Shaggy Saturday

They can be good, they can be bad and they can be very surreal – well, let’s face it if you’re not a sports-fan or of the Jewish faith they can be bit meaningless - but, whatever they are, Saturdays have to be dealt with.

For many years now, I have thought of this seventh day as the day everybody else has somebody else. In so far as I don’t see or hear (i.e. by ‘phone) anybody else. Invalid (in-valid?) that I am, stuck out here in the “pasture” that is almost Kent but really just the slower, quieter end of south-east London.

Oh, they used to pop in, at the old place, inner-city. One or two of them, once or twice just to salve their consciences (I knew it). Before things got a bit too obvious to ignore and their sympathy was forced, understanding feigned. Usually for about an hour (watch-watching), unexpectedly, on their way to somewhere else.

That was insulting. Yes, hurtful. I think, if you’re not careful, that sort of thing makes you bitter. But, hey, as long as you let them know you knew how it was and were happy anyway, everything was hunky-dory. And is – now that they’re nowhere to be seen – or heard.

It’s more honest and, therefore, much more easily tolerated. (But, while I’m at it, can you see why I find birthday/Christmas cards from these people so irrelevant and irreverant? Jesus told us, whatever we do for the least of His brethren (i.e. visit the sick) so also we do for Him (Mat 25:31-46). No one in my family - apart from Tom and brother Blob, of course - knows that scripture, obviously. And some of them ----- go to church!). Ah well. This is better.

And usually I wake up on Saturdays, filled with optimism. They’re my days. Free days (no official – i.e. social services/MS-related people. – ringing up. No council workmen outside or in). Just quiet and free. I can make of them what I will. And, neighbours allowing (dog next door, chldren upstairs), I’m going to make them good.

And Lucy and I will sometimes party!

Well, I say ‘party’. But that, of course, is normally all we do, say we’ll party. That is, I’ll say somehing like, “Let’s have a party today, Lucy!” and she’ll just look up at me non-plussed, but I like to thiink aware it’s a good moment. Indeed, sometimes I sound so excited and sure, she does jump up and down with enthusiasm. And, at least the mood is up-beat. we can go on from there.

Yesterday, though, didn’t look too hopeful. Things were decidedly ‘shaggy’.

It was dark outside – at ten in the morning – and when I, at last, managed to see clearly, on my second cup of coffee and cigarette, I saw the reality of the unkempt duo in the room.

Me – oh well, I’ve been a mess for a while. but seeing Lucy overgrown and slightly gray from too long without a shower, well, that was a downer. That upset me. Because there’s nothing I can physically do.


And there are reasons, and I don’t like those either

Normally the poor little thing would have been to the groomers in the past few weeks, but, ah, she just had her first full season. And it was horrible. In fact, so bad, that now I’ve actually booked to have her spayed. And I feel guilty and miserable, because it’s bringing back old memories (I had an hysterectomy for fibroids 23 years ago!) and can’t bear to see her go through any more suffering.

The first time was, apparently, at a few days old when – unbeknown to Tom and me (we’d never have allowed it) - the breeder and her vet docked poor Lucy’s tail ('...slugs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails...’ Ha, now I understand the nursery rhyme!) How barbaric. And, thank God, the law was changed this year (when we learnt of this practice). It tears my heart to contemplate. .

Then, about a year ago, she spent a couple of days in hospital after chewing and eating too much of a Nylabone toy. Our faults. For some ridiculous reason (someone’s not very good at reading small print on labels) we had believed it was edible. What fools. She was violently sick for days and, we realised looking back, had been ill for weeks.

The vet eventually diagnosed ‘gastritis’ but I suspected a lot more: for a start she was put on an anti-fungal medicine; then there was the lining-the-stomach clay, and finally soft food – for a couple of weeks. I still imagine there is shrapnel in her throat when she makes funny noises sometimes, and in her gut. Who knows? But, anyway, I dread her going through something even bigger surgically-speaking. That time she even got an infection from the puncture wound of the anaesthetic!

It makes my stomach turn and I can’t sleep at night when I think about it.

