Poids inconnu

Je sais bien que je suis décharné. Mais je ne sais pas combien je pèse exactement.

Ouais, j’ai acheté un pèse-personne électronique à JYSK. Néanmoins . . . ça ne me dérange pas qu’il y a une différence de quelques hectogrammes lorsque je marche sur lui pour la deuxième fois après une minute. Mais quand l’indication du soir est 56.3 kg, et, après un souper et un sommeil, l’indication du matin est 51.7 kg, comment puis-je compter sur un tel pèse-personne ? Certes je n’ai pas perdu plus de quatre kilos durant sept heures du sommeil ?

Je vais essayer de me peser juste après me reveiller pour quelques jours, et si ça ne marche pas, peut-être acheter une nouvelle pile, mais je suis pas sûr qu’il changera rien. De toute façon, pour l’instant je sais seulement que je pèse quelque chose entre cinquante et soixante kilogrammes . . .

 

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Ruth Searle: Asperger Syndrome in Adults

The first two chapters describe the symptoms and are mostly in accordance with what I have already read about the syndrome. And yes, to some degree I could tick off most of them as applying to me: difficulty in social interactions and communication, idiosyncratic patterns of speech, suffering from sensory overload, inability to screen out background noise, no interest in small talk and social chitchat, indifference to being liked and accepted, strict routines, exaggerated attention to detail, difficulty switching attention to a new topic and so on and so forth . . . The third chapter looks at the idea that Asperger’s may be just a difference, rather than a disease, with some amusing examples of how one could perceive people without it as “suffering from a neurobiological disorder characterized by preoccupation with social concerns, delusions of superiority and obsession with conformity”.

But after some time in the fourth chapter it starts to go downhill. The author concentrates on a theory of “autism as an extreme of the normal male brain”, and what she claims to be natural differences between the male and female brain is stereotypical even by my standards. In fact, I suspect that if her claims were made by a male on social media, he’d be extremely lucky get away with it. (She even does not hesitate to state, expressly and shamelessly, that men are better at some things than women!) And towards the end of the final, eighth chapter, the book actually feels more like just another generic pamphlet on “positive thinking” with hardly anything to do specifically with autism, let alone Asperger’s.

The thing is, of course: if I perceive the rest of the book as more or less a load of rubbish, why should I put any trust in what it tells at the beginning?

 

2017

At the very start of the year I was in hospital, being treated for throat cancer; at its very end I was in a rehab, sober but emotionally rather burnt out. The in-between wasn’t all that magnificent either, what with the long recovery after the chemoradiotherapy, the flat I was staying at before the rehab, the (no doubt related) alcoholic relapse within, the deaths of Ray Collier, Tormod MacGill-Eain and Tom Petty (and others), the way the Brexit talks were developing, and so on and so forth.

All the same, I shouldn’t complain. For one thing, the cancer was apparently cured. Otherwise I possibly might not be here to write this any longer. Also, during the relapse the idea of leaving the town I had learned to hate for good occurred to me, and the rehab stay helped me contrive that. I even fell in love yet again after years . . .

And of course there were all the interesting books I read and iPlayer programmes I watched, meetings with my friends from the college, not to mention minor affairs like making porridge a staple of my diet, or beginning a circle beard.

Ay, as Skipinnish have it, I’m alive, and the stars are on my side. (Notwithstanding, as Jake Bugg has it, I hold two fingers out to yesterday.)

 

Backlog: rest in bed

I had a runny nose and coughed for maybe two weeks, but the true reason why, at the end of the first December week, I finally put myself down to seeing a doctor about it was that I wanted to get rest from the others. She duly sent me to bed, where I stayed from Thursday to Saturday, and it did help. Most of the time I was on my own, able to sleep, read and be online more or less when I wanted. Most importantly, it helped me to get over Friday’s leaving of Anndra, almost the last guy here left that I really cared about. (Steinbeck: “There seemed to be no cure for loneliness save only being alone.”) The fact that some drops I was prescribed actually stopped the nose running within 24 hours was just an unexpected bonus.

 

And yet it wasn’t all bad

What I said last night holds, but it’s quite possible that years from now I’ll reminisce about these last few months a little wistfully. That I’ll mostly remember all those iPlayer documentaries I saw while having my meals . . .
 

