You many or may not
have memories of watching a TV programme with your parents called
‘It’s a knockout’. The show was hosted in a different UK
location each week and featured local ‘ordinary people’ from two
nearby locations, competing against each other in teams. The games
were outsize versions of a junior school sports day: people were tied
together, awkward objects were carried, races were made more
difficult by the addition of foam, water or slippery surfaces ( no
health and safety in those days)….and to add to the ridiculousness, most people were dressed in enormous foam suits that sagged high over
their bodies, and had giant feet to trip them up for the hilarity of
all.
During the last few
weeks, I have been in a constant race of knockout , as I
try to navigate a small flat dressed in baggy leggings and fluffy slippers,
whilst slowly steering a bulky walker into door frames, spilling tea
on the carpet and watching as my stick clatters to the floor nearly
tripping me over. The International IAKO, was called Je sans
Frontiers , or Games without Frontiers. The war that I am in is one
where the borders are constantly changing, and the rules obscure...
until you break them. I am not finding that much hilarity actually.
The times I am not
in active combat with carpet rails, door frames and my own bruised
body, I remain in a kind of shock at how quickly I have become
immobilized. Up until three months ago, I used a stick in my rare
forays outside the house, but inside the going was incredibly slow
but steady.
Then just before
Christmas my body stopped co-operating with its owner. I found myself
sinking to the lino or propping myself up on the door frame on a
trip to the loo. Pee breaks became something to think about a lot,
but only do a little, as raising my frame onto my fragile legs was
such a task.
As this sorry state
of affairs dragged on I watched myself trying to juggle a stick, a
cup of tea, and a bottle of water, then pausing to rest on the stick,
and dropping all of them. I have forgotten my stick many times, and
ended up stranded in the front room ( no we don’t live in Downton-
its a 2 bed flat on a housing estate). I had begun to load myself
with bags slung across my body to minimize the number of trips to and
from the bed. I felt like a drugs mule.
One day I snapped- I
don’t recall the specific straw, but I do remember how the camel’s
back felt….yeah- not fun!! The following Monday I called the
Occupational Therapist- and voilà- I now have the Swiss-army knife
of mobility help; loan of wheelchair as needed, Walker ( with seat
and bag ), kitchen trolley for transporting stuff...and my old
faithfuls, my stick and mobility scooter. And yes….I am still
mainly stuck in bed!
So this is life for
the time being: I shamble around pausing many times- an absurdist
figure that just isn’t funny. When I tell her, a friend offers me
the kind loan of a china potty. On second thoughts I prefer to think
of myself as a toddler- going from the depths of despair with every
fall, but getting up with a big smile to try again.
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