I’m glad Lucy doesn’t sleep in here (sitting-room) with me any more. She actually chose some time ago to go in what was my bedroom with her crate - to get away from the cigarette smoke and commode sounds, I imagine. But maybe, also, just not to be woken up by late night home-comers (we’ll come to that)!

‘Glad’ because that time just missing her was painful. Hopefully this time she’ll be home the same day. As long as she’s well enough.

As you know, I have progressive MS, it gets worse. It has got worse since every other day there’s been. I won’t be able to help her as much as I did last time and that means Tom has had to take time off. And will need to be patient. And kind. And supportive. Oh, hell, it’s scary – can we do it? And what will be the goal afterwards if we do? For any of us?.

Oh poor Tom. He’s lived with me so long, keeping me going and “allowing” me to manage without carers who I (gentle!) would rather not have!

And now all this and giving up precious holiday-time from work.

Well, no wonder he drinks (but, of course, I wish he wouldn’t) - 27, with so much on his shoulders.

And that’s the second reason Lucy looks un-clean. It’s not easy showering a toy-poodle, who’s naturally a “water-dog”, when you’ve got a hang-over. You have to be able to share the euphoria and not mind getting very wet! It’s a bonding experience (one I’ll never have with her) which Tom usually enjoys and puts his all into.

But not recently.

And that’s why [another meaning of the word: ‘marked by a lack of order, clarity of thinking, planning and performance’] yesterday seemed such a ‘shaggy Saturday’. Dark and dismal outside. Not so bright on the inside. And nothing illuminating to plan towards. (except – God willing – Heaven!).

Ah, but you all know me better! Would I let it stay like that?

Heck no. Not if I can help it. And, by the grace of God, I may not be capable of much physically but when it comes to morale, well, that I can keep up. Mine and Lucy’s anyway, Tom doesn’t want to be cheered up here any more (he might want to stay!).

So, on went the light-box and off went the chatter: about the weather in Rome (still sunny, hot); about it being sabato there [related to ‘Sabbath’ - which of course it is, even for Christians though we might not call it such (isn’t that why we have the “weekend”; the Sabbath still for rest from work and Sunday (the ‘first day’ (Genesis 1:3-5) of the week) as the Lord’s Day to praise God? Makes sense to me].

And then, before we (I) went down again remembering the non-visiting family – sabato o domenica (Saturday or Sunday) – Lucy and I were moving through the day.

First - and most important - the herbal regime (see MS- My Scene (Oct 07)), with 'Daily Mass' from EWTN to keep me going through the rest...

We had ablutions to deal with: semi-strip-wash for me and brushing teeth; bowels from both of us – always the biggest bother of the day; pain (me again) to contend with as the legs grew more spastic wih the increasing hours, and fatigue.

Oh, but we also had nibbles: mainly Lucy – Kibble; more coffee/herbal teas. crisps and Hob-Nobs for me (though she wants them and I shouldn’t eat them: gluten/sugar!).

And the writing got going again.

And by 5 o’clock we were learning Italian. I was teaching “Lucia” a few useful words (humour me, dear reader!): “Andiamo!” (“Let’s go!”); “il sole” (you know that one); “Che giorno bello!” (“What a lovely day!”), and so on. Till Tom came home from work.


Looking shaggy, but in a good way (i.e. longer hair, tied back and five days growth on chin). Looks good!

And (very rare on a Saturday night) stayed in. And bought take-away curry, to enjoy while we watched ‘Napoleon Dynamite’ on DVD. Then he even played an alphabet game – “A-Z of places you’d love to visit.” Well, that was just perfect, matched the mood completely.

And hey, guess what, it turned out to be a pretty good Saturday and not too shaggy at all.

And today (Sunday) Lucy got her shower.



P.S. Is this a “shaggy-dog story”?

Well, literally, yes. Lucy is a ‘shaggy dog’. But, then again, no. I didn’t think of the genre till after it was written. (Thank you MS!)

In the long-run? Oh, probably. In my last, interrupted, “autobiography” I compare the attempt to Laurence Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, and that definitely is.

We’ll see...

I never liked dogs...

