Well, it seems neuritis/neuralgia are diagnosed basically by description and elimination of other conditions, as is RSI. Gout can be diagnosed by blood tests, so that is already ruled out. Raynaud’s Disease is basically caused by exposure to cold, so I think I can rule that out too. Osteoarthritis can be confirmed by X-ray, so that is obviously one option if I am to have my bones photographed at the hospital. And that leaves the ones I don’t really want to think about.
Multiple Sclerosis can be detected by testing spinal fluid, according to the sites I visited. The good news is that I am probably too old now for it to be MS; and there are mild/benign forms of it. And that leaves good old Motor Neurone Disease. It usually strikes people between 50-70, and there is no single diagnosis; again it is largely a matter of ruling out other muscular/nervous disorders. And waiting for things to start seizing up.
I didn’t bother looking up Parkinson’s. I’ll save that for when the tremors begin.
In the evening Bill Bryson forced me to the dictionary to look up ‘arcane’ – mysterious, secret, of course – a word I have known and used; and then, it seems, forgotten. And that’s when I realised I hadn’t looked up Alzheimer’s on tinternet. Had I – with frightening aptness – forgotten to? Or had I never intended to, as Alzheimer’s is something different altogether?
Fuck! – Imagine having Motor Neurone and Alzheimer’s.
Monday, September 16
Saw Steve at the accountants, and then Andrew at the bank. We are all systems go for the digital era. Just have to find a high street shop window now.
I rang Sally. She has agreed to devote the next couple of weeks, unpaid, before she actually becomes a partner, to looking for suitable premises. Somewhere fairly central but with room for the new digital equipment AND, preferably a separate outbuilding, for my itsy-bitsy press. Not such a tall order as it sounds in an ancient market town that evolved around a warren of alleys and buildings tucked away in the unlikeliest places.
Nice PI email from Cory:
An Essex girl was driving down the M11 when her mobile phone rang. It was her husband, urgently warning her: ‘Darling, I just heard on the news there's a car going the wrong way down the motorway. Please be careful!’
‘It's not just one car!’ said the Essex girl. ‘There's fucking hundreds of them!’
Tuesday, September 17
Samuel Michael was born today! He arrived at 4.33am, weighing 8lb bar an ounce. He’s beautiful. Already. Most new-born babies look like Winston Churchill or – the really ugly ones – Alfred Hitchcock; even ours (with such good-looking parents!) bore a passing resemblance to the esteemed Winston. But Sam arrived with the face and fair hair of a cherub. We love him to bits already.
More later.
11.20pm.
It’s been a long day. The phone rang before six this morning – frightening me to almost instant wakefulness. Who rings that early unless it’s bad news? The first thing I thought of was Dad; he must have died. The second thing I thought of was that Nice Matron; she wouldn’t call me so early.
Jules realised straight away. Clever clogs.
It was Mike. Sarah had gone into labour two days before she was due to be induced. She had woken him at about half-past midnight, with contractions already coming at intervals of less than 10 minutes. The roads were deserted and they were at the hospital within 20 minutes. And a mere three and a half hours later she had given birth (a family record for a first-timer; Sarah kept Jules in agony for almost a day).
‘Like shelling peas,’ said Mike as we sat down beside our darling daughter’s bed soon after 9a.m.. He was perched on the side of the bed, and Sarah jabbed him with her elbow. She was smiling, but too tired to add to her brief description of her brief confinement. She closed her eyes and seemed to drift into a light sleep, but still with a smile of contentment and pride on her lovely face.
We spent most of the morning at the hospital, much of the time just gazing at Sam, or stroking his fine fair hair with a finger. Then Mike drove Jules back to Greythorn, so they could fetch a few things Sarah wanted (and Mike could call work and sort out his paternity leave) while I drove to ECO to show my digital pictures of Sam to his Uncle Cory. I don’t know who was more smitten – him or Chrissy (who has yet to meet Sarah). Then I popped into the office, to show Ronnie, called FR and persuaded him to down tools, and the three of us had a small lunch-time wetting-the-head celebration with a pint of Ruddles, some sandwiches, and a King Edward cigar each.
