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It is hard to concentrate to write, when all you can think of is the various irritants caused by both sides of your gut, your back and, the spasms and associated gas that follows on. But, I try. And… try again… And, finally…



Travelling to Karl’s gave me that rare opportunity, a chance to write, that my complaints so often intrude upon. Yet, no matter how I felt, I’d been determined to travel, my friendship with Karl being what it is, to me. So, I’d been able to begin this piece, which I’ve intended to write, for a little while. And, I guess that brings me to the subject of determination, something I’ve grown to understand more, of late. My body and its irritants could preclude me from doing what I want to do. But, with a little help from my Father, I’ve managed to adapt, to what I Now understand and therefore keep the commitments I’ve made. Thus far, that is… Yet, I’ve wanted to write of the Friday I went travelling, after I’d learned from The Cheshire dash Nationwide, I was solvent. Finally the dole had paid me what I’d been owed, therefore acknowledging my appeals decision.

Then, as now, I’d felt deflated, not elated, as I’d have expected…

But, I’d been travelling; after finishing a disc for my advocate and, trying to get on the radio, as the presenter had been doing a piece that mentioned the percentage of people winning cases against the dole. I hadn’t got the airtime I’d wanted, but had gone travelling and, got some more writing started… Anyway…

So, after another sleepless night, when sitting up in bed to write, was not an option, I’d laid abed, knees drawn up, to balance my notebook, as I had written of the story that I’d wanted to tell…

It had started on the Friday, when I hadn’t got the call-back from Radio Merseyside. The weekend had then followed, as they do. Then, it had been on the Monday after housework and I’d been washing my coffee-mug, when the phone had rung: “This is Radio Merseyside. Would you like opportunity to speak on the radio, as you didn’t get the chance on Friday?” Did I?

Well, I’d spoken for just under ten minutes – or, longer than the presenter often gets on the show. I’d spoken of the year and a half of hell I’d gone through with the dole. I’d even got the chance to call the dole liars and tell the truth, which had been a pleasure indeed: they’d used words in the papers I’d been given to do with the medical I recognized, but were not actually used it in the medical itself.

What they’d done was to use words from my own CV and, at the tribunal those same words had been quoted back to me, “So you like gardening eh? And weeding specifically? Well that’d been the key for me: the weeding reference.

“Yes, I’d like to,” I’d retorted, “I can’t.”

“So, you’re calling the doctor a liar?” the tribunal doctor had asked me, to which I’d said ‘Yes’, assuredly. He had then asked me five similar questions all based on my ‘Hobbies & Interests’ in my CV.

Each time the quotation had been asked I’d replied in a similar manner.

I’d also lost my rag at one point, when I’d thought I’d been asked yet another stupid question.

“Calm down, you’re not doing yourself any favours…” The doctor, then the judge and finally my advocate had told me.

Well, as they’d sat to deliberate I’d sat aside in a small waiting room, very nervous and little my advocate had said had acted to calm me down.

Finally a young lady had arrived and asked if we were ready to go in. Well, because the result meant so much to me, I’d been scared of scared in and, as I’d not needed to go in I had not: and, my advocate had gone in to obtain the findings for me.

Well, when my advocate had returned to the small room he’d been smiling.

Reading through the papers that comprised the findings he’d been given, I’d been struck by the fact that both the incidents I’ve written of were the points that had been factors that acted in my favour.

And, my advocates smile stayed with me inside, much of the week.

I’d finished a DVD for him, of a film based on one of his favourite games, then went to deliver it. After doing so I’d gone a wander, ending up between Green Lane and Rock Ferry, passing a ‘Christiany Place’. I’d thumped on doors and peered into windows, until a fellow arrived at one of the doors, looking much as you’d expect a vicar or pastor to look.

As the fellow had apologised for the delay in opening up and continued to talk I’d given him the contents of my wallet.

He’d then dragged me indoors and said, “You realize this is a Christian Radio?”

“And you’ll be able to use that?” I’d asked, indicating the notes thrust into his hands.

“Well yes…” he’d replied.

It had been minutes later that I’d found myself prayed for, which had been more than a little embarrassing.

Anyway… I’d still been on my walk and passing Lidl I’d turned right, heading back into town, when I’d passed a Sayers, so turned back.

Much as I’m told not to eat too much bread or pastry, ‘they’ don’t mean Sayers cheese ‘n onion pasties, in my opinion: so I’d gone into the shop.

