Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 2.9

In the good old days the charts I was into on a Thursday were the TOTP (Top of the Pops) charts, and then I was mostly concerned with number ones. Now it's the WDOAT charts, and I'm more interested in number twos. How times change.

Wednesday 30th January:
1.35pm Firmish stool
8.30pm Firmish stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
1 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
My legs ache from Tuesday's run and my pride is bruised from getting lost.

The start of the runs

This post will appear in two parts. The first part will be written before I go for a run and the second part after. I want to conduct a little experiment to see if I can manage a bit of exercise.

PART I – TUESDAY, 7.14PM

I’m about to change into my running gear. I’ll be wearing the red and white racing colours of my trainer, Lady Margaret Doolan. Sorry, rubbish joke. Put it down to pre-run nerves. Actually I’ll be wearing a pair of trainers I picked up on the Holloway Road 12 years ago in the afterglow of Euro ’96. I say, isn’t it frightening to think children younger than my trainers are being arrested for knife crime? Sorry, I’m just procrastinating now. I will go for the run. In a minute. A bit of background first. In my younger days I was actually a half decent runner. Fading away in a scrapbook somewhere I even have the certificates to prove it. But to be honest my athletics career fell at the first hurdle when I discovered other interests. Guinness mainly. So I’m under no illusions; I’m an out of condition 35-year-old man whose body has been ravaged by time, a predilection for the Liffey’s finest, and just for good measure, ulcerative colitis. I will be timing myself. With a stopwatch.

Marks…

Get set…

Did I ever tell you about the time I found a fish finger nailed to…alright, alright, I’m going.

Go!

PART II – TUESDAY, 9.23PM

I ran for 18 minutes 37 seconds. I stopped after 18 minutes 37 seconds for two reasons; firstly my legs were tiring and secondly I was lost. I didn’t keep track of any of the street names I passed. They were a blur anyway. Not because of the incredible speed I was going, but for the simple fact I wasn’t wearing my glasses. And it was dark out there. Fortunately a bus went by that was heading towards Walthamstow, so I was able to follow the direction it was going in until I was back on familiar turf. (This part of the run I walked.) Navigational difficulties aside, I think the run went pretty well. I wasn’t in any danger of setting off any speed cameras, but I kept a steady pace, which could loosely be described as a jog. My breathing was regular throughout and I didn’t get a stitch or cramp or anything. The backs of my knees felt weak, kind of like loose elastic. I’ve noticed this before though, even just climbing stairs, and I definitely think it’s a UC thing rather than an age thing. Not that I’m going to let a trifling matter like jelly knees hamper my athletics comeback. After all, my legs did manage to carry me through the back streets of E17 for a whole 18 minutes and 37 seconds. Next time I’m going to aim to run for 30 minutes. With the help of an A-Z.

Questions and answers

On my last visit to the hospital I was asked if I could spare a few minutes to talk to a junior doctor. We won’t have a lot in common, I thought, but there’s no harm in a natter. Besides I quite like junior doctors. They’re just like proper grown up doctors, only with more self-doubt. And because they have more self-doubt, they seem a bit more thorough. They question everything. They re-check and re-examine and if needs be they’re not too proud to reach for their My First Big Bumper Book of Medical Symptoms. They’ll even ask a colleague for a second opinion. A little uncertainty ain’t necessarily a bad thing. Personally I don’t like my doctors to be too confident. Give me a hesitant double-checker over a ‘been there, done that, bought the stethoscope’ doc any day. Anyway so I’m introduced to this junior doctor or student doctor or whatever they call themselves and he leads me off to a private room. We sit down and he explains that he’s researching how ulcerative colitis impacts on day-to-day life and asks me whether I would mind answering a few questions. I’m your man, I think to myself, kerching! you’ve hit the jackpot with me, there’s not much I can’t tell you about life with ulcerative colitis, welcome to Anecdote Central, I’m the Peter Ustinov of UC, make yourself comfy, we could be here for quite some time. And you’re going to need a bigger notebook than that, sunshine. Much bigger. So, feeling like a guest on Parky, I say coolly, “Sure, fire away.” The first couple of questions are a doddle, simple background stuff. I answer succinctly, and as he scribbles in his jotter I’m thinking, this is just the aperitif, matey, merely something to whet the appetite, wait ‘til we get to the meaty stuff. “And what have you found has been the biggest change to your life?” the junior doctor probes, his pencil hovering expectantly over the pad. This is my cue, my big moment in the spotlight, my chance to tell my heart-wrenching story, of the hardships, the pain, of my fears, anxieties and hopes. I have my audience, hanging on my every word. All I have to do is tell it like it is and there won’t be a dry eye left in the house. This is what comes out of my mouth, “Beige-beige-beige-beige-beige-beige-beige-beige-beige-piffle-and-beige.” At least that’s what it sounded like. At this point I’m having an out of body experience. I’m floating somewhere up by the curtain rail watching myself struggle to put together a coherent sentence. It’s like watching someone at a Stutterers Anonymous meeting. Trying a different tack the junior doctor asks, “Has your illness affected your relationship with your partner?” Come on, big guy, I will myself on. By the Power of Greyskull, sock it to him. Nope. “Beige- beige-beige-beige-beige-piffle-poo-and-beige.” The doctor looks up from his pad. His eyes widen, looking for more. It isn’t coming. I dry up completely; I’m all out of beige. The doctor places his pencil on the desk in resignation. I hang my head and through my fringe I mutter something about having a blog which might beige be of beige some beige interest…So if you’re reading this, doc, I hope the words you'll find here will make up for my lack of them in our meeting.