Then it was back to the hospital, where Jules and Mike had now been joined by Dave and Sylvia, up hotfoot from Kent. Mid-afternoon we oldies left Mike and Sarah alone with their son and found the hospital refectory where we enjoyed some lukewarm, so-called ‘beef casserole’ (all they had left) and some weak tea.
Sam is Dave and Sylvia’s second grandchild, and as their daughter Di has a girl they were delighted to welcome a boy into their largely female-dominated families. This was only the third time we have met Mike’s parents, but we seem to get on well, and Jules invited them for dinner before they drove back tonight (they declined the invitation to stay as both had to be back at work tomorrow). We stayed another hour or so with the proud new parents and then led the ‘in-laws’ back to Windolene Heights. I gave them the tour while Jules rustled up some pasta and chiabatta.
When Dave and Sylvia had gone, Jules began phoning round our various relatives, including those who had upset/annoyed us in recent times. They all sounded genuinely delighted, she said; and nary a mention was made of money. Hallelujah.
Then we watched some TV, fell asleep in our chairs, and woke soon after 11p.m.. Jules is abluting. I am wide awake, and may do some proper writing for a while. I have an idea.
NOTES
Saddam said Yes to the return of weapons inspectors, which surprised and split the UN.
Wednesday, September 18
We went back to the hospital mid-morning, to discover that Sarah and Sam would be discharged in the afternoon! As soon as the Demigod Doc had done his rounds and checked over the latest batch of babies.
My God, they don’t hang around these days. Another ten years and having babies will be a visit to the out-patients. Just pop into the baby cubicle, plug in the Midwifation machine, let it go through its 20-minute delivery programme, tidy up your bits, and away you go. Take the placenta home in a doggy bag if you’re a hippy or alternative chef. Next please!
After Sam had been passed around a few times, I had an idea: I went to reception and discovered that Eric Butler was still there – recovering in a side room after a spell in the cardiac unit – so I rang the mobile number Dorothy had given me and found out that she was in the hospital car park. Twenty minutes later, after she’d had a quick word with Eric, I was invited to pop in and say hello.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but he looked pretty awful. He was frail and pale, as opposed to his former plump and ruddy, and spoke slowly and intermittently with a sad croak. I lied and made a feeble joke about the weight loss suiting him, and how he’d soon be up and about, selling houses like a 20-year-old.
Jules, Mike and I had lunch in the refectory (a reasonable chicken and chips), while Sarah suffered the strings and marrowfat of a hospital stew. Then Jules and I left the happy couple to it, to make their own way home with Sam, to begin their new life as a family.
NOTES
LCFC win the appeal – they were entitled to sack otiose Wise. Justice is done.
Friday, September 20
Drove over to see Sam (and Sarah and Mike, of course!). He is already opening his eyes more; they are a smoky blue-grey, like’s his mum’s were as a babe. But the girls think he looks more like Mike than anyone else. Mike thinks he has a bit of Jules in him. I can only see beautiful.
We didn’t stay too long – just long enough to cuddle Sam and for Jules to fuss around Sarah and do a few jobs (hang out the washing, re-load the washing machine, that sort of thing) – and for Mike to nip into town to sign the contract on their new house. Then
we motored into town for a little shopping, a quick visit to the travel agent, and then on home.
There’s so much happening at the moment, we could both do with a short break.
How the hell did we manage when we were both working full-time!?
NOTES
Oh, shit. The remains of Milly have been found. Poor people. It’s easy enough for parents to think they can imagine the agony of losing a child – or a grandchild – but the imagination must be a pale shadow of the reality.
Sunday, September 22
We had everybody round for our first proper Sunday lunch at Windolene Heights – Sarah/Mike and Sam, Cory and Chrissy, Ronnie and Mia. (I had a feeling it should have been Ronnie and Sally, but I didn’t say anything. Ronnie told me he wants to stay in close contact with Mia until he thinks she can cope without him. It looks like she’s making good progress already.)