And, as I’d stood there, looking at the selection of before me, a woman stood to my right with two young teen boys with her. She had looked very harassed, as they both hassled her, for their own choices, which she maintained she couldn’t afford.

I’d paid for my pasty and given a few extra pounds to the fellow behind the counter, saying to him, “Give the woman what the lads want, will you please?”

And so saying, I’d left the shop.

And strangely, that brings me to a trip to the dentist in the afternoon, after a trip to the doctor in the morning.

It had been good to see my doctor back from her operation – and, after nearly fifty minutes in the tilted seat, decided I’d not minded visiting my dentist, at all.

He’d done a lot of work on my mouth and even spoke of some of some of his work done on my teeth as being ‘restoration work’, which had made me smile.

And truth be told, I can’t imagine how much that amount of work might have cost, if I’d not been able to rely on the NHS.



I guess it’s about appreciating what you have, rather than what you don’t have.

It had been stormy outside, all night and all Wednesday morning. I know, except for an hour I was awake all through the night. I’d risen early, to be ready and out and begin travelling at 11:00 a.m.

It had been at Liverpool when I’d opened my tin that I realised I’d picked the wrong one up and that the one I carried just had a little burn and, no papers.

I’d got to Liverpool Lime Street main, then decided that my stress levels for the day would be improved with a smoke and, that meant papers; so I’d headed for W.H. Smiths, making my way through the many people walking back and forth.

“Packet of papers, please?” I’d said to the fellow behind the till.

“90p”

“90p!?!” I’d repeated in a voice higher than I normally use; incredulous that a standard, so-called ‘normal’ packets of papers could cost over twice as much as they would back over the water, in most shops on the Wirral.

So thinking I must have been the one wrong still, I’d repeated the request, stating specifically what I had wanted; the fellow had repeated the price, again.

It had felt like a scene from a badly written sitcom and I didn’t feel like being there any longer, so had simply said to the fellow, “No thanks, I’ll go elsewhere.”

So having made my decision, ‘to do without, for now’, I’d made my way to Platform One, where I’d get the train I’d need for Broadgreen.

As I had journeyed, a young man had boarded, looking hassled. We’d gotten to talking and, I’d learned he had been unsure as to which side of the platform to use and, which train to get.

Perhaps it had been his fashion sense, or the guitar in a zip-up bag strapped to his back, but I’d thought it a safe question to ask: “You got any papers?”

He’d given me the papers I’d needed. Then got off the train, after a certain amount of reassurance from me and another passenger that he’d be alright: “Just cross over and get the train back to Edge Hill,” we’d both suggested.

“And calm down,” I’d reminded him just before he had got off the train, then added; “you’re not doing yourself any good whatsoever…”

For a change I recalled to press the button to the left of the doors to open them, which was something; as I so often forget that that is how the doors open on the shuttle trains and, I have ended up standing there, with the doors still closed as the train moved out, like some sort of prize idiot. But, not this time…

On the walk to the hospital I’d been sure to avoid the edge of the pavement, as I’d turned left, thereby avoiding a massive puddle that covered part of the pavement and, part of the road, thanks to the recent rain.

I’d had the first of the two small smokes I’d built, then passed through the gates and then into the hospital itself…

Having made my way through to reception at the main building I’d asked where ‘Gastro’ was, only to be greeted with a look of surprise from the two women behind the desk.

It had been then that one of the ladies had told me I was a t the wrong hospital and, I’d looked at them with an open mouth.

Thankfully, up until that point I’d been running ahead of schedule. Yet, there I had been, fatigued in Broadgreen Hospital; when I had to be back in town at The Royal, as soon as possible.

“Thank you,” I’d finally said and left, to travel back into town.

Once at the station I’d been thankful that I’d not long to wait for a train and get to Liverpool, to begin to traipse up the hill to the Royal hospital, as the weather had begun to enjoy yet another ‘bad spell.’

Well, when I’d got to reception at ‘Gastro’, (“turn left at the café”) I’d learned that I’d not been the only one to make the mistake of going to the wrong hospital, which had been ‘interesting’ to learn.

Anyway, after an insertion, some manoeuvring, some exploratory work; then eight incisions and extractions, then withdrawal and extraction, I’d learned, I have Gastritis; to go with he Diverticulosis, the degenerative malleable spine.

