Rutland Water

After saying a little about my Great Camping Expedition in my last post I thought I'd put up a piece of writing that I did for my previous creative writing course. It's about a little boat trip I did on Rutland water on my first day in the county, and immediately prior to my visit to Burghley House. Actually, it's more about an elderly lady I met on the boat trip, than the boat trip itself. See what you think...


Rutland Water

The captain welcomed me on board, taking my six pound fee and exchanging it for a small, grey ticket.
‘Is it sensible to get into a large metal box on a big expanse of water in the middle of a thunderstorm?’ I asked.
‘Yes, yes. We’re perfectly safe. The fools are the people out there in the sailing dinghies, with their masts pointing up to the sky inviting the lightning to knock them dead.’ He grinned.
I was a day into a month-long camping trip around England and had made it as far as Rutland - the smallest county in England. I was travelling alone, and although certain that I’d meet some interesting people along the way, I was a little anxious that I might get lonely on my journey, so I knew I had to make the effort to talk with people.
My first night in the tent had been dry, but this morning the sky had become black. Daggers of lightning had split the thick cloud every few minutes and the rain had crashed to the ground like an enormous waterfall. My tent had proved to be mostly waterproof, but a sturdier roof was required for a while, so I had opted for a trip on the Rutland Water pleasure boat.
The cabin was a large, damp space with slippery floor-boards, thick, scratched windows that quickly steamed up, and forty or so plastic, classroom chairs set out in rows. Many were already occupied by senescent women with tight perms peeking out from under plastic rain-hoods. I took a seat on the far side of the boat next to one of the elderly ladies who sat alone, asking if she minded if I joined her. On the contrary, she appeared pleased – her mouth cracking into a broad, welcoming smile, and she introduced herself as Nancy.
‘Have you come far?’ I asked, making polite conversation.
‘Ooo yes, quite far – from Stamford.’
‘Where’s that?’ I enquired, adding, ‘I’m visiting from Newcastle and don’t know my way around here.’
‘Stamford? It’s at least five miles away.’ Her sincerity left me in no doubt that this was a big trip out for her. I smiled and glanced out of the window just in time to notice that we were edging away from the jetty.
‘Now then ladies,’ one of the women had risen to her feet and was addressing her fellow passengers from the front. ‘Welcome to the Stamford Women’s Institute August day out. We’ve come for a lovely cruise on this beautiful reservoir, and afterwards we’ll have afternoon tea in the restaurant.’ A gentle ‘Ooo,’ resembling the moaning of a distant cow, reverberated amongst the women. ‘Settle back and enjoy the trip. I’m sure the captain will give us a fascinating tour of the lake.’
The captain did indeed make the trip as interesting as possible, informing us that the church on the lakeside – Normanton Church – had had to have its floor raised by three metres to avoid being flooded when the reservoir was created. This seemed ironic as the village it had served had been sacrificed for the creation of the reservoir. We were informed that on a bright day it was sometimes possible to see the remains of Nether Hambleton in the depths of the water, and I thought about all those whose homes had been submerged; of the ghosts wandering the bottom of the lake; of the sadness of a place gone forever. The dark waters of this day were to keep the secrets of the lost village to itself, and I felt the bleakness of the people who’d lost their homes was reflected in the area that was now flooded. There were few trees, few buildings, an expanse of grey water kept in place by expansive, grey walls, and it all appeared drabber in the dismal rain.
‘Isn’t this lovely?’ marvelled Nancy.
‘Great.’ I said, using the fact that I had a solid roof over my head in this miserable rain to instil some enthusiasm into my answer. ‘It’s good to get out sometimes, isn’t it?’ I added, sensing that Nancy wanted company and conversation.
‘Ooo yes,’ she crowed, and continued in her quivering, elderly voice, ‘Of course, when I was your age I was outside all the time ... I lived in a caravan. Harold was in the army and we decided we didn’t want to live in the barracks, not with the children, so we bought our caravan and drove it wherever Harold was posted.’
This was unexpected conversation, but Nancy’s eyes lit up as she spoke, some of her wrinkles seemed to drop out of her leathery skin, and I could see the vibrancy she once must have had before old age had crept upon her.
‘It must have been hard bringing up children while living in a caravan.’
‘It was hard work, but lovely. The children played outside all the time, and our Shirley – you should have seen how brown she was when we lived in Stranraer!’
I smiled at Nancy’s vivacity, ‘Should I?’
‘Oh yes, you should have! She was ever so brown ... Of course, when the children were babies I only had a single gas ring to cook on, but we got by. Although it wasn’t easy having to boil nappies and heat up bottles of milk all on the one ring. I had this huge pot,’ and Nancy gestured to indicate a pot of a foot wide and a foot and a half tall, ‘that I used for everything – milk, meals, nappies – the whole shebang.’ Nancy stopped talking and seemed to get lost in her memories, smiling with a fondness for times past.
‘Of course, Harold died ten years ago,’ and now she appeared to be lamenting the passage of time, the passing of her husband and possibly her now grown-up children’s independence.
I was suddenly struck by the importance of groups such as the Women’s Institute, and had a fresh awareness of how this trip on a boat on a man-made lake in a storm could be ‘lovely’. Nancy was not only given friendship by this band of spirited old women, but also a place to belong; people both to love and be loved by; an opportunity to keep living life even as the horizon approached.
As I contemplated Nancy’s worthy desire to head towards the end of her life with a beautiful sunset rather than a heavy fog, the boat pulled back up to the jetty from where we’d set out. The W.I. crowd were herded together by the woman who’d addressed them earlier, and a photographer from the local paper came aboard to catch a snap of this family of friends, who were delighted at this opportunity for twilight fame. I only narrowly avoided being rounded up into the group by the photographer, and once off the boat decided to head towards Stamford. The physical distance Nancy had covered between Stamford and Rutland Water may not have been great, but she had certainly travelled an emotional journey through her lifetime, and I felt honoured to have had some of this elderly lady’s story passed on to me. I wanted to see the place to where her journey had taken her.

