writing...

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Fanfare! Charity draw and book release

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The Misery of it

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Marc Joan

Basic
Aug 26, 2014
The following extract is from a piece by Kent Haruf, ‘The Making of a Writer’, in Granta issue 129:

“[My first] book came out in the fall of 1984. Except for one very tiny short story, that was the first thing I ever had published. By that time i was forty-one years old and had been writing as hard as I could for almost twenty years. If I had learned anything during those years of work and persistence, it was that you had to believe in yourself even when no one else did...You have to believe in yourself despite the evidence. I felt as though I had a little flame of talent, not a big talent, but a little pilot-light-sized flame of talent, and I had to tend to it regularly, religiously, with care and discipline, like a kind of monk or acolyte, and not to ever let the little flame go out.”

Just thought I'd share it, pour encourager nous, les autres...
 
This is a lovely share. And yes I feel like that this is apt at this specific stage of my life. Struggling hard on many fronts with so many factors against me there is no way I can get through anything unless I believe I can. It's a challenge itself at times.
 
This is a lovely share. And yes I feel like that this is apt at this specific stage of my life. Struggling hard on many fronts with so many factors against me there is no way I can get through anything unless I believe I can. It's a challenge itself at times.
I know how you feel! Each day is a new day to attempt a step forward toward the goal :) And to forget the misstep on any previous day :)
 
It reminds me of something I wrote a while back when I first started my million word project on my wordpress. It's very amateur and I am still not comfortable sharing my work because I don't have the confidence but here it is in light of this theme....it's not about me btw! It just something that came to mind.

It must be great not being me…..


You are very lucky. Unless you are like me. Raw and disliked. I stopped liking myself when they told me who I was.

Since then, I started hearing their voices echoing in my mind repeating their dislike of my existence. I live with it, somehow. But today I decided to change that. It was all going to stop. I wasn’t worth the trouble I was giving myself. I stood at a cross junction. It was rush hour. Lot’s of cars but not much speed. I crossed myself to the other side.

Shoved about the crowd like a pinball I zigzagged to the bridge over the train tracks. Trains were not fast below here either as they approached the station. It wouldn’t be clean. No guarantees. Too much of an inconvenience too.
Onward and by now I was walking against the commuting crowds. Not seen. Why should they, not even I can see myself anymore.

I entered a park. It was small and deserted. I walked myself to the furthest bench under a large tree hiding my lonely existence beneath its weeping branches. A small bird flew down not a few yards in front of me. Its hopeful gaze for a crumb on its delicate face. I had something. A sandwich I had made this morning in case I lasted until lunch.

It hopped in anticipation for a reward just for existing. Just for trying its luck with a stranger. I scattered some crumbs for its efforts and for any of its friends that should be lucky to be acquainted with it.

My existence was useful to this hopeful robin. That made something sparkle inside of me. A small seed of light nestled inside of me. A foreign welcoming feeling. Soon overtaken by a heaviness in the throat followed by a tear down my cheek.
Sorrowful tears dared to show themselves sliding down my face putting out my sparkle. I barely held onto it and it was gone again.

It flew away leaving me dry and alone again.

Another presence was felt in the park. A kindly grandfather figure walked in, aided by a walking stick. Time for me to leave.

I smiled at him and his sparkly eyes returned it back. I caught the sparkle this time and felt it grow lovingly inside of me again. It lasted a little longer. I heard my dull footsteps for the first time this morning. The sparkle had been trodden upon.

I had to find more sparkly moments. It wasn’t long before I found them in the laughter of a baby pushed along in a pram as I pulled a contorted face only babes would understand or the kind appreciation of a held door for someone.

I kept walking feeding this energy that began to grow exponentially and stuck with me like a swan’s mate. Forever, I hoped. It was worth keeping my existence going just for that. For others. Maybe one day for myself too.
 
I love that @Emurelda It's really deep and you do the subject a real justice with how you worded it. Self loathing and despair are really tricky to depict without creating something really heavy. But this is light and while showing the deep emotion also shows that there is hope. I'd actually like to read more of that if you have any :)

I did a short piece on a similar vein for a friend of mine who actually wants me some day to write her story for her, not necessarily for anything other than getting it out of her head and gaining closure.
 
I love that @Emurelda It's really deep and you do the subject a real justice with how you worded it. Self loathing and despair are really tricky to depict without creating something really heavy. But this is light and while showing the deep emotion also shows that there is hope. I'd actually like to read more of that if you have any :)

I did a short piece on a similar vein for a friend of mine who actually wants me some day to write her story for her, not necessarily for anything other than getting it out of her head and gaining closure.