I even have new favourite presenters, Dougie Vipond and Neil Oliver having been joined by Chris Packham, Dan Cruickshank, James Fox . . .

 

About to leave

So, on Wednesday to the rehab. And then hopefully to some other town, as I’ve learned to hate this one. Anyway, I’m certainly not returning to this gaff, which I never liked in the first place. Because of …

A floating floor and no carpet in the bedsit. No door between the antechamber and the bedsit, making old women blethering on the staircase all too audible. A washbasin so tiny one can’t even wash a pair of socks in it. Bathroom walls so dark it’s hard to see one’s face properly when shaving. A microwave oven and an electric cooker but no fridge. And so on.

But most of all the sod staying above me, stamping like a hippo from wall to wall and back again, quite often for a few hours in a row. God knows what the arseheid is doing that for. Even worse than the bitch in Wester Common. It’s been years since I last went – sober – to my bed with a pleasant expectation of a restful sleep. I go to sleep anxious that noise will not let me fall asleep, and certain it would wake me up.

So in a sense I can’t wait to leave here. Who knows, perhaps I’ll yet get a chance to relearn going to sleep without this anxiety. While there’s life there’s hope.

 

Làithean beagan trang a-rithist

Dimàirt, b’ e an t-uachdaran agus am fiaclaire; an-dè, an oifis airson tèarainteachd shòisealta. Ach, gu neo-chumanta, tha mi beagan ro làimh, seach air dheireadh, ron cheann-ama a tha ann an Diciadain an ath sheachdain; bha fiù agus àm gu leòr agam a’ tilleadh bhon oifis ri dhol ann an taigh-òsta agus biadh sònraichte a’ cheàrna seo a ghabhail. Ma bhios mi soirbheachail, cha bi teans agam a ghabhail a-rithist.

 

OCD?

I had a vague idea what OCD was for several years: knew about the condition before Tommy and me sometimes jokingly accused each other of having it. It was only recently, however, that I discovered I might really have it myself.

I bought Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by David Veale and Rob Willson and began reading it. But while I’m sure I show symptoms for one kind of OCD, namely the “excessive concern with exactness, order, and symmetry” kind, I always halt when I read the word anxious. I definitely would not label my emotion when things are not ‘neat and tidy’ as anxiety: the correct word is annoyance.

But the authors brought my attention to another condition, one I had never heard of before: obsessive compulsive personality disorder, which has other symptoms I definitely show, like “constantly making lists” and more to be found in Wikipedia’s leader.

OCPD, then? Who knows. More probably than OCD; then again, I have not shed the suspicion that it may in fact be Asperger’s.

 

Cuisle PhEG a-mach

Rinn mi gearan air a’ chuisle o chionn fhada, agus o chionn ghoirid, bha mi a’ sìor fhàs seachd sgìth dhith gu dearbh. Ach thug iad i a-mach mu dheireadh thall Diciadain.

Gidheadh, bi greiseag ann fhathast mus slànaich an toll far an robh i – mu sheachdain, a rèir an dotair – greiseag dar nach urrainn dhomh ithe, fras a gabhail ‘mar bu chòir’ no ‘eacarsaich’ a dhèanamh eadhon chun na h-ìre dhe na làithean seo chaidh.

Ach as dèidh sin … bidh mi deiseil ri dhol san ospadal-inntinne. Tòisichidh eachtradh eile, oir as dèidh sin … cò aig a tha fios dè bhios?

 

170712: Busy, busy day

Incidentally the twenty-second anniversary of the last time I had sex, but that’s irrelevant: what made it busy was all related to the near future, rather than to distant past. First the landlord came for the rent and I had to disclose to him I was about to leave soon: he took it surprisingly equanimously. Then I went out myself to the office of my internet provider: although it took some time, I finally did make the lady behind the counter fill in the contract termination form. After which I visited the local branch of the state department responsible for pensions and mined them for information about the possibility of getting some income on account of the consequences of the cancer and the cure: I even got the necessary forms, even though in the end we concluded it would be better to apply after my rehab stint.