Travel

I'm back. I came back on Tuesday, but I've had a late assigment to get done so I haven't updated things here. So yes, I did the long drive home from London to Newcastle, and although it was tiring, it was definitely worth it to see O and meet D. On the way down on Saturday I'd been intending to go down the A1 all the way, but wasn't quite paying attention at the point where the A1 splits off to the M1, ended up in the wrong lane and found myself on the M1. It didn't make much of a difference really, except it changed my point of entry to London. Having never driven in London before (or at least only a handful of times about 15 years ago) I wasn't looking forward to working my way through it, but I wasn't too stressed out as I have sat nav, which still impresses me, even though I've had it for 3 years. I ended up having to go all the way through the middle of London: down Park Lane, past Marble Arch, over Vauxhall Bridge, but I coped. However, I decided I'd try coming home a different way: Up the M11 and join the A1 somewhere after Cambridge. This was actually much better, partly because it was a change of scenery, and the A1 is such a boring road that a change of scenery is a very good thing, but because I'd never come this way before I used my sat nav till I got to the A1. Fine ... except that I somehow managed to accidentally punch into the sat nav that I wanted to go via some very random, very isolated, tiny road somewhere between Ickleton and Duxford in Cambridgeshire. I have to say that for all it was an unexpected and unnecessary diversion, it was ever so pretty, and I think I'd like to venture further into that area sometime. Perhaps I'll leave it till I deliberately plan to go there though ;o)

While I was travelling up the M11 and A1 I came across some place names that reminded me of previous travel. One of the obvious ones was Grantham, which you may recall is a place I ended up taking an unplanned diversion on my last return journey from London. I was on the train, had an anaphylactic reaction to a small dog that sat on the knee of the lady next to me, and the train ended up having to do an emergency stop for me to be taken off by paramedics, who had to carry me over the railway lines (we were on the wrong side of the lines for the ambulance) and take me to hospital, where I had terrible care in A&E, but excellent care after that, and had several days in ITU. I think I could just see the top of the hospital as I drove past Grantham on the A1, and it stirred up all sorts of feelings ... pretty much all negative. I've been in rather too many different hospitals around the country (and one in Canada), and it's no fun. In fact, knowing that I can never guarantee that I won't end up in hospital any time I go away (or any other time either) is tough. Of course I always hope that everything will go smoothly, that I won't end up ill ... but then I suppose I also hope that if things do go pear-shaped then the care I'll get at whatever hospital I end up in will be good. Mostly it is, but somtimes it isn't and that's frightening. I've mentioned before that I carry a letter from my hospital consultant with me at all times. This letter has information about the nature of my asthma and the treatment that works for me, and most usually doctors find this helpful, particularly as I'm usually unable to speak by the time I get to hospital so can't tell them myself what helps. The problem I had in Grantham A&E was that the doctor and sister attending to me decided to ignore my consultant's letter, to disregard my state (I have no idea why), and even considered discharging me! It was only upon insisting (as much as I could in my state of only being able to speak one word or part-word at a time due to breathlessness) that they telephone my consultant, whose contact details are at the top of the letter, that they did eventually admit me. I was taken to the Emergency Admissions Unit (EAU) where I was finally able to reach my mobile phone and could text my mother, tell her what was happening, that I was very scared as nobody was helping me, and she was able to find the telephone number for Grantham Hospital and explain the seriousness of my condition. Actually, the doctors in EAU were completely different from the one I'd seen in A&E, were on the ball, and got on the case of helping me as soon as they were aware of me and my condition. It was ever so frightening though, and I couldn't help but find myself thinking about it all, and mentally reliving it, when I was driving past Grantham on Tuesday. It sends shivers down me.