[A piece I wrote for the MSS book, MS TALENT (published next month) but pulled out for two reasons: 1) I could not condone their recent advertising campaign which failed to support the “progressives”, and 2) it’s the only thing I ever wote that made Tom laugh outloud!]

In fact I hated them. Thought every dog was male and every one, a rampant, raping, pillaging, pooing, parasite. At the very least – even if I couldn’t see them – they were barking, brainless (why didn’t they realise no one was coming and just resign, quietly?) noise pollution. At the most/worst they would bite me, rip me to shreds and leave me dead.

So what is this I now see sniffing round my crippled feet? What is this pair of brownest eyes looking up at me, pleading and tender in the morning light?

And, what, as I sip my wake-up coffee, is this strange sensation of wet-warm licking on my nerve-numb legs?

Is it a dog, Virginia? An actual canine living and breathing in the same space as you? Have you lost your mind?

No, just my body.

I don’t feel like moving today. Don’t want to move. The whole of my physical being cries out: “Leave me alone!” I just want to close my eyes and surrender to the end in peace.

And so, what is this, this bundle of curls, insisting I placate its demanding for food and affection. It’s the antithesis of everything I need, isn’t it?

Well, no. Apparently, aged 54, Virginia has learnt yet one more truth of the world: “A dog will love you unconditionally”. And so she does...

This toy poodle, who isn’t a “what” but most definitely a “who”. Lucy. The only one here, who still wants to be with me. Who suffers my struggles and staggers through the day, just as surely as I do.

And comes running, and licking and loving whenever it’s tough and she knows there’s a need.

And doesn’t mind – in fact, probably enjoys – that I am not washed. When every human being would, and does, turn away.

I look down to Lucy, from the chair I would be stuck in without her, and sure enough she looks up (with those eyes that are prone to conjunctivitis as mine are to optic neuritis) and meets my soul. And I ask her how she is, tell her everything will be all right. And we’ll get there in the end. Yes, of course, I am talking to both of us! And she jumps up, all energy where I have none. So I say, “Let’s get this show on the road!” and sort-of jump up. And she follows, little tail bobbing (I wouldn’t have let them dock the tail if I’d known that’s what they did - thank God now it’s banned) with enthusiasm.

Before I know it, I have fed her some Kibble, hydrated her with fresh water, cleaned up a poo (most in a cat-litter tray, a little on the floor) and given her a love – as I am licked clean by that cute little tongue!

And the day has begun and I offer it to God and thank Him.

And I remember Saint Lucy, the patron saint of those with eye problems and, also, writers.

I might write something today. Maybe tell how I got over my phobia of dogs. And why.

But not before we’ve both had Eyebright (the herb) in the kitchen...

Oh wow, I’m moving again.

In search of the end of the day

[Subtitle - as it should have been to be true to Steinbeck!]

Steinbeck subtitled Travels with Charley, ‘In Search of America’.

Well, not for Lucy and me such grandiose ambitions. Oh no. Not for me a middle-aged frustration and rebellion against the end of my life. I’m content.

No, all we ask is to get from the beginning to the end of the day, without too much to contend with: no serious mishap or calamity to befall us (a tall order given that I’m falling about all over the place with MS and Lucy depends entirely on me!).

That, and for me to be able to do something, by God’s will, for somebody else. Even, as often, without seeing or speaking to another human being.

I thought the only way was through prayer.

But now we have blogging!

And suddenly the world has opened up. We can - in theory - talk to anyone. Anywhere.

Oh, just imagine bringing a smile to someone’s face through something you write. Or maybe helping, by example, with some annoying problem.

So, this is ‘where I’ve been’ (see ‘Intro.’ to this blog) - getting to know how to blog (which meant learning how to use the Internet first!). And it’s taken ages to get this far.

But I seem to have time – praise God!

And thank you Blogger, Google, Bill Gates et al. Lucy is especially grateful for a wider audience - more people to love and amuse!

At the end of the day I thank God for getting us there. And also for my lap-top and the ability to use it. (In this society where family is less tolerant of the infirm we need this virtual interaction!)