I wouldn't have got where I am today without tuberculosis

The book currently keeping me from filling my noggin each morning with Metro’s bite-size newschunks is about a group of young writers who burst onto the literary scene in the 1950’s. The beery, brawling antics of Kingsley Amis, John Osborne, Philip Larkin and their contemporaries gained them such notoriety the austere post-war media dubbed them The Angry Young Men. And when they weren’t outraging The Daily Mail with their shenanigans they still found time to knock out legendary stuff like Look Back in Anger, Room at the Top and Lucky Jim. I’ve only just started reading it, and already I’m hooked. Hardly a surprise though, as anything with booze, fisticuffs and writing is okay in my book. But it’s not all hell-raising and rabble-rousing. In an early chapter it mentions how as a child John Osborne contracted rheumatic fever and was bedridden for 10 months. For 10 months all he did was read and listen to classical music on the wireless. He also subscribed to a correspondence course on how to write fiction. He made himself clever. If he had been healthy as a kid he may not have become the writer he became. It could just be that he owes some of his success to his illness? And he’s not alone. Ray Galton and Alan Simpson began writing comedy sketches together whilst in the same hospital with tuberculosis. After being given a clean bill of health and released from incarceration they then went on to write Hancock’s Half Hour and Steptoe & Son. They’re arguably two of the finest sitcom writers Britain has ever produced. But would that be the case if they’d breezed through adolescence without so much as a sniffle? It makes you wonder. Take Alan Sillitoe. Another TB victim and incidentally also one of the Angry Young Men. He began writing to combat the tedium of life in a hospital bed. His first novel, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is one of my favourite books. I’ve got four copies. I’m sure there are loads more examples, not just of writers, where illness has acted as a catalyst. Not that I’m saying one of the side effects of illness is success. For the most part being poorly is just plain miserable, but maybe, just maybe, with the right sort of attitude something good can come out of something bad? It might be a healthier way to deal with being sick?

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 2.8

Down to 1 pred. 2 more weeks and then no pred at all. Then we'll see if the azathioprine has got the muscle to go unassisted.

Wednesday 23rd January:
6am Loose stool
1pm Firmish stool
5.25pm Firmish stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
1 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
Looks a little worse than it is. Monday & Tuesday I only went to the toilet once.

How supportive is your employer?

And so another day begins in the Jermyn Street headquarters of PR consultancy, Wagging Tong’s. Self-appointed High Priestess of Spin, Amanda Tong is already on her third chai tea latte. Over the rims of her trademark starshaped specs she spies account manager, Debbie…

"Ah, Debbie, have you got a sec, hun?"

"Sure."

"You’re okay, don’t need the—"

"I was just going to the photocopier."

"You weren’t dashing to the...?"

"Nope, I was definitely going to the photocopier."

"Well, I just wanted to say you have our full support with your ‘thing’ – you know – your funny ‘tummy thing’."

"Thanks, that’s really good of—"

"Aw, you are such a trooper, you really are – a little pooper trooper."

"I’m sorry?"

"Anywaaaay. I had a word with HR about this bug you’ve got—"

"Ulcerative colitis. It’s not a bug."

"I know, shaaaame. Well HR have had a little look at the loos for you and I think you’ll be thrilled with what they’ve done. They really went to town; there’s enough toilet roll to see you through a nuclear winter, air fresheners – I think you can even get Wi-Fi in there now. And I had a word with Keith from building services about getting a window put in so you can release a bit of that trapped wind, but structurally it’s a no can do, I’m afraid. But as luck would have it, it turns out Keith is a member of the TA, and he’s managed to get his hands on a couple of gasmasks. How about that?"