One of the other place names I drove past was Stamford, again in Lincolnshire, and then for Burghley House. These are places with memories totally contrasting those of Grantham. Back in the summer of 2006 I went on a Great Camping Expedition on my own around the country, which turned out to be the most fantastic holiday I'd had for a very long time, even though it included a week-long stay in Treliske Hospital, Truro, Cornwall (where the care was fantastic throughout). My first stop on this holiday was a tiny little campsite in Rutland, the smallest county in England - so small in fact that when I drove the 5 miles from Rutland water to Stamford I kept falling out of Rutland and into the surrounding counties. I think I did Rutland, Cambridgeshire, Peterborough (though I wasn't sure if this was a seperate county or just a random sign post), and Lincolnshire. Anyway, Burghley House is wonderful, although to be fair I didn't actually go into the house as I was too late that day, but the sculpture garden in the grounds of the house are wonderful. It was a miserable day of grey skies, intermitent thunder, lightening, torrential rain, and drizzle, with only the occasional outbreak of dryness, but the sculptures distracted me from all that. They were varied enough to keep being interesting however many I saw, and while some were obvious, others were hidden and you'd just stumble across them as you meandered around the gardens, or even looked up into the trees.

It's a place I'd like to go back to ...

While I was driving back on Tuesday I realised, once again, that I'm overdue a holiday, and would love to do something again like my Great Camping Expedition of 2006. There's so much of the country that I still haven't seen, even though I did 2000 miles in 2006, but if it were at all possible I'd like to go beyond UK shores too. This of course may not be realistic, and then there's the language barrier, which is a potential additional risk, especially as I speak no language other than English and British Sign Language ... but maybe ... I can dream ...

Restoration

I've been getting increasingly weary over recent times. Although my last admission is something like an amazing 8 weeks ago, I don't feel as though I ever really got my energy back. This has been something of a concern for my consultant as I'm so used to severe asthma attacks, and know my own recovery process well. This doesn't fit with the usual pattern of things, and together with a series of other symptoms he's now wondering if I have hypothyroidism. He's taken blood (well actually he had the phlebotomist do it), and I'm due back in clinic on Thursday so I may get the results then.

So there's been that, and whether or not it turns out to be hypothyroidism, I've been so fatigued at times that I've been completely unable to function. Then there's the usual grumbling of my lungs, and in the past few weeks they've been feeling tighter than they had done. I don't know if this is just because they're bored and want some more attention, or if it's a result of coming off the methotrexate and my blood levels of it will now be significantly lower than they were. It could be a combination of both. It's harder work doing everything when breathing is more challenging.

In amongst all of this, I'm trying to keep up with my Open University studies too. I'm doing okay; not as great as I was in the previous course, but still pretty well. I enjoy it tremendously, it's just difficult to keep on top of it when I'm so fatigued, not feeling brilliantly well with my lungs, and trying to spend more time with my dad (he's ill), which as well as being really nice, also gives my step-mum a bit of a break.

... And then of course there's Emma's death ...

I'm weary.

I've come down to London for a few days to stay with my brother, sister-in-law and two nephews. O is as gorgeous as ever and his language has come on so much since I last saw him in August. He chatters away constantly, and is such a happy little chap. He's an absolute delight. D (the nipper) was born in September, and I missed the last time I was supposed to come and meet him, because everyone here was full of cold and it would've been too risky for me to be surrounded by that. I have finally got to meet my littlest nephew (and also god son-to-be), and he's absolutely scrummy. He's been a bit grouchy at times today, but he's so gorgeous and gives such lovely smiles when he wants to.

