You stare at the moon. A sinister piano tinkles. Slowly you move backward down a deserted street. Looking up, you glance into a lit bedroom window. A boy sits in bed as a silouette is cast across him...
Just the rather spooky (as I always thought as a youngster) introduction to that well-loved kids programme of my youth 'Jamie and the Magic Torch' (see also 'Worzel Gummidge'. What was it with kids TV in the late 70's early 80's? Some sorta plot to keep the kids down, maaan...). I mention this because, as you will no doubt remember, following a gentle bidding of "sleep well Jamie" from his mum, our hero would jump out of bed and shine his magic torch on the floor whereupon a hole would appear into which both he and his faithful hound, Wordsworth, would instantly leap. There, accompanied not by the tinkling of a piano but by what could only be dubbed 'The Funk', Jamie and Wordsworth slid down into Cuckooland, where we were reliably informed "No two nights were the same" and "Life's one glorious game". And they also met someone called Mr Boo.
I am minded of this because, like some evil negative reality inversion, I too have been regularly descending a helter skelter. Only, unlike Jamie, mine's not fun, nor is it into some benign 'cuckooland' (though I am open to suggestions that, in fact, that is exactly where it is). Nor do I have a dog.
No. For the last week or so I have been waking up in the morning (no comforting "sleep well" from my mum. Actually that may be slightly disturbing...) and then descending the tortuous downward spiral created by the UC and my own fear. It doesn't take long to create. One day last week I got up, but before I could leave the house for school I had to dash to the loo. The ensuing results were best described as loose. Shit. Er, that was meant as an exclamation, not further clarification of the toilet contents. Shit, because: I've dropped down to the lowest pred dose I've been on in about 12 months, so does this mean they are not working? Because, and this is in many ways the worst: now I am fully obsessing about every stomach twinge and toilet trip and stressing myself...which thanks to the ridiculous way my body is wired goes straight to my bowel. Anxiety = pooing. When am I pooing? How often am I pooing? What is my poo like? How long between meals and poos? Oh god, I've lost track of which poo was which meal... (is it even possible to know this? Without the obvious markers e.g. sweetcorn)... All these questions swim about in my brain. Exacerbated by the fact I am due up the hospital on thursday. Oh god, oh god, oh god, they're going to want to operate on me...
And so, I wake up and immediately get anxious, do a loose poo, get more anxious, experience twinges, get more anxious... etc, etc. This reached its peak when I went down the pub the other night and HAD to go to the loo there. Its been so long since I've had to do that...
Down the helter skelter I go. Without funky accompanyment. Without a friendly and wise dog.
This has made me so glum. And even grumpier than normal. So much so that I have allowed the end of the school year pass with nary a comment or smile. Disgraceful. I cannot see any escape from my helter skelter until I've been to hospital on thursday. They will either free me from its binds by allowing me to continue on the low dose of preds for at least the summer hols, or force me to taper right off them to see what happens with regard to making a decision about operating, thus only lengthening the slide into the burning fires of hell itself. Boo.
In the meantime enjoy this episode of 'Jamie and the Magic Torch':
Rituals of Loss
3 months ago