Thanks for encouragement but that's it. It was a 500 word piece and I was itching to prove to myself that I can start and finish a piece of writing. That was the result.

Powerful to write for your friend..that's quite an outlet that she wants you to do it. Interesting. It must be cathartic to do it for oneself and to talk it out with someone must be equally the same. Very powerful once it's tangible.
 
Yeah, Zoe is going through a lot of the same crap as Gordon, particularly with people not wanting to accept that she is ill at all. She has PTSD so they keep telling her it's that, but it isn't. I did a view of one of her visits to the doctor for one of my OU assessments. It was just over 1600 words I think. Zoe loved it. But I did kinda go to town on how I described her life so it was like all those things she was thinking and would never voice, I voiced. :) If I can find it I'll show you.
 
It reminds me of something I wrote a while back when I first started my million word project on my wordpress. It's very amateur and I am still not comfortable sharing my work because I don't have the confidence but here it is in light of this theme....it's not about me btw! It just something that came to mind.

It must be great not being me…..


You are very lucky. Unless you are like me. Raw and disliked. I stopped liking myself when they told me who I was.

Since then, I started hearing their voices echoing in my mind repeating their dislike of my existence. I live with it, somehow. But today I decided to change that. It was all going to stop. I wasn’t worth the trouble I was giving myself. I stood at a cross junction. It was rush hour. Lot’s of cars but not much speed. I crossed myself to the other side.

Shoved about the crowd like a pinball I zigzagged to the bridge over the train tracks. Trains were not fast below here either as they approached the station. It wouldn’t be clean. No guarantees. Too much of an inconvenience too.
Onward and by now I was walking against the commuting crowds. Not seen. Why should they, not even I can see myself anymore.

I entered a park. It was small and deserted. I walked myself to the furthest bench under a large tree hiding my lonely existence beneath its weeping branches. A small bird flew down not a few yards in front of me. Its hopeful gaze for a crumb on its delicate face. I had something. A sandwich I had made this morning in case I lasted until lunch.

It hopped in anticipation for a reward just for existing. Just for trying its luck with a stranger. I scattered some crumbs for its efforts and for any of its friends that should be lucky to be acquainted with it.

My existence was useful to this hopeful robin. That made something sparkle inside of me. A small seed of light nestled inside of me. A foreign welcoming feeling. Soon overtaken by a heaviness in the throat followed by a tear down my cheek.
Sorrowful tears dared to show themselves sliding down my face putting out my sparkle. I barely held onto it and it was gone again.

It flew away leaving me dry and alone again.

Another presence was felt in the park. A kindly grandfather figure walked in, aided by a walking stick. Time for me to leave.

I smiled at him and his sparkly eyes returned it back. I caught the sparkle this time and felt it grow lovingly inside of me again. It lasted a little longer. I heard my dull footsteps for the first time this morning. The sparkle had been trodden upon.

I had to find more sparkly moments. It wasn’t long before I found them in the laughter of a baby pushed along in a pram as I pulled a contorted face only babes would understand or the kind appreciation of a held door for someone.

I kept walking feeding this energy that began to grow exponentially and stuck with me like a swan’s mate. Forever, I hoped. It was worth keeping my existence going just for that. For others. Maybe one day for myself too.
Wow, that was wonderful! That was a great short! :)
 
Oh! Found it! This is amateur, yours @Emurelda is wonderful. I think you should create a collection of shorts like that :) Not necessarily all on the same subject :) It's hard to write short. I'm pants at it. I always want to go 1000000 times bigger so anything of mines that is short is a snippet of a much bigger thing. I'm just incapable of doing small I guess :p Anyway I said I'd show you if I found it so here it is. My lecturer hated it. Really hated it. But Zoe loved it so I didn't really care what the lecturer thought, it was for Zoe anyway.


Lost Beneath a Label


I'm sitting in the small tired old waiting room; perched on a threadbare, dusty old chair — the padding long since dissolved under the weight of hundreds of backsides over its lifespan. It’s one of six equally tired perches, arranged at a sharp right angle facing the old-fashioned fish tank in the corner.

To my right sits the flu. She is hacking away into her saturated tissue, sweat beading on her forehead as she flicks through an old copy of ‘Closer’ from the small table — also in the corner. The snotty nose by her side makes me gag every time he snorts the snot back into his throat so he can swallow it.