For all that children are hard work, which isn't terribly wonderful when I'm so fatigued, the boys are restoring my soul. They're injecting a bit of life back into me. I know that I would have been thinking an awful lot about Emma anyway, but O and D seemed to have heightened something in me even more ... maybe it's that they're at the complete opposite end of life ... I don't know. This hasn't been a bad thing though ... it's more of a reminder to do everything I can to make the most of each day. I can't really explain ... All the upset and sadness of Emma's death are still here, my heart still cries for her, but the boys are so joyful and seem to kind of remind me of the love of life that Emma had.

I'm going back home on Tuesday, but between now and then I'm loving the restorative qualities that O and D are full of. I'll bask in their cuddles and smiles and giggles, and store up their joyfulness inside myself. I'll take home lovely memories, and hopefully be able to draw some physical strength from the spirit of those memories.

Set free

I don't know how to follow on from the news of Emma's death and my last post. Although death is the end of a life - and Emma's was a special life - it can't mean the end of the life of everyone who knew the person who has died. On the other hand, we are halted in our tracks by the suddenness of the event and the sadness of the loss. We are left with a hole in our lives that will never be filled by anyone else, because it's a hole that is specifically shaped - in this case it is Emma-shaped.

I was woken this morning by my carer at the door. A comes once a week and does a marvellous job making my life that little bit easier. Mornings aren't my best time lung-wise, and quite often I'll go back to bed for a while after I've let A in. She gets on with what she can and she brings me a cup of tea or coffee in bed, which is just lovely and such a rarity when you live on your own. This morning I went back to bed, got my lungs working and then went back to sleep instead of getting up. I didn't want to face the day, and actually was completely exhausted too from a very unsettled night. An hour or so later A came in with another cuppa and quietly asked if I was okay. I told her about Emma. Of course A didn't know Emma, but she was saddenned all the same, because that's the kind of caring and sensitive person A is. I got up. A changed the sheets on my bed while I cuddled the cat in the living room, and then she sent me back to bed. I was exhausted, but then last night was an emotion-filled one with little sleep. I made up for it after A left and slept into the afternoon, but this has meant that my day has felt somewhat upside down, and I know that I can't let it be the beginning of a pattern, but today it's okay.

One thing Emma would hate would be for everyone to stop their lives. She was all for living and making the most of things, so I must remember her whilst embracing life, rather than let it slip by in a haze of sadness. Yes, I will mourn her. Yes, I will think of her often and contemplate the ways in which she's touched my life and the lives of many around the world, but I have to keep living, we have to keep living. It was Emma's wish that we should live without regret, and I know that if I stop trying to live by the mantra of 'today is the tomorrow that you worried about yesterday,' and my tag-line, 'I tried depression and it didn't make me any happier,' then the rest of my life will be full of regret - regret that I stopped remembering to live when I was alive.





I'm not feeling very articulate tonight. Perhaps instead of writing any more I will leave you with a photo that I took at the Farne Islands last summer. It's an Arctic Tern.

Go on Emma, you're flying freely now.

A sad day

For some time now I had been meaning to add a link to the list of 'Blogs I Read' to that of Mad Asthmatic, another with brittle asthma. I found out today that, very sadly, Emma died on Sunday. It wasn't the asthma that killed her, not directly at least. She also had diabetes and a heart condition, and it was a heart attack that she died from, but the asthma had worn her body down too. She didn't make it as far as hospital, despite calling an ambulance, and died in her own home.

I originally got to know Emma/Mad Asthmatic/Rusty through the Asthma UK discussion forum/support group, and as time went on we discovered that we had more in common than 'just asthma'. She was also keen on photography, creative writing, and a variety of craft activities. She loved reading and relatively recently graduated with an MA in English literature. It turned out that we shared a lot in the way we try to live our lives too, and in trying to make what we can out of each day, even if it's a bad health day. When Emma found out that I had a blog, she sought it out. She sought me out, and in doing that I found her blog. We posted comments to each others' blogs, and then we began to email each other privately too. We shared things with each other that can be difficult to express eloquently enough in a public space for those who haven't experienced to understand what it it's like, but we didn't need to be eloquent with each other. We've had some similar experiences; been confronted with promises of false hope, given by people who are too fearful to face the prospect of death that they haven't been able to cope with our talking about the reality of there being no further treatments; and we've felt the same fears. We never met face-to-face, but we certainly met heart-to-heart, and that is what friendship is.