"Gasmasks!"

"I know, isn’t he a star?"

"I’ve got an idea; maybe just to be on the safe side I should take a caged canary into the toilets with me?"

Amanda Tong takes off her starshaped glasses and squints, deep in thought.

"Yes, yes, I can see where you’re coming from. I suppose it would be good for you to have a bit of company in there."

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 2.7

I only had one poo. But enough about me, how do you do?

Wednesday 16th January:
6.30am Loose stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
2 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
One or two bowel movements a day seems to be the norm.

Liar, liar, pants on fire

Hands up who has used their ulcerative colitis as an excuse to get out of doing something? You know, like if you don’t fancy going to see P.S. I Love You with your girlfriend, you tell a little fib and say your tummy is playing up. Ulcerative colitis has gifted us the perfect readymade excuse. And because it’s perceived as a ‘sensitive’ subject hardly anyone will ever question you. I try not to use my UC as a Get Out of Jail Free card, but if I’m being honest, in the past I have. A little bit. Not very often. But sometimes it’s too easy having the illness thing in your armoury. I know it’s wrong, but are you telling me that Superman never used his x-ray vision to take a sneaky peak through Lois Lane’s blouse? If you’ve got it, you might as well use it. Plus there just aren’t that many benefits to having ulcerative colitis, so if you can turn it to your advantage in some small way it seems silly not to. Obviously, I’m not advocating we use our disease to shirk all responsibility, like taking the kids swimming or getting Gran her weekly quarter of Dolly Mixtures. I’m just saying that every now and then having ulcerative colitis might come in handy. If used sparingly, of course. It could just mean the difference between spending an afternoon traipsing round a garden centre looking at those things bees are quite fond of or sitting at home watching repeats of Porridge.

Superb toilet facilities with a rather nice library attached

I went to the British Library today. I love the British Library. It’s home to a mind-boggling 13 million books. What Wembley is to football, the British Library is to words. It’s a cathedral to literature. And a great place for a Sunday afternoon mooch. Whilst I was there I looked up how many books on ulcerative colitis they have. According to the database there are 160. Ascent from Chaos: A psychosomatic case study [The case history of a patient suffering from ulcerative colitis] written by Peter Emanuel Sifneos, and published in 1965 is the earliest book on the subject. I’m guessing from its cumbersome title that it’s not a short book. Probably not what you’d describe as a page-turner. I somehow doubt there’s a quote on the back cover from The Sun saying “A right, rollicking, riveting read. Unputdownable!” Maybe I’m being a bit harsh on Mr Peter Emanuel Sifneos, but like his name, the title of his book is a bit of a mouthful. Now if I wrote a book about UC I’d call it Something to read on the Bog. No clever-clogs subhead in brackets. Just Something to read on the Bog. Nice and simple. And on the very last page it would say Now wash your hands. Speaking of which, whilst I was at the British Library I had to use the toilets, and at the risk of sounding like Lav Lady, they really are top notch. Clean, light, spacious, with a row of eight or so well stocked cubicles, the gents are well worth a visit. Best of all though is there’s plenty to read. When you need a poo, you can just tuck a 12th century bible under your arm and off you go. Sorted.

A spot of acne

Recently I’ve had an outbreak of spots on my back and chest. A cursory glance at my upper torso would leave one with the impression I had been blessed with more than the standard issue two nipples. But despite what it may look like I don’t have any supernumerary nipples. I am not, like infamous Bond villain Scaramanga, the possessor of a thripple – or third nipple. What I do have is some very red, very angry looking spots. And when I say angry, I mean ruddy livid. These zits are the acne equivalent of Michael Douglas in Falling Down. They're just waiting to explode. They stretch across my shoulders like a range of miniature volcanoes threatening to erupt. They’re so big you can feel them through a shirt and jumper. For any Braille readers out there, my body is probably quite a good read. If you joined them up dot-to-dot style I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it didn’t make a picture. A galloping horse, maybe, or a tractor perhaps. No, they’re just plain old spots – ugly, sometimes painful, pus-filled pimples. Something else to file away in the box called ‘side effects of ulcerative colitis drugs’. Not that I wish to whine, but it could have some relevance to UC and therefore this blog. And anyway, in writing the brilliant Ham on Rye, Charles Bukowski managed to squeeze half a novel out of his chronic acne, the least I can do is bash out a couple of hundred words on mine.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 2.6

I've got a cold and unlike my nose, my bum isn't bunged up.