Then I lay down the cross of my physical suffering at the foot of Calvary.

It’s what our Lord asked us to do (Luke 9:23). And there’s a peace in that.

Amen.

How long is a piece of string?

[Original introduction, drafted Jan 07, included for being the one that got me started. Where have I been? I will explain when I understand!]


So, whose bright idea was it to get a poodle? Well mine, I suppose. But that was it: an idea. I was diggle-daggling.

diggle-daggle (this is me putting it in the dictionary – it’s not there really!). v. to shake a gypsy clothes-peg with a length of knotted string attached to it while play-acting an imaginary life. *n. a gypsy clothes-peg with a length of knotted string attached to it (tied round neck of peg).

I manically diggle-daggled - first with bootee and then rattle, before my mother’s fateful design with the peg – from age nought to 11 when I took up smoking and more seriously the ball-point pen (I knew I was a writer by then). But the pegs were the stronger, and more available, drug until aged 13 when my first thought every morning became, “How many cigarettes do I have?” And hormones had kicked in and the family were making a move to another part of the country. Bad times. I didn’t actually give them up till then.

My first run-away occurred at 13 – hitch-hiked Somerset to Edinburgh – but that’s another story. And was then. I prefer now and the future

Just to add, on the diggle-daggle days: it was a painful parting. I still don’t know why I did it. But into the dustbin went this perfectly weighted and worn collection, one sad, final time. And it was good practise for giving up a son three years later and prescribed sleeping-pills 16 years after that.

But they too are other, very sour, stories written about elsewhere and not public yet.

On a much brighter note: only a couple of months ago, dear Tom, in an effort to wake me up and get me writing I suspect (as well as, bless him, finding me some comfort) located gypsy-pegs on ebay and bid for them all one jolly Sunday afternoon. And here they are. A beautiful, vintage collection from Liverpool (Irish descendency? Romantic caravans?!) complete with knotted string (again Tom) and I love them. The feel of them, just as I did.

But I don’t have the strength to shake them now. and Lucy keeps chasing them – of course. They sit on the book-shelves beside me and I admire them. And it’s comforting to know they are there. And shakeable!

Now I just day-dream things out. A sort-of metaphorical diggle-daggling. Until sometimes they do become goals and they happen.

Many of the scenes I diggle-daggled as a child became reality in later life. As though pre-ordained and I just caught a glimpse of their future. My own. I was acting out destiny.

In memory: diggle-daggling was special and always exciting. But there were those in the family (most?) who thought I was mad and didn’t understand that I was bored. Intellectually bored. They just “labelled” me delinquent and turned their backs.

I know now it was incomprehension on their part and I forgive them. But it made life difficult.

As did announcing I would be Catholic when I was nine.

I know, and knew, all these things were blessings, graces from God.



And in a “diggle-daggle” day-dream, after my first watching of “Crufts” on TV (I watch lots of stuff now I’d have ignored before, just because I can’t move easily out of this chair – and I didn’t yet have Internet) the idea of Lucy was born. And planned. We found a breeder (Google) with a pregnant bitch. Apricot colour. And the puppies came into the world.

Lucy literally existed and, in theory, was ours. Tom just had to "train it" from London to Crewe (and back!), choose a female, the best temperament for our dysfunctional home and pay a deposit. Which he did. And fell in love. And we have a gorgeous photograph of tiny Lucy, just three weeks old, curled up in his hand, again on the bookshelves. (How precious these Argos shelves have become. Filled as they are with nearly every book I studied for my BA when I was in my mid-40’s, and now decorated by the special mementos of our lives. They were the first piece of furniture Tom erected when we moved in here, just four years ago, to make me feel at home. God, what a good son. And brilliant buy from the great council-house store!).

Anyway, so Tom had chosen Lucy - and vice versa by the sounds of it and what I see now! - and that was when the arguments started. Was it a good idea to have a dog (“never call a poodle a dog, they take offence!” I read somewhere)? Practical?

No, of course not. But Tom was smitten. And I still loved the dream...