Looking back at the last thing that Emma wrote on her blog, it reads almost like a premonition and a preparation. It is a beautiful piece of writing with a wonderful message in it. I'm sure she wouldn't mind me copying it into here for you to read:

No Regrets
The certainity of life is death, but the passage of time between birth and death is ours and ours alone.

Try to make sure when the time comes that you have few regrets of the life you have spent. Do not spend your life hanging your head down, for you will miss the temperance and severity of the world in which you live. Call a spade a spade and you won't go far wrong, if you give out harsh words be ready to receive them back. If you can not take what you yourself hand out then keep silent.

Friends will come and go. if they are meant to be true then they will remain and those who are just passing ships will pass through your life at the given times. Remember each friendship with affection but do not mourn its demise for another friend is around the corner.

Follow the road that you wish to follow for your life, do not just follow the crowd unless it is what you truly want. If you make a mistake then have the courage to rectify it, if you wish to take a different path to those around you do not apologise. For we have only one life and in order not to regret those missed opportunities then we must be prepared to walk against the crowd at some point.

Do not stay silent if there is someone you love, do not regret words unsaid, do not assume they know how you feel. Red faces can be got over but unsaid words will remain just that. Make it your mission to brighten one persons life each day with a smile and a hello. All free and yet can make such an impact. Do not ask "How are you today" if you don't want to know. Have the courage to be yourself and not care what others think.

Make having no regrets your mission for life.




Rest in peace and without regret, Emma.

In the post

After my admission in November I mentioned my wanting to write to the paramedics who take care of me on my way to A&E to thank them. I wasn't ever successful in getting the names from the ambulance service of the specific paramedics who came to my rescue, so at Christmas time I decided to send the North East Ambulance Service , as a whole, a Christmas card. In the card I thanked them for the wonderful and vital work that they do, and said that I hoped they knew how appreciated they are, even though they come across many who don't appreciate them. I told them that I am a regular user of the NEAS for my brittle asthma, and thanked them for helping to keep me alive thus far. I knew that it was unlikely that they'd have a peaceful new year, but I wished them one anyway, and said that I hoped they didn't get too many calls from drunks wanting a quick lift home and nothing wrong with them other than the consumption of too much alcohol - i.e. misuse of the service. There were one or two other things in my note to them too, and I can't remember any of my exact wording. I am of the belief that it's as important, if not more important, to acknowledge positive experience as well as the negative. Expressed appreciation can go a long way to bolster flagging morale. Maybe you can look out for opportunities to take this stance too - nothing is too little to be appreciated.

Anyway, much to my surprise, I received a letter in the post last week from the NEAS. This is what it says:

Dear Ms G

Thank you for your Christmas card in which you extend your thanks and appreciation to the staff of the North East Ambulance Service. Thank you for the kind words you say about the ambulance staff, I know they will appreciate your sentiments.

Can I also take this opportunity to thank you for taking the time to contact us. It is always very pleasing to receive such appreciations, as I am sure you are aware that we strive to provide the best possible service, however it is particularly reassuring to have that confirmed at first hand from someone with recent experience.

Yours sincerely

Paul Liversidge
DIRECTOR OF AMBULANCE OPERATIONS

It's ever so nice of them to write back to me, but I also find it quite sad that they obviously get so few letters of appreciation that they feel compelled to write back thanking me for mine ... a thank you for a thank you. Don't you think it says something about society and our taking the ambulance service (and I guess the fire service and police as well) for granted, that when one letter of thanks is sent, the Director of Ambulance Operations makes the time to reciprocate with his own letter of thanks?

So with this in mind, I set you all a task this week: Show your appreciation to someone for something they have done, something they have given you, or a service they provide. All the better if you do this more than once in the week. I'd love to hear what you do for this so feel free to leave a comment.

Neglect

I've neglected you all for the past 8 or 9 days. Sorry. I have no valid excuse. I could complain of tiredness and lethargy (which are actually being looked into by the docs as possible hypothyroidism, because there are also a number of other symptoms present associated with it), but that'd be boring. Er, really all I can say is sorry, so .... sorry.