The journey home had been tiring; yet there had been a reason to smile. When I’d got home from the hospital there’d been a parcel waiting for me, from Sweden, that I had gathered should have arrived before Christmas. Inside there had been flumps and sweets and wheatbread and allsorts. Unfortunately, though I liked much into the parcel, the tube of sweets that had been spoken of well, Lakrisel, I did not like.

Now, I like Fisherman’s Friends and Victory V’s, but man, I just couldn’t get into the taste of them. All I can say, is that taste is very individual, innit!?!

Yet, the gesture in itself was oh-so kind and brought a smile on my face and, that’s neglecting the memories it brought forth of my Deutche Tante, my Aunty Wilma, who enjoyed biscuits with my Mum like those in the parcel, sunny afternoons, as they drank tea and, I would ogle them, sitting on white and rose fancy plates teasing me with their presence…

And, theirs one thing else to add: my Swedish friend makes excellent sour cherry marmalade… truly a taste to extol! In fact I will: it was one of the finest tastes I have tasted in all of fifty-six years on this Earth!

And yeah… The night had been sleepless and eventful, thanks to the gas that had been used during the procedure.

Anyway…

Come New Years Eve Dad and I went shopping, on clear roads for a change. (Dad had told me that traffic had been horrendous, the day previous.)

Then come the evening an invited friend called round. I know he’s henpecked by is lady-love, so had intended to provide a nice evening for him, with a film I knew he had wanted to see.

Well, my collection being as vast as it is I had lost ‘The Man With Iron Fists 2’ so I’d reacquired the film, for him: and, I’d been so pleased to see his smile as it played and, he’d been rapt by what he saw.

The second film is far more spiritual than the first film and, I’d liked this touch.

Anyway, once my friend had gone I sat writing as midnight approached…

Then, at twelve I was behind the curtain in the living-room, a glass of whiskey in hand and, memories of my little Mum who had stood in the same place year on year, at the same time, when she was alive.

I had stood there and watched the family across the road celebrate, with friends and family, laughing and happy; as like me, they watched the colourful, noisy fireworks, explode all around in the night sky, as we saw in 01-01-2016

Last week I realised I’d need to do as my advocate Simon had suggested and request a ‘sick-note’ to cover this period, while I’m STILL waiting to find out what happens next. But, Doctor Brocki was still off and, knowing what I needed, I’d made the request and was told to return on Monday and it would be waiting for me. It isn’t what happened. I went on Monday and the young doctor there would not issue a sick-note as she hadn’t seen me, for that complaint. Now grant you, she was following procedure. But… It hadn’t been what I’d needed to hear, when I know what the dole are like. I’d lost it. Not loud, but I’d got overly emotional, to say the least and, told the member of staff on reception, “I’d like to see someone else.” Another member of reception staf had come through to me and made effort to calm me down, while explaining what she’d try to do. What she did do was to contact the doctors on their rounds, to see if anyone was willing to help and, although several were, again it wasn’t what happened. I’d told the member of staff I’d really needed to catch the post and, as I say, she went off to do as she could. Awhile later, quite awhile later, I ended up seeing the very doctor who wouldn’t sign me off on stress/backache. She saw me in her office, with another member off staff in attendance. “You do understand?” She’d said with a wary smile. “Of course” I’d replied, with a similar sort of smile, while the member of staff with her looked sort of like The Cheshire Cat. Anyway, the chat had gone moderately well, until she said she wanted to exam my abdomen and I’d told her emphatically “No.” “Why?” She’d asked, looking shocked. “’coz I don’t know you,” I’d answered. A short while later I’d left. It had only been when I’d been photocopying the sick-note did I realise what she had done. True to her word, young Doctor Jarvis had not given me a sick-note for the complaint I’ve had she’s given me one for what I have Now, Diverticulosis NOF

I did look up NOF, which seems to infer non specific medical terminology. Anyway, I’d phoned my doctor’s and spoke to someone I’m comfortable with, was told to send it off and, ‘see what happens.’ Now, that had been a real matter of concern – I’m still waiting to find out what the dole will do next, anyway.

A short while after contacting my advocate as the doctor put the 'wrong' sick note in for me there was mail: and, two notes from the dole, containing the news they sent back pay... two different amounts. but, not why.

Well, we know why. they've acceded to the tribunals decision. Anyway…

I went a walk. The money was in my account: not loads, but enough for me, Now.

COMMENTS

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AngelicaRose
04:44 Jan 18 2016

Thank you so much for this glimpse into your life my friend!

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