Roman apartamento - large enough for Tom to own half with his family. Companion poodle. Companion/PA/helper - live-in. Bells of a Basilica, pastoral priests. Pizza (preferably ristorante downstairs which – who! – can bring me my food if Tom is out!). Sunshine, warm. Sound of Vespas and cheering “Ciao’s” mixed with aroma of espresso coffee. Tinkling fountain in the courtyard for Lucy and her friends to splash about in. Red Ferrari for Tom to be a boy in. Oh, bella, bella! It goes on.

And I am kidding. For a while just the idea of a friendly poodle at my feet (never under!) was enough.

And you see the blessing of the diggle-daggle?!

We argued and neither of us was consistent. We kept contradicting ourselves and, more vociferously, each other.

Quotes from Tom during this time:

* “but if we don’t get her now it will be like a miscarriage”;
* “I went all the way up there.”;
* “we’ve paid the deposit”;
* (pained face) “but we bonded, she knows who I am”;
* “it would make us more of a family”;
* “I always wanted a dog”;
* (pleading expression) “but she’s cute!”.

Even my brother, Blob (family nickname - origin unknown!), who still visits, agreed it would be Tom who was heartbroken if Lucy didn’t join us. We should “give it a go”.

You know, try as we might to convince the world we’re hardened, heartless individuals, Tom and I really are a couple of softies. True sentamentalists. And the arguments truly were from the heart. Because we both loved the idea but were hurting from the knowledge that I had MS and might not (probably would not) be able to look after her.

And Tom wasn’t going to be around. He didn’t want to be because he had to be “young”. And that hurt him, that he knew he had to let us down (though the hurt wasn’t showing, only the resentment at my having presented him this dilemma).

It was horrible.

And then a friend of Tom’s, Richard, offered to take him up to Crewe, this time to collect Lucy and bring her back – to live! When she was eight weks old. Perfect.

The ulterior motive for Richard was that he wanted to try out his new Porsche. “Run her in”!

So, together at last, Tom and I said “Yes!”

It was all good. Except it wasn’t. On the morning they were to set off I changed my mind...

Once in a while I see the reality of MS. The reality as others – mostly officials who haven’t got it themselves but feign to be experts (i.e. neurologists and MS nurse) - see it: the given prognosis for PPMS – the progressive worsening of symptoms and deterioration to be expected. And of course, the more my body validates their conjecture the stronger my anger and denial become. Which, in turn, gives me energy and a burst of enthusiasm. I believe in miracles. I use herbal remedies.

But, this morning, as Tom was travelling across S.E. London to pick up his Porsche pal (dear Richard!) and after saying my prayers, I looked back, over recent years.

And that’s when it looks bad - and I have to admit
“they” know rather more than I want them to – when I actually look back at the decline and fall (often literal) of it all. In recent time.

You see, day to day, even though you are often aware you’re worse than yesterday, you don’t recognise that this is permanent degeneration. You may have a “good” day tomorrow. What you don’t want to realise is that a good day now is what would have been considered a bad day, even a year ago. But five years ago? Six, when I got the eventual diagnosis (2001)? It would have seemed catastrophic/soul-destroying.

And, of course, it’s not. You go with it – especially by following the cross of Christ’s crucifixion. You join Jesus by offering your suffering up, as sacrifice, in prayer for the world (“Redemptive Suffering”). And it’s not hopeless. It does have a point. You are useful.

But able to look after a puppy? Keep it clean? And the house? Train it? Not likely. It was a pipe-dream. No. Everything we’d done, almost certainly, was for nothing. All the books we(I)’d read, the room we’d got ready, the supplies; Richard volunteering to sacrifice his Saturday; Tom, in love with a cuddly “toy”. The whole notion was ridiculous. I’d be permanently in the wheelchair (waiting in the hall) any moment and bed-ridden soon after that – give it five years. Poodles live, on average, 15! This must not be allowed to happen...

I rang Tom up – mobile-definitive-decision: “STOP!”.