To my left sits a tummy bug. He’s fanning himself furiously with a fistful of NHS leaflets on contraception and I.B.S. from the rack on the wall. He has a sickly green tinge to his skin, and every time he rifts I expect the sick to follow. Thankfully, it doesn't.

The snotty nose has left his wilting mother's side and is now hammering on the glass of the fish tank in the corner with his chubby, snot-covered finger. Snorting and gulping every few minutes. The poor fish seem quite use to this abuse and continue to swim about oblivious.

My head hurts from the screaming child in the play area in the adjacent waiting room. The sound is burrowing into my head, making my ears ring. I turn my attention back to my feet. I hate it here.

Suddenly the rattle of the receptionist’s window heralds her call.

‘Zoe - Dr Arbroath’

My blood runs cold. Panic stricken like a rabbit caught in headlights. And of course now I’m wondering if I really need to see her. Maybe I can chicken out and make a run for it? Go home and hide under my duvet perhaps? Really though, I know that I can't. I know that I need to be seen, and attempt once again — however hopelessly — to get some answers. I already know what I will be told. Apparently my agony is all in my head. Apparently I am just an obese, hypochondriac, panic-attack driven, depressive nuisance. Forever lost under several labels I don’t deserve.

My hands shake as I lift myself from the seat. And with a racing heart and despair already building I make my way to the door at the end of the corridor. It seems to squeeze tighter around me as I approach her door. The last in a line of bland, identical doors standing to attention side by side. My hand is hesitant, but I will it into action and knock on the wooden frame before entering.

There she sits behind her desk. Stern look on her face — sharp, like cut glass. I can see instantly that she has her imaginary script sitting ready on her desk, and her invisible earmuffs clamped tightly over her ears to drown out any pleas for help I might have. She gestures dismissively at me with her thin hand. Her boney fingers indicating I should take a seat. My heart plummets in my chest.

I perch on the flimsy cheap plastic of the patient’s chair. It flexes dangerously under my ‘colossal’ 13st 12lbs, remember I am apparently ‘dangerously overweight.’ It was probably rejected by some school because it wasn’t sturdy enough for the students. How on earth is it supposed to hold up my heavy backside? I am lucky I have not hit the deck!

Before I even start to speak, her attention is elsewhere. I go through the usual motions. Explaining my menagerie of problems, hoping she will help me this time.

I tell her that my migraines have gotten drastically worse, ‘They are lasting for days at a time now. It’s like a crushing vice that pulsates in my scull.’ It reverberates around my head at first, before slowly spreading from there to my face, eye sockets, neck and jaw, ‘It makes me feel so sick.’

She is repetitively clicking the top of her pen. It’s always nice to know that the person you are confiding in care’s isn’t it? Well the first sign that Dr Arbroath has stopped listening is the click of her pen. The more fed up she gets the faster the click. It’s really off-putting.

I continue trying not to show that her indifference is making me uncomfortable. I insist that my pain is constant, ‘The level of pain varies but it’s always there.’ This gains the slightest of eye rolls. It’s like a knife in the heart but I continue regardless. ‘The pain I get when it’s bad is unreal. I can’t go to the loo because I can’t use a single muscle in my body. It’s hard to describe. It’s like I’m paralysed from the neck down because of the pain. I can’t move a single inch.’

I can feel her brown eyes boring deep into my soul, leaching out all my self-confidence. ‘Hmmm,’ is her only answer so far, so I keep going.

‘My back has continued to seize up. It’s so painful. I… I find it hard to move.’ The ever present click of her pen has increased in speed, making me stumble over my words.

‘I’m still getting the really bad stomach cramps. But now I also get terrible heartburn and nausea at the same time.’

She is keen to interject here and tell me once again that I have I.B.S. I am not so sure.

‘We have gone over this before Zoe. I.B.S is the most likely cause.’

There it is, I knew it.

I decide to continue without acknowledging her comment. I will only get myself upset, and I know that she won’t even consider an alternative to her conclusion. ‘I get pain in my chest. It’s sometimes so bad that I feel like I have to stop what I’m doing. All I want to do is lie down. I don’t know why. But even when I’m driving, all I want to do is get out the car and lie on the road. It must sound stupid to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. A lot of the time the pain spreads up into my face, and to either side or both sides of my jaw.’

The clicking stops long enough for her to ask, ‘anything else Zoe?’ When she realises that the answer is yes, the clicking resumes.

