Grannymar

Well not exactly. But I want you to listen up and pay attention.

On Sunday I was busily sorting and organising the very first Grannymar International Sports Special for 2012! It was fun with plenty of suggestions for events.

Now what happened next is a bit of a blur. Literally! It might have been the glare of the lights (inside my brain) or all those sequins suggested by Steph, but something happened. I know I turned my head to the left and felt a pain in my right eye. Now all my life all you had to do was say the word ‘Eye’ to me and they went red. In fact my mother often called me ‘scaldy eyes’!

So now back to Sunday.

I pushed on and tried to ignore the problem thinking like a man - if you ignore something it will go away! It didn’t and it seemed to get worse. Knowing there was a history of eye problems in the family I decided as evening went on to have it checked out. One of my younger brothers had a problem a few years ago and ignored it for a few days. When finally pushed into going to see about it, he was given a dressing down and admitted for immediate surgery as the retina had become detached. In this kind of situation it is imperative to seek help ASAP. Alas the problem was not resolved and he has since lost the sight in that eye. Since another brother has been diagnosed with Glaucoma I am sure you can understand my concern.

Being a weekend I called the local out of hours medical service for advice and they suggested I head straight to the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast. Since my newly returned friendly neighbour was not at home I called a taxi. So armed with my permanently packed overnight bag we set out on the nearest thing to a Formula 1 race. I did say that I was not pregnant and that we could slow a little but the driver was not amused. Racing down the M2 is a little like the M50 in Dublin right now, a chicane of cones all the way. Thankfully I was trying to keep my eye closed and could not see the speedometer!

We arrived safely and I was seen by the triage nurse quickly, followed by a rather long wait. I did not complain. I have gone through A&E before and each time the need was really urgent and I was seen to immediately. While I was looked after others had to wait. Sunday night was my turn to wait. My turn eventually came and a handsome young Toyboy took great care to check me out thoroughly. He even tried turning me into an ‘orange woman’! The dye he used for one of the tests was bright orange and some of it overflowed onto my face. It clashed with my red rims and flushed cheeks.

Finally we discovered there was no major damage but the cornea was scratched. I was given some drops and allowed home. I was assured that I did the correct thing by having it checked out. So please mind your eyes they have to work for a lifetime!

Imagine not being able to see my Toyboys…..

Across the world we seem to have problems with the services provided with regard to Health.

This little gem reached me by email and I thought it went right to the core of the situation.

The Health Debate.

When a panel of doctors was asked to vote on adding a new wing to their hospital, the Allergists voted to scratch it and the Dermatologists advised not to make any rash moves.
The Gastroenterologists had sort of a gut feeling about it, but the Neurologists thought the Administration had a lot of nerve, and the Obstetricians felt they were all labouring under a misconception…
The Ophthalmologists considered the idea short-sighted; the Pathologists yelled, ‘Over my dead body, while the Paediatricians said, ‘Oh, Grow up!’
The Psychiatrists thought the whole idea was madness, the Radiologists could see right through it, and the Surgeons decided to wash their hands of the whole thing.

The Internists thought it was a bitter pill to swallow, and the Plastic Surgeons said, ‘This puts a whole new face on the matter.’
The Podiatrists thought it was a step forward, but the Urologists felt the scheme wouldn’t hold water.
The Anaesthesiologists thought the whole idea was a gas and the Cardiologists didn’t have the heart to say no.
In the end, the Proctologists left the decision up to some asshole in administration.

These are all out of the mouth of Babes Doctors

A man comes into the ER and yells, “My wife’s going to have her baby in the taxi!” I grabbed my stuff, rushed out to the taxi, lifted the lady’s dress, and began to take off her underwear. Suddenly I noticed that there were several cabs —and I was in the wrong one.

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At the beginning of my shift I placed a stethoscope on an elderly and slightly deaf female patient’s anterior chest wall. “Big breaths,” I instructed. “Yes, they used to be,” replied the patient.

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One day I had to be the bearer of bad news when I told a wife that her husband had died of a massive myocardial infarct. Not more than five minutes later, I heard her reporting to the rest of the family that he had died of a “massive internal fart.”

Ian wrote about ‘Unhappy school days. It rather opened an old wound for me. So far I have skirted around those years trying to convince myself that I was over them.