Jules spent half of Saturday shopping for ingredients – mainly a very expensive joint of lamb – and the rest of the day worrying about how she would cope with eight mouths to feed. She spent half of this morning trying to anticipate, sometimes aloud, sometimes silently (but I could read her beetled brow), anything and everything that could possibly go awry to spoil her timing and/or the feast.
I helped as much as I could, preparing vegetables, trying to make her laugh, but once Jules is in something’s-bound-to-go-wrong-and-don’t-you-dare-scoff-at-my-pessimism mode there is no convincing her that this is just another family lunch and it doesn’t matter if the broccoli is a tad hard or even a tad mushy. So when everybody had arrived, and Chrissy had been duly introduced and made a favourable impression on all but a sleeping Sam, I played mine host and left Jules sweating over a hot stove on her own. Then Sarah took Sam through to show him off, and they were cooing and goo-gooing for ages until he awoke and started crying for a feed. Sarah took him off to our bedroom (she didn’t want to embarrass Cory and Ronnie by breast-feeding in front of them), and Jules completely forgot to put the broccoli in the microwave.
She didn’t realise until we had served ourselves at the table and were starting to eat. And then she and I treated the company to one of our I’m-right-you’re-wrong ding-dongs. She jumped up and said she’d give the broccoli a quick nuke, it wouldn’t take long; I told her to sit down, it was too late, and nobody was bothered, there was loads to eat as it was. She said that wasn’t the point; I said that was entirely the point. She said she wanted some, she had been looking forward to it; I said anyone who looks forward to broccoli is a sad bastard. She said I liked broccoli; I said I could live without it.
And Cory said to Chrissy, ‘Didn’t tell you about the Broccoli Sickness, did I?’
We all fell about laughing.
Lovely lovely day.
Jules just wanted everything to be perfect to welcome Sam and especially Chrissy to our world. I think Chrissy was especially delighted to be part of it.
MLTJ. Spot on.
NOTES
Just before midnight.
Big turn-out for the Countryside Alliance march in London. What I want to know is, where were all these people, who now profess to be so worried about the rural economy and way of life, when Mrs Thatcher was decimating swathes of the countryside – the pit villages and the steel communities? And when her regime instigated the serious cull of village schools and post offices? Didn’t hear too many complaints then.
Why don’t they admit they’re just a right-wing pro-hunting lobby.
Monday, September 23
Took today off. Jules and I had a leisurely big breakfast and then went to the garden centre, where we bought cobbles, mini-boulders, loads of ornamental grasses, and some sedums and saxifrages (technical terms for little flowers apparently; she’ll make a gardener out of me yet!) for our new scree garden. Um, the gravel bit. Or shingle, as Jules calls it.
It’s still unseasonably mild, and we enjoyed turning the gravel bit into something we’re quite proud of, something we had created from scratch, making pleasing shapes and forms with the rocks and plants. Ooh aaaah! as we gardeners say.
I was briefly tempted to make a start on replacing our patio paving, but one look at the pile of slabs on the edge of the drive convinced me it was a job that could wait; perhaps until I could persuade Cory and Mike to come and give me a hand.
Instead Jules and I rewarded ourselves with a pot of tea and slices of cake on the patio, and looked at our ‘faraway’ holiday brochures. Ah, so many places, so little time. We eventually settled on Bali (which had been top of Jules’s Lottery wish list). Or perhaps the Maldives, depending on what is available at short-ish notice. Early next month, if poss.
Headline in The Rag: CONCERN IS EXPRESSED OVER BOLLARDS
Wow…
Wednesday, September 25
Spent the morning helping Ronnie. He has several Christmas orders on the go, and asked me to look at our second leaflet job for CB Confectionery: A5, two sides, four-colour, for shops and a mail-shot. I said ‘Yes, boss!’, saluted, and started work.
I roughed out both pages (two ideas for each) and virtually completed the detail for both fronts before lunch and ECO beckoned.