I ask about my dizziness and constant low blood pressure. I ask about the palpitations that I get a lot, ‘They are enough to make me cough uncontrollably. I feel them thumping right up into my neck and jaw,’ she insists that it’s panic attacks. And the fatigue. That’s a big one. But it’s hard to determine fatigue, from being unable to sleep with stress and pain.

My gaze shifts nervously from her sharp face to the desk covered in piles of papers as I finish reciting my plethora of symptoms. Each time I visit her I feel like my life is being stripped from me. This time I can see will be no different.

And so, she sets about telling me that I can’t possibly be in that amount of pain and remain functional. The fact that I am sitting in front of her proves I am functional so the pain must be Psychosomatic. She pauses to smooth her slick golden hair, before continuing. She insists that the pains I feel in my chest, and palpitations I describe are panic attacks linked to the PTSD I had previously been diagnosed with, I know what panic attacks are like. It’s not the same. My desire to lie down must be depression and not anything to do with dizziness or pain, consequently she also blames stress, worry and fatigue on depression. Is it any wonder I am depressed and feeling low, when she is basically telling me my pain is all in my head? I’m becoming quite a hypochondriac apparently. She thinks I need some psychiatric help and dismisses me from her office with a referral to the Community Psychiatric Nurse.

I want to cry, and bawl, and howl, and scream at the scrawny, tweed-clad, sour-faced, witch. Then I realise that for the first time in a long time I’m feeling something other than despair.

***​

She’s late, the CPN that is. She was supposed to be here at ten and it’s now eleven fifteen. I busy myself by getting my son some cars to play with. As he organises them on the floor a car pulls up outside. Better late than never.

A small flustered looking woman strides her way up the path and to my door. ‘I’m the community psychiatric nurse. I take it you are Zoe? May I come in?’

I’m taken aback by her direct manner but decide to move and allow her in. ‘Busy day?’ I ask.

‘No. Why?’ She asks defensively.

Em. Because you are now over an hour and a half late. That’s why. ‘No reason,’ I tell her, ‘just wondered.’

‘Hmmph.’ I can’t believe she actually harrumphed at me. I can see where this is going before we even start.

We spend roughly ten minutes talking about my symptoms. Or rather we spend that long with her talking at me about my symptoms. All the while she is tutting and huffing because my son is playing with his cars, and not just sitting in silence. She then informs me that she won’t be offering me any more meetings. Instead she is referring me to a psychiatrist. She promptly shows herself out and I’m left with my son, his cars and a very uncertain future.
 
Oh! Found it! This is amateur, yours @Emurelda is wonderful. I think you should create a collection of shorts like that :) Not necessarily all on the same subject :) It's hard to write short. I'm pants at it. I always want to go 1000000 times bigger so anything of mines that is short is a snippet of a much bigger thing. I'm just incapable of doing small I guess :p Anyway I said I'd show you if I found it so here it is. My lecturer hated it. Really hated it. But Zoe loved it so I didn't really care what the lecturer thought, it was for Zoe anyway.


Lost Beneath a Label


I'm sitting in the small tired old waiting room; perched on a threadbare, dusty old chair — the padding long since dissolved under the weight of hundreds of backsides over its lifespan. It’s one of six equally tired perches, arranged at a sharp right angle facing the old-fashioned fish tank in the corner.

To my right sits the flu. She is hacking away into her saturated tissue, sweat beading on her forehead as she flicks through an old copy of ‘Closer’ from the small table — also in the corner. The snotty nose by her side makes me gag every time he snorts the snot back into his throat so he can swallow it.

To my left sits a tummy bug. He’s fanning himself furiously with a fistful of NHS leaflets on contraception and I.B.S. from the rack on the wall. He has a sickly green tinge to his skin, and every time he rifts I expect the sick to follow. Thankfully, it doesn't.

The snotty nose has left his wilting mother's side and is now hammering on the glass of the fish tank in the corner with his chubby, snot-covered finger. Snorting and gulping every few minutes. The poor fish seem quite use to this abuse and continue to swim about oblivious.

My head hurts from the screaming child in the play area in the adjacent waiting room. The sound is burrowing into my head, making my ears ring. I turn my attention back to my feet. I hate it here.

Suddenly the rattle of the receptionist’s window heralds her call.

‘Zoe - Dr Arbroath’

My blood runs cold. Panic stricken like a rabbit caught in headlights. And of course now I’m wondering if I really need to see her. Maybe I can chicken out and make a run for it? Go home and hide under my duvet perhaps? Really though, I know that I can't. I know that I need to be seen, and attempt once again — however hopelessly — to get some answers. I already know what I will be told. Apparently my agony is all in my head. Apparently I am just an obese, hypochondriac, panic-attack driven, depressive nuisance. Forever lost under several labels I don’t deserve.