But he wouldn’t. Said it was too late, all planned. We couldn’t let Richard down or Anne, the breeder, or Lucy. I’d had plenty of time to say this before. (Well, I think I had, at least once, but maybe not with so much conviction.. It’s not something you want to make a habit of, admitting you’re a helpless cripple (only I can say things like that!)). And it was no good. He wouldn’t listen (probably didn’t even engage – that would have made him panic (not because of my state you understand but those reasons he gave above!)). Mumbled something about ebay if it didn’t work out (what, selling her like a cast-off coat?).

And Lucy was on her way!

And I was kind-of glad.



And now, as I write this, it’s ten months later – January 2007. And Lucy is curled up at my feet - the sweetest, calmest creature you could ever wish to meet.

And let me tell you, because I know I’ve gone on too long, how we reached this point..

Well, after Tom stayed home the first week with Lucy - rushing up and down to pet shops, visiting the vets and groomers to put all in place – and after we’d successfully (?) house-trained her (Anne had already got her used to cat-litter trays), during the day and a couple of evenings a week, I was alone. Humanly. It was just Jesus and me and a canine (albeit a very small, timid one).

And it was too much. The pain in my legs was excruciating. And the fatigue was, as is with MS, chronic. I had known physical exhaustion before when Tom was born by caesarean and I was put in a strange council-flat (for the first time) with a violent, Chelsea-fan, husband – I make no connection! Maybe even with MS. Probably. But this was worse. My stupid legs and fatigue were letting everyone down.

But the Good Lord urged me on. I added more cayenne pepper into my daily regime of herbs and kept going. But it was showing, and I was a bit worried. And did shout about finding her another home.

Tom though, still besotted and absolutely adoring of his little “sister” just - as usual - buried his head in the sand and left me to get on with it. If anyone was going to do anything to change things it would have to be me. Of course!

And so time wore on and Lucy and I grew closer – I was liking chatting to her (though I was slightly concerned it might spoil my silent communion with God). I started to see she was the “companion” everyone (including the MS nurse and priest) had said she’d be and that, in fact, she was saving my sanity – there just is too much being alone. She was helpful to all (?!) my other relationships.

And I began to feel, she too, was a gift from God.

Physically, it was – and still is – a nightmare, but golly gosh (where did that come from? Enid Blyton? ‘Bunty’?! I’m a child again!) it does do good for the soul to be putting another before yourself. And on that she insisted!

The only thing left to worry about – as long as I could keep standing – was my writing. Because without that I am not me. I do not recognise myself.

And that’s when - oh blessings! – I learned about John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. And Charley being a (standard) poodle.

Oh joy, joy! Someone (the great and prolific Steinbeck!) had written with a poodle at his feet, alone in a customised pick-up truck (wow!), roughing it across America.

Oh, could anything be more comparable to Lucy and me in our cramped little council-flat with our diggle-daggle dreams, struggling to get from ‘A’ to ‘B’? It was perfect. I would write Travels with Lucy!

And Tom, again, with brother Blob, came to the rescue. By the time I had proved the point by writing this in draft they knew enough of this former journalist to know that when she said she’d write a blog (or two!) she meant it and had better be set-up with the Net (spoilt or what?!).

I bought a new lap-top and the DLA (Disability Living Allowance) let me install wireless (at least I hope it did; having Lucy was already more financial burden than I was used to. But you know how it goes: “It will be an investment!”).

And the boys got it going.

Thus, I set off on a huge learning exercise: not only was I still training Lucy but I had to get used to this cyber-space thing. And peruse all the information on blogs. I had to study blogs. And then there was the odd forum to join and join in on. Very unfortunately, the MS Society’s Forum is totally addictive.

I had to learn to conquer the universal addiction to surfing the Net. Quite a task!

Anyway, there we were, the end of January. And, all of a suddden, for the first time, I could say: “Happy New Year!” and mean it. It was “All systems go!” (except of course for the Central Nervous System which was going but in the wrong direction!).

And, because it’s the kind of person I am, with prayer and a diggle daggle I am filled with optimism.

Lucy and I are on our way...



Blog Note: okay folks, this post looks fine here (Word) but now I have to paste it onto Blogger (I can’t see well enough to write on that screen!). Please bear with me and forgive imperfections!