Wednesday 9th January:
6.35am Loose stool
3.15pm Firmish stool
8.30pm Loose to firmish stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
2 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
A first class ticket to Dottingham, please.

The first lady of lavs

Should you be planning a trip to Washington DC, you might want to visit this site first. Lavatory Lady is kind of like a restaurant critic, but for toilets. She reviews public lavatories and posts pictures and video clips. On her blog no bog is safe from her scathing critiques. It seems she’s on a one-woman crusade to clean up the WC’s of DC. A noble enough cause, I guess. Unfortunately she doesn’t appear to have had access to the little boys room in the White House. Shame.

The long climb back

SWITZERLAND, JANUARY, 2008
The village of Ftan (ff-tarn) nestles in the Swiss Alps 1650 metres above sea level. On this particular day the temperature is a teeth-chattering -10.

LONDON, MAY, 2007
Walthamstow is located at the end of London Underground’s Victoria Line in Zone 3. On this particular day the weather is overcast with the possibility of light showers later.

SWITZERLAND, JANUARY, 2008
The chairlift scoops up the skiers in pairs and hoists them high above the powdery snow, carrying them effortlessly towards the summit. No such luxury for us, my fellow adventurers and I are walking up. Tally-ho, pip-pip, last one up’s a sissy.

LONDON, MAY, 2007
I turn left out my front door onto a street like the one 1970’s fancy dress fetishist Mr Ben lived on, but unlike his road, which always led to an adventure, nothing more exciting than work awaits at the end of mine.

SWITZERLAND, JANUARY, 2008
The footpath crosses the piste and we give way to ruddy-cheeked skiers and Stormtrooperish snowboarders. The gradient is gentle and setting a cracking pace, I lead the pack.

LONDON, MAY, 2007
I wait at the zebra crossing for a car to graciously stop. I don’t mind as it gives me time to catch my breath. Finally a driver looks up from writing a text message just in time to hit the brakes and allow me to cross. At a snail’s pace I pass Tommy,s Tuc Inn, my local café with its wonderfully apostrophed sign.

SWITZERLAND, JANUARY, 2008
All conversation has petered out now. We climb in determined silence. Despite the freezing temperatures, I’m sweating and decide to peel off my bobble hat and gloves. I pause a moment to survey the path ahead, which zig-zags up through the trees as far as the eye can see. My legs are tired. We’ve been walking just 10 minutes.

LONDON, MAY, 2007
I’m breathing heavily now and with my chin tucked into my chest, I concentrate on the exhausting act of putting one foot in front of the other. Lifting my head I see The Rose & Crown looming ahead. I’ve been walking about 5 minutes.

SWITZERLAND, JANUARY, 2008
Holy Mother of Christ, my lungs have deflated and are impotently swinging inside my chest cavity like a pair of rubber veruca socks. I can barely breathe. It’s steep now and we’re straggled out over a hundred yards or so. I’m bringing up the rear. It seems I may have made the schoolboy error of going off too quick at the start. We’re half an hour into the walk.

LONDON, MAY, 2007
Greggs! I’m only as far as Greggs! That’s it, I am going to suffer the humiliation of being found dead on the doorstep of Greggs the bakers, just inches from the resuscitating goodness of a tray of steak bakes. Oh, the tragedy. Old aged tartan trolley pullers are overtaking me now. I’ve been walking 7 minutes and I am cream crackered and my arse aches.

SWITZERLAND, JANUARY, 2008
I heave myself onto a bench. My legs feel like they’ve been filled with wet sand. I can hear my heart racing wildly, beating so loud I fear it might set off an avalanche. I estimate I’m about three quarters of the way up. I want to turn back, but I’ve come too far to quit now. I must soldier on and take my strength and inspiration from great British heroes like Scott, Shackleton and Eddie the Eagle Edwards.

LONDON, MAY, 2007
My hair is plastered to my forehead. Walthamstow Market falls away to the right. I steady myself on a railing as an invisible bully digs me in the belly. I flinch. Commuting to work shouldn’t be this painful, at least not until you’re on the Underground. With the Tube in my sights, I drag myself the last 50 metres, muttering words of encouragement to myself, along the lines of “Come on ya lilly-livered bastard.” That sort of thing.