My hands shake as I lift myself from the seat. And with a racing heart and despair already building I make my way to the door at the end of the corridor. It seems to squeeze tighter around me as I approach her door. The last in a line of bland, identical doors standing to attention side by side. My hand is hesitant, but I will it into action and knock on the wooden frame before entering.

There she sits behind her desk. Stern look on her face — sharp, like cut glass. I can see instantly that she has her imaginary script sitting ready on her desk, and her invisible earmuffs clamped tightly over her ears to drown out any pleas for help I might have. She gestures dismissively at me with her thin hand. Her boney fingers indicating I should take a seat. My heart plummets in my chest.

I perch on the flimsy cheap plastic of the patient’s chair. It flexes dangerously under my ‘colossal’ 13st 12lbs, remember I am apparently ‘dangerously overweight.’ It was probably rejected by some school because it wasn’t sturdy enough for the students. How on earth is it supposed to hold up my heavy backside? I am lucky I have not hit the deck!

Before I even start to speak, her attention is elsewhere. I go through the usual motions. Explaining my menagerie of problems, hoping she will help me this time.

I tell her that my migraines have gotten drastically worse, ‘They are lasting for days at a time now. It’s like a crushing vice that pulsates in my scull.’ It reverberates around my head at first, before slowly spreading from there to my face, eye sockets, neck and jaw, ‘It makes me feel so sick.’

She is repetitively clicking the top of her pen. It’s always nice to know that the person you are confiding in care’s isn’t it? Well the first sign that Dr Arbroath has stopped listening is the click of her pen. The more fed up she gets the faster the click. It’s really off-putting.

I continue trying not to show that her indifference is making me uncomfortable. I insist that my pain is constant, ‘The level of pain varies but it’s always there.’ This gains the slightest of eye rolls. It’s like a knife in the heart but I continue regardless. ‘The pain I get when it’s bad is unreal. I can’t go to the loo because I can’t use a single muscle in my body. It’s hard to describe. It’s like I’m paralysed from the neck down because of the pain. I can’t move a single inch.’

I can feel her brown eyes boring deep into my soul, leaching out all my self-confidence. ‘Hmmm,’ is her only answer so far, so I keep going.

‘My back has continued to seize up. It’s so painful. I… I find it hard to move.’ The ever present click of her pen has increased in speed, making me stumble over my words.

‘I’m still getting the really bad stomach cramps. But now I also get terrible heartburn and nausea at the same time.’

She is keen to interject here and tell me once again that I have I.B.S. I am not so sure.

‘We have gone over this before Zoe. I.B.S is the most likely cause.’

There it is, I knew it.

I decide to continue without acknowledging her comment. I will only get myself upset, and I know that she won’t even consider an alternative to her conclusion. ‘I get pain in my chest. It’s sometimes so bad that I feel like I have to stop what I’m doing. All I want to do is lie down. I don’t know why. But even when I’m driving, all I want to do is get out the car and lie on the road. It must sound stupid to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. A lot of the time the pain spreads up into my face, and to either side or both sides of my jaw.’

The clicking stops long enough for her to ask, ‘anything else Zoe?’ When she realises that the answer is yes, the clicking resumes.

I ask about my dizziness and constant low blood pressure. I ask about the palpitations that I get a lot, ‘They are enough to make me cough uncontrollably. I feel them thumping right up into my neck and jaw,’ she insists that it’s panic attacks. And the fatigue. That’s a big one. But it’s hard to determine fatigue, from being unable to sleep with stress and pain.

My gaze shifts nervously from her sharp face to the desk covered in piles of papers as I finish reciting my plethora of symptoms. Each time I visit her I feel like my life is being stripped from me. This time I can see will be no different.

And so, she sets about telling me that I can’t possibly be in that amount of pain and remain functional. The fact that I am sitting in front of her proves I am functional so the pain must be Psychosomatic. She pauses to smooth her slick golden hair, before continuing. She insists that the pains I feel in my chest, and palpitations I describe are panic attacks linked to the PTSD I had previously been diagnosed with, I know what panic attacks are like. It’s not the same. My desire to lie down must be depression and not anything to do with dizziness or pain, consequently she also blames stress, worry and fatigue on depression. Is it any wonder I am depressed and feeling low, when she is basically telling me my pain is all in my head? I’m becoming quite a hypochondriac apparently. She thinks I need some psychiatric help and dismisses me from her office with a referral to the Community Psychiatric Nurse.