It’s been like this for some time: days or weeks of having no appointments alternating with days or weeks of having several. But I was quite satisfied at the end of this one, because I did follow all the negotiations through without bottling out of anything. Rather unusual for me to be honest.

 

Eòlach air cinn-là

Bha mi airson gam fònadh leam fhìn, ach mus do dhùisg mi, sheirm boireannach air choireigin bhon ospadal leighis-inntinn mi, agus dh’aontaich sinn gun tig mi ann air an dàrna latha dhen Lùnastal.

Sgoinneil. Mu dheireadh thall, tha fios agam dè an uimhir ama a tha agam gus an latha dar a dh’fhàgas mi am baile mosach seo, an dùil nach biodh agam ri tilleadh a-riamh. Thòisich mi cha mhòr sa bhad air cnuasachadh air dè as fheudar – agus as urrainn – dhomh a dhèanamh tron àm.

(Thuirt i cuideachd gum bi mi ann mu mhìos: bha mi ’n dòchas gum biodh sin na b’ fhaide ach ’s dòcha gum bi aon mhìos gu leòr. Bu chòir dha a bhith nas saoire mar an ceudna.)

 

Shorts

Some English schoolboys protested against having to wear long trousers during the latest heatwave by wearing skirts instead, and apparently won their fight.

Good on them, but interestingly the photos show them in buttoned-up shirts and ties, which reminds me of all those guys wearing shorts, even sandals – and zipped-up fleece tops. I could never understand this. Maybe it’s down to my blood circulation, but as far as I’m concerned, the chest and neck get unpleasantly hot long before the legs. I’m more likely to feel comfortable naked to the waist, while below it wearing heavy-duty denims, thick socks and boots.

So I find it much more understandable when John Bercow accepts tie-less MPs in the House of Commons.

 

Dòchas

Uill, chan eil an àrd-dhotair buileach cinnteach fhathast, ach cho-dhùin e mu dheireadh thall gu bheil coltachd mhòr ann gun deach at na h-aillse à sealladh. Dh’aontaich e cuideachd gun urrainn dhaibh a’ chuisle PhEG a tharraing às mo stamag.

Drochaid-choise thar Allt a’ Choire Odhair Mhòir


Chan e seo toiseach ùr. Gidheadh, ’s e a’ chiad cheum air slighe ùr, as dèidh nam mìosan dar a bha e coltach nach biodh tèile ann tuilleadh; ’s dòcha gu bheil beagan ama ri teachd romham fhathast.

Feumaidh mi a-nis faighinn air ais dhan rehab agus an uairsin, nas fhaisge air mo sheana-charaidean. Bha mi a’ grodadh san bhugair bhaile seo ro fhada.

 

BBC One: Growing Up with Cancer

All right, so I’d got cancer. Maybe I’ll be told tomorrow the chemoradiotherapy worked just fine and the tumour has gone. Maybe not. But I’m in my late forties, and had lost just about everything a couple of years previously anyway.

But reportedly seven UK teenagers a day are diagnosed with cancer too. This programme looks at a few of these, some of whom went (or are about to go) through a more drastic treatment than me. Spending what should be the best days of their lives fighting a disease.

Presumably, scarcely any of them will ever receive an OBE, but they’re heroes all the same, if only for not breaking down. I simply admire them and wish them all good luck.

 

Cola-deug beagan trang

An t-seachdain sa chaidh, b’ e Diluain le sgana PET/CT (nach robh cho dona ris a’ chiad fhear an-uiridh), Diciadain le tadhal air a’ bhan-lighiche, agus Diardaoain ann an roinn na h-eòlais-aillse. Mar a bha dùil agam, bha toraidhean a’ PhET/CT gealltanach gun a bhith deimhinnte, coltach ri toraidhean a’ bhiopsy is CT ‘àbhaisteach’ romhpa.

An t-seachdain seo, b’ e a’ bhan-dotair-teaghlaich air sgàth nòta pàighidh thinneis fhaighinn an-diugh, tadhal air mo mhàthair a-màireach (thàinig i a bhaile faisg airson greis dar a tha m’ athair ann am baile-spatha eile), agus fibroscopy Dihaoine. Mura bhios sin deimhinnte, bidh biopsy eile romham. Gidheadh, bu chòir dha seachdain no dhà gun choinneamh sam bith a bhith agam an uairsin.