SWITZERLAND, JANUARY, 2008
With rubber band legs I finally reach the top. It has taken us an hour. Prui (prr-oo-ee) is little more than a café and a dropping off point for the ski lift. I fill my veruca socks with deep breaths of mountain-crisp air and take in the spectacular views down onto Scuol (ssh-kwoll). Before I join the others for burger and chips, I think back to May and how just walking up to Walthamstow Tube in the mornings had left me exhausted. And here I am now, on a snow-capped peak, a bit tired, but in a good way. A normal way.

LONDON, MAY, 2007
I reach the Tube station filled with bitterness. I’m in pain and I need to sit down. How much longer is this going to go on? When will things get back to normal? Will things ever get back to normal? As I descend the escalator into the bowels of London Underground I wonder, is this how it's going to be for me forever?

SWITZERLAND, JANUARY, 2008
As I make my descent on the chairlift towards Ftan, I let my legs swing freely beneath me – my legs that carried me up a mountain – and I wonder, is this how it's going to be for me forever?

Aren’t you that hospital off the telly?

My local hospital is Whipps Cross. It’s quite similar to a lot of hospitals all over the country. There’s an old bit, which is sort of Gothic looking and spooky, and then there’s a modern bit stuck on the side, which is all shiny and plastic like a Fisher Price toy hospital. On Friday I was passing from the old part into the new – the architectural equivalent of time travel – when a framed black and white photograph on the wall caught my eye. It showed a film crew with a camera on a crane, outside the main entrance to the hospital. A caption beneath the picture read, ‘Filming of Doctor in the House, 1973’. I’m too young to remember Doctor in House. In 1973, the bawdiness of a bunch of randy doctors chasing nubile young nurses around would have been lost on me. I was more into rusks than rumpy-pumpy. But I do know that Graham Chapman and John Cleese wrote some of the scripts, which means that scenes written by two real-life Pythons were acted out and filmed at Whipps Cross Hospital. My hospital. Touched by the hand of Chapman and Cleese. How brilliant is that? David Beckham may have been born at Whipps Cross, but what sort of desperate claim to fame is that? Did David Beckham write the ‘Dead Parrot Sketch’? I don’t think so. Now I know a little bit about the showbiz past of my hospital, I look at the place in a whole new light. I wouldn’t say I’m starstruck exactly, but it’s nice to think that the hospital I go to with my bum trouble has played a small role in the history of British comedy. And I can’t say I’m all that surprised. I’ve always thought there was something funny about Whipps Cross.

The classic theme tune to Whipps Cross based hospital romp-com, Doctor in the House.

A day in the life

There are some days when you just feel good. Days when you find you have a frisky little spring in your step. You might even be so bold as to attempt a cheeky wink at the girl who serves your coffee. You feel like Popeye after a can of the green stuff. Like George Best in his 1960’s pomp. You’re top of the toppermost, punch the air and whistle a cheery tune, undisputed King of the World. You’re the devastatingly handsome, gymnastically witty leading man in the movie of your life, with great hair and killer suits. You’re floating on air. Fresh like a giggle. You can’t put a foot wrong. Not on days like these. Sadly yesterday wasn’t one of those days. Far from it. Yesterday I felt clammy, itchy, greasy, oily, spotty, blotchy, icky, yucky, woozy, fuzzy and plain old rubbishy. Pick any not-very-nice adjective you like with a XXXX-ing Y at the end of it and that was me. Everything felt ‘eurgh’. All dreary, faded and modest like 1970’s tinned vegetables. I was off colour and off the pace. It felt like my head had been stuffed with cotton wool and my brain replaced with a greying pickled egg. I did not feel myself. Actually, I felt more like Gollum. It was definitely one of those ‘Please God don’t let me bump into any ex-girlfriends’ days. (Personally I don’t think there’s ever a good time to run into an ex, but if fate decrees you should, then I’d rather it didn’t happen whilst I’m feeling like some bedraggled and damp smelling sub-species.) Yup, from the moment I put my boxer shorts on back to front, Thursday 3rd January was just bothersome. But on days like yesterday I thank my lucky stars that I live on Earth and not Mercury. A day there lasts 4224 hours. Imagine what that would be like if you were having a bad day.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 2.5

First WDOAT of 2008 and it looks a lot like any number of WDOAT's from 2007. Not that I'm complaining. I snaked my way across Switzerland yesterday on 3 different trains, before taking off for London, and not once did I have to worry about dashing to the loo. Pretty good, eh?

Wednesday 2nd January:
8am Loose stool
9.30am Firmish stool
8.15pm Loose stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
2 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
Nothing out of the ordinary to report. Cold out though.