I want to cry, and bawl, and howl, and scream at the scrawny, tweed-clad, sour-faced, witch. Then I realise that for the first time in a long time I’m feeling something other than despair.

***​

She’s late, the CPN that is. She was supposed to be here at ten and it’s now eleven fifteen. I busy myself by getting my son some cars to play with. As he organises them on the floor a car pulls up outside. Better late than never.

A small flustered looking woman strides her way up the path and to my door. ‘I’m the community psychiatric nurse. I take it you are Zoe? May I come in?’

I’m taken aback by her direct manner but decide to move and allow her in. ‘Busy day?’ I ask.

‘No. Why?’ She asks defensively.

Em. Because you are now over an hour and a half late. That’s why. ‘No reason,’ I tell her, ‘just wondered.’

‘Hmmph.’ I can’t believe she actually harrumphed at me. I can see where this is going before we even start.

We spend roughly ten minutes talking about my symptoms. Or rather we spend that long with her talking at me about my symptoms. All the while she is tutting and huffing because my son is playing with his cars, and not just sitting in silence. She then informs me that she won’t be offering me any more meetings. Instead she is referring me to a psychiatrist. She promptly shows herself out and I’m left with my son, his cars and a very uncertain future.

Wow! I love this! And @Emurelda's as well. You're both gifted with these topics, as hard as they are to discuss, let alone write about.
 
It reminds me of something I wrote a while back when I first started my million word project on my wordpress. It's very amateur and I am still not comfortable sharing my work because I don't have the confidence but here it is in light of this theme....it's not about me btw! It just something that came to mind.

It must be great not being me…..


You are very lucky. Unless you are like me. Raw and disliked. I stopped liking myself when they told me who I was.

Since then, I started hearing their voices echoing in my mind repeating their dislike of my existence. I live with it, somehow. But today I decided to change that. It was all going to stop. I wasn’t worth the trouble I was giving myself. I stood at a cross junction. It was rush hour. Lot’s of cars but not much speed. I crossed myself to the other side.

Shoved about the crowd like a pinball I zigzagged to the bridge over the train tracks. Trains were not fast below here either as they approached the station. It wouldn’t be clean. No guarantees. Too much of an inconvenience too.
Onward and by now I was walking against the commuting crowds. Not seen. Why should they, not even I can see myself anymore.

I entered a park. It was small and deserted. I walked myself to the furthest bench under a large tree hiding my lonely existence beneath its weeping branches. A small bird flew down not a few yards in front of me. Its hopeful gaze for a crumb on its delicate face. I had something. A sandwich I had made this morning in case I lasted until lunch.

It hopped in anticipation for a reward just for existing. Just for trying its luck with a stranger. I scattered some crumbs for its efforts and for any of its friends that should be lucky to be acquainted with it.
Oh! Found it! This is amateur, yours @Emurelda is wonderful. I think you should create a collection of shorts like that :) Not necessarily all on the same subject :) It's hard to write short. I'm pants at it. I always want to go 1000000 times bigger so anything of mines that is short is a snippet of a much bigger thing. I'm just incapable of doing small I guess :p Anyway I said I'd show you if I found it so here it is. My lecturer hated it. Really hated it. But Zoe loved it so I didn't really care what the lecturer thought, it was for Zoe anyway.


Lost Beneath a Label


I'm sitting in the small tired old waiting room; perched on a threadbare, dusty old chair — the padding long since dissolved under the weight of hundreds of backsides over its lifespan. It’s one of six equally tired perches, arranged at a sharp right angle facing the old-fashioned fish tank in the corner.

To my right sits the flu. She is hacking away into her saturated tissue, sweat beading on her forehead as she flicks through an old copy of ‘Closer’ from the small table — also in the corner. The snotty nose by her side makes me gag every time he snorts the snot back into his throat so he can swallow it.

To my left sits a tummy bug. He’s fanning himself furiously with a fistful of NHS leaflets on contraception and I.B.S. from the rack on the wall. He has a sickly green tinge to his skin, and every time he rifts I expect the sick to follow. Thankfully, it doesn't.

The snotty nose has left his wilting mother's side and is now hammering on the glass of the fish tank in the corner with his chubby, snot-covered finger. Snorting and gulping every few minutes. The poor fish seem quite use to this abuse and continue to swim about oblivious.