 

La psy

Ça a été très court : probablement, elle a été contente que je veuille aller au centre de désitoxication moi-même, et donc je ne vais pas la faire perdre son temps. Elle a même déjà écrit la lettre pour m’y adresser dès que je serai guéri (certes, si je serai guéri).

 

Fiaclaire mu dheireadh thall

B’ e àm fada on a thadhail mi air, agus bha m’ fhiaclan-cùil clì goirt gu tric, ach cha bu dàna leam a dhol ann leis mar a chruthachadh m’ amhaich seile is lionn-cuirp. Dar a dh’fhàs seo rudeigin na b’ fheàrr, chaidh mi ann, on a dh’iarr mi deit fhaighinn roimhe biopsy eile nam biodh fear ann. Ach ’s ann cha mhòr sa bhad a bha mi nam shuidhe sa chathair, agus as dèidh dham fiaclaire dà fhiacaill a chàradh, thuirt e nach robh a dhìth orm tighinn a-rithist ach sa gheamhradh. Bha sin cho luath nach robh àm agam fàs mì-chofhurtail. Ceum beag eile air adhart …

 

Problèmes avec la nourriture

Comme toujours, avant qu’un problème disparaît, il y a un autre.

Je m’ai apperçu que mes côtes étaient très visible. Ainsi j’ai commencé compter des kilocalories, et j’ai trouvé que je mangais en moyenne un mille par jour : la moitié de la quantité recommandée. Alors, j’ai commencé à manger davantage, et peut-être que j’ai commencé à prendre du poids. Un petit peu.

Mais en attendant, il y a de plus en plus du sang autour du trou de ma sonde de gastrostomie lorsque je change le pansement. Et le bord … à vrai dire, c’est comme si quelque chose (l’estomac ?) émerge du trou. Je remettais une visite de la gastro-entérologie trop longtemps.

Enfin, j’y vais demain. J’espère que je n’aurai pas besoin d’une opération …
 

Ajouté la prochaine nuit: C’était bon. Ils m’ont assuré que le changement autour du trou était assez normal. S’il ne croît pas, je peux juste attendre, avec calme, le temps de retirer la sonde.

 

Gun nì a dh’fhios

Thadhail mi air an dotair ach chan eil nì a dh’fhios agam fhathast.

Smaointich an làimh-lèigh a rinn am biopsy gun robh fuigheall an ait nam sgòrnan fhathast, ach cha do lorg hiosto-eòlas rud sam bith ceàrr. ’S ann neo-dheimhinnte a bha an sgana CT cumanta cuideachd. Mar sin, dà sheachdain gu leth bho seo bidh sgana PET/CT ùr agam; mura bhios toradh deimhinnte aigesan, biopsy eile; agus ma bhios bìdeag amharais ann fhathast as dèidh sin, bheir iad mo ghuthlag air falbh mu dheireadh thall.

Na mìosan air ais, dar a thuirt iad dhomh gun robh an aillse agam, le dà at follaiseach, thuirt iad gum biodh coltachd sorbhachadh opairèisean na guthalaige 70%. Nach fheum gum biodh i fada na b’ àirde a-nis? ’S dòcha. Co-dhiù no co-dheth, tha agam ri leantainn orm a’ feitheamh …

 

La fin d’un autre emploi

Je l’ai eintièrement oublié, mais j’avais juste un contrat à durée déterminée. La semaine prochaine, une lettre des ressources humaines m’a rappellé ça. Donc, cette semaine je les ai visités, avec succès : on m’a dit que je devrais encore apporter les notes mensuelles de ma médecin généraliste à eux.

Puisque je voulais terminer le boulot quand même, ça ne m’ennuie pas – presque. Presque, parce que je dois terminer l’arrêt maladie avant d’aller au centre de désintoxication, et maintenant, je me retrouverai au chômage en attendant. Autrement dit, j’y aller sans revenu.

Mais je ne suis pas du tout désespéré. J’ai un peu d’épargne ; dans le pire des cas, il y a quelques-uns qui m’aideraient ; et de toute façon, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it : en ce moment, je ne sais pas encore si la tumeur a disparu.