I fetched our customary Wednesday burgers and fries and sat with Cory and Chrissy in the pleasant sunshine at the back of the building, with Cory stationed by the door so he could keep an eye on the showroom entrance and an ear cocked for the phone.
We laughed about the broccoli again, and Chrissy told us something of her mother (Maureen, divorced) and her scatter-brained cookery skills. Her best so far apparently is serving a complete meal virtually uncooked – battered fish straight out of a packet, still-frozen oven chips, and just-defrosted peas. Chrissy and her sister Dawn spat their first mouthfuls over the waiting dog (which didn’t mind an uncooked meal at all) and neither had been able to look a cod in the eye since.
Then came today’s main course: Cory told me he and Chrissy have decided between them to ‘restructure’ the business. They will leave ECO – Executive Charter Operation – to its own devices. It should chug along and make a useful if erratic contribution to the coffers. Meanwhile they will concentrate on building up ECO – Elite Cars Oxford – into a major regional, if not national, concern. Chrissy will scour the country looking for suitable cars; Cory will sell them. Simple as that.
‘So Executive Charter is a bit of a turkey,’ I ventured.
‘I think we’ll know by Christmas,’ said Cory.
We all smiled. A little uncertainly.
I rang him later in the afternoon, to ask if he might still be interested in our old place (Jules and I decided over a cup of tea that we have to sell before it starts to deteriorate). I noticed a little catch in Cory’s voice as he said he’d let us know by the end of the week.
Thursday, September 26
Sam has become an eye magnet. We saw him for about two hours today and just couldn’t take our eyes off him for about 119 minutes. Then he started crying. It’s true what they say about grandchildren – enjoy them and then give them back. Or, in this case, go home.
Sarah and Mike had got the keys to their new house, and rang to ask if we would like to meet them there, to have another look, and, of course hold Sam a few times. We walked there, to time the walk basically, and it took about six minutes; which suited us fine. Not too near, but near enough to help, near enough to zip round (either way) should there be an emergency.
I had forgotten how nice it is – and how much work needs doing. They hope to be in by Christmas. Jules and I have grave doubts.
Friday, September 27
That Nice Matron rang soon after 9a.m., which was considerate enough, considering the news. Dad has declined dramatically over the past couple of weeks.
She said she had been on the verge of phoning us several times in the past week, but had held back because he seemed to reach a plateau each time, but then started to slip again – and because there was nothing we could do, except worry. Now there was no holding back – he was virtually at death’s door.
/> She had phoned Arnie’s first but there was no reply – presumably he and Mags were at work – so I had a go and managed to track down Arnie at his office. I told him the news, and he sounded as shocked as I felt. Which was strange really, because we had been expecting this for a year or more. I left him to phone the rest of the Leicester gang, arranged to meet him at Crazy Corner, and then phoned Cory and Sarah.
They had both been very close to their grandfather when they were younger, even though we didn’t see him that often. Sadly that contact had diminished even further as they grew up, and then petered out entirely as his mind started to go.
But just because you don’t see somebody, it doesn’t mean you stop loving him or her. As I know only too well. Sarah was in tears almost as soon as I told her; Cory had to put the phone down on me, croaking that he would ring me back.
Jules and I were on the road soon after 10a.m. I knew it wouldn’t make any difference but I wanted to see him before he died. If only to hold his hand one more time while it was still warm. This thought brought tears to my eyes as we joined the M1, and I had to pull over and stop on the hard shoulder before I was blinded and killed us both.
And then as I dabbed away at my eyes I remembered an old Two Ronnies’ newsdesk joke – ‘A farm lorry has shed its load of onions on the M1. Drivers are advised to find a hard shoulder to cry on’.
Before I knew it both Jules and I were howling tears of cathartic laughter.
We all got to hold his hand while it was still warm.
Can’t write any more tonight.
Saturday, September 28
Dad’s breathing was shallow and jagged; his face, pale and bony, almost translucent.
The Trouble With Money (The diary of a Lottery winner) Page 16