My head hurts from the screaming child in the play area in the adjacent waiting room. The sound is burrowing into my head, making my ears ring. I turn my attention back to my feet. I hate it here.

Suddenly the rattle of the receptionist’s window heralds her call.

‘Zoe - Dr Arbroath’

My blood runs cold. Panic stricken like a rabbit caught in headlights. And of course now I’m wondering if I really need to see her. Maybe I can chicken out and make a run for it? Go home and hide under my duvet perhaps? Really though, I know that I can't. I know that I need to be seen, and attempt once again — however hopelessly — to get some answers. I already know what I will be told. Apparently my agony is all in my head. Apparently I am just an obese, hypochondriac, panic-attack driven, depressive nuisance. Forever lost under several labels I don’t deserve.

My hands shake as I lift myself from the seat. And with a racing heart and despair already building I make my way to the door at the end of the corridor. It seems to squeeze tighter around me as I approach her door. The last in a line of bland, identical doors standing to attention side by side. My hand is hesitant, but I will it into action and knock on the wooden frame before entering.
I really liked both of these as well. And Karen's hits close to home, sitting with my wife and having her pain brushed off as anxiety or psychosomatic for three years. Now it's so bad she can barely go up and down the stairs, or sit from standing or stand from sitting, and her neck, shoulder, and hand have been added to what was only her back and leg before, and I'm calling to see if we can possibly move our next appointment up from Friday after next.

Doctors. Is it an emergency? Well then wait until it is an emergency, and call us back.
 
I really liked both of these as well. And Karen's hits close to home, sitting with my wife and having her pain brushed off as anxiety or psychosomatic for three years. Now it's so bad she can barely go up and down the stairs, or sit from standing or stand from sitting, and her neck, shoulder, and hand have been added to what was only her back and leg before, and I'm calling to see if we can possibly move our next appointment up from Friday after next.

Doctors. Is it an emergency? Well then wait until it is an emergency, and call us back.
Do me a favour. Build her a fort for me... I'm too far away to come do it myself... we can share it x
 
Sadly Jason, I've heard and know the US medical system utterly sucks... Pain, no you aren't in pain... can't eat, don't care. Weeks later they finally check, actually look and she had kidney stones and a pinched bile duct.... if I say any more I'll scream. Meanwhile after 20 months they decide (after I brought her home to fix it), that they can't fix it?? B/S..
 
Sadly Jason, I've heard and know the US medical system utterly sucks... Pain, no you aren't in pain... can't eat, don't care. Weeks later they finally check, actually look and she had kidney stones and a pinched bile duct.... if I say any more I'll scream. Meanwhile after 20 months they decide (after I brought her home to fix it), that they can't fix it?? B/S..
Sounds about right. She's been dealing with this for three years, now.
 
I think the medical system is a struggle no matter where you are, particularly so for you guys though. We are so lucky to have the NHS.
 
Oh! Found it!


I love it! This so describes my every interaction with doctors.

I have a pinched nerve in my back. At times it hurt so much that I couldn't move my left arm for the pain. I had had this going on for ten years. It flares up when I'm particularly stressed. Three years ago, I decided to go to a doctor. There I was in her office, crying out from the pain of it. I had to be helped to sit and lie down. All she did was rotate my arm and "sympathize" with me and then send me on my way. She didn't even tell me to ice it. I assume she thought I was just trying to get painkillers out of her.

I drove right from her office to the natural foods store and picked up a herbal remedy for pinched nerves. Worked like a charm.
 
I love it! This so describes my every interaction with doctors.

I have a pinched nerve in my back. At times it hurt so much that I couldn't move my left arm for the pain. I had had this going on for ten years. It flares up when I'm particularly stressed. Three years ago, I decided to go to a doctor. There I was in her office, crying out from the pain of it. I had to be helped to sit and lie down. All she did was rotate my arm and "sympathize" with me and then send me on my way. She didn't even tell me to ice it. I assume she thought I was just trying to get painkillers out of her.

I drove right from her office to the natural foods store and picked up a herbal remedy for pinched nerves. Worked like a charm.

Glad you got it sorted. Pinched nerves are a constant agro. Particularly when attempting to sleep.

We're really lucky with our GPs and several of the out of hours doctors and nursing staff that know Gordon well, particularly Dr Wellies. That's not his name but he ALWAYS has wellies on - he's Chinese and one of the nicest men I've ever met :) It's hospital staff that are the problem for us which is really stressful because as you can imagine, he ends up in A&E (ER) a lot. Hell I'm on first name basis with 4 pharmacies across Greenock, not just ones close to home lol, Half the time they see me coming and have his meds ready before I even get to the counter. o_O

I've done a few little snippets about Gordon from my perspective or omniscient perspective. I was thinking about putting them in a sort of "memoir/diary/guide to keeping sane when you are a carer" kind of thing. I've not collected anything like the number of bits I'd need yet mind you. Probably be a few years yet before I can even think about it.
 
I love it! This so describes my every interaction with doctors.

I have a pinched nerve in my back. At times it hurt so much that I couldn't move my left arm for the pain. I had had this going on for ten years. It flares up when I'm particularly stressed. Three years ago, I decided to go to a doctor. There I was in her office, crying out from the pain of it. I had to be helped to sit and lie down. All she did was rotate my arm and "sympathize" with me and then send me on my way. She didn't even tell me to ice it. I assume she thought I was just trying to get painkillers out of her.

I drove right from her office to the natural foods store and picked up a herbal remedy for pinched nerves. Worked like a charm.
That makes me so damn mad. I mean, I could be dismissive and unsympathetic now! I wouldn't even need to go to school for eight years to learn how to do it! What am I doing in this job? You'd think they would have learned something more useful, along the way.
 
I really liked both of these as well. And Karen's hits close to home, sitting with my wife and having her pain brushed off as anxiety or psychosomatic for three years. Now it's so bad she can barely go up and down the stairs, or sit from standing or stand from sitting, and her neck, shoulder, and hand have been added to what was only her back and leg before, and I'm calling to see if we can possibly move our next appointment up from Friday after next.

Doctors. Is it an emergency? Well then wait until it is an emergency, and call us back.

Yes, they sit on their hands, backsides and brains until it becomes chronically acute, and maybe they can't fix it, and they KNOW they can't, therefore they dither about, but they don't try hard enough if you don't push, and sometimes even if you do. They need endocrinology or immunology for this kind of presentation but, no, they'll label it psychological or direct it to the rheumatologist. Western physician-ship is stupid by design. If it is psychological in origin, then by their own rationale, counselling or a placebo would help. Is it Lyme's disease, Jason?
 
Yes, they sit on their hands, backsides and brains until it becomes chronically acute, and maybe they can't fix it, and they KNOW they can't, therefore they dither about, but they don't try hard enough if you don't push, and sometimes even if you do. They need endocrinology or immunology for this kind of presentation but, no, they'll label it psychological or direct it to the rheumatologist. Western physician-ship is stupid by design. If it is psychological in origin, then by their own rationale, counselling or a placebo would help. Is it Lyme's disease, Jason?
We are almost certain it's a lumbar-spinal injury that has slowly deteriorated over the years, but in truth it could be stenosis, a bone spur rubbing a nerve, or any damn thing. She'll get "lightning bolts" down her legs, constant debilitating pain in her left knee and lower back, and a "pull" in her neck that sends pain through her shoulder to her left hand. Combine that with a wee bit of vertigo, and the fact that out apartment is off the second floor balcony on the complex courtyard, and it makes going up and down the stairs and getting in and out of the car every day akin to fighting in the Great War.
 
That really sucks Jason, but a small fact is, that you're not alone. I'm surprised at how many are going through something similar. I dare say like me, sleep isn't perfect either which doesn't help you?
 
That really sucks Jason, but a small fact is, that you're not alone. I'm surprised at how many are going through something similar. I dare say like me, sleep isn't perfect either which doesn't help you?
Oh my gawd the past week has been heartbreaking for that Alistair — she's up most of the night crying, and we haven't gotten more than minutes of sleep at a time, or a couple hours some nights. We had an appointment for a general check-up Friday of next week to get started, but her supervisor is married to an Orthopedic surgeon, and we're seeing him in two days.
 
Oh my gawd the past week has been heartbreaking for that Alistair — she's up most of the night crying, and we haven't gotten more than minutes of sleep at a time, or a couple hours some nights. We had an appointment for a general check-up Friday of next week to get started, but her supervisor is married to an Orthopedic surgeon, and we're seeing him in two days.
Really sorry to hear this. You're doing the right thing to use your contacts. Presume she has had X-rays and MRI scans?
 
Really sorry to hear this. You're doing the right thing to use your contacts. Presume she has had X-rays and MRI scans?
Thanks Marc. Several over the years, but for secondary pains — never happened to catch the lower back. We were going to do that on the 11th, but hopefully now on the 3rd.
 
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