Primary school was normal enough I think, apart from all the days I was kept at home to open the door and allow the doctor in to see my mother, unfortunately her health was not the best at times. Among other problems she had a serious heart attack when I was ten. I was also needed to prepare meals for the family. I remember my first attempts at making dinner involved going upstairs to find out from mammy what to do at every stage. The meals were cooked on the gas stove or in the oven. I avoided the grill as I considered it dangerous. My father and brothers would consume at least five potatoes each without those for my mother, sister and myself. Peeling the potatoes and vegetables took an hour each day. I became quite adept at making stews and casseroles. My eldest brother helped when food was cooked and pans and dishes were hot. No way as a slight small 8-10 year old was I capable of lifting them. Daddy NEVER entered the kitchen and expected his food on the table as usual! Homework! Why would I need to do that, when there were men to be fed!

At secondary level I went to a new school (3 years old) run by the order of Nuns that taught my mother. We had to sit a written examination to gain entrance. Our class of thirty whittled down to 15 after Intermediate Certificate. We were constantly reminded that it was a College (this allowed them charge higher fees) and that they did not teach us - they educated us! Their main priority was to reduce the debt incurred in building the school. We had a wonderful Gym, equipped with bars, ropes, horse, mats etc. It was the envy of many another school and we used it only as a supplementary examination hall! The pupils’ parents were bombarded with books of raffle tickets on a weekly basis, at least 12 books at a time. I refused to take them home – I was the only one with nerve to stand up and say so.

It was the early 60’s and I was one of 6 children, my father had spent almost a year in and out of hospital. Daddy was diagnosed with Addison’s disease, a visit to the library told my eldest brother and I that it was fatal. At that time there was no cure. My reading of the situation at the time was that if my mother handed out money for 12 books of raffle tickets to me each week then she would have to do the same for my 5 siblings. At that point there were three of us in Fee paying schools. No way was I going to ask for £12 a week.

No allowance was made for late developers, slow learners or difficult home situations. Pupils were told which subjects they were allocated, there was no such thing as choice. Abuse both physical and mental was employed on a daily basis. If you didn’t keep up you were lost from the radar. Pupils not thought to bring glory were encouraged to leave. I was considered a rebel and not at all bright.

Reading was not a priority in our home. Latin and French were difficult for me, Irish was a torture. The fact that if you failed Irish you failed the whole exam in those days, added to my burden. Back then Irish was not standardised and in one school year alone we had four teachers. They happened to come from the four provinces, Ulster, Leinster, Munster, and Connacht, each with their own dialect. To my ear they were four different languages. I never really recovered.

Maths I managed but science was not offered to me. Art and Domestic Science were on my programme and I actually knew more about cooking and hygiene than the teacher. She knew little about sewing, but a sister of my father’s took me under her wing and nurtured in me the love of the needle.

By now you all know my level of English! Elly constantly corrects my grammar and spelling. The fact that I am borderline dyslexic adds to the problems. Reading justified text, or light print on a dark background is torture. There are many blogs I would love to read, but if I have to struggle to find the content in amongst the flashing lights, bells, whistles and distracting adverts, well I walk away. Am I the only one to do so?

The nuns did try to move me out. Mammy stood her ground; she had to leave school at 16 in favour of her brothers’ education, so she was determined to let me go as far as the boys. I passed my leaving certificate with a couple of honours thrown in, much to everyone’s surprise. I was glad to leave school and never returned for any of the reunions.

My best pal was at school with me. Despite distance, family and other commitments we are still close and in touch on a regular basis. She has been a second mother for Elly, and her sons the brothers Elly never had. As I often say some good came out of those dark years!

Here I am back at my own puter and the words are behaving like my singing voice does these days. I open my mouth to sing and nothing - zilch comes out. Now I was never in any doubt of my lack of singing talent, but I always enjoyed singing along with the crowd or the radio.

The left ear is getting worse so if you want to whisper sweet nothings into my shell like, make it the right one. When I answer the phone, I am not greeted with “Good morning Grannymar, how are you?” No I hear “Oh Grannymar that is a dreadful cold you have!” My voice is hoarse and my throat is sore in the mornings.

So before the Elly wan starts nagging, I have phoned the Health Centre. Would you believe it, my GP has no appointments left this year! YES, I did say no appointments left this year. They did offer to ask her to phone me and she did within half an hour. She said it would be a good idea to be seen today so she gave me an appointment to see someone else this afternoon.

I wonder if they can do head transplants yet? If not I might ask if the do shotguns on the NHS. I have to do something ’cause it is very waring having to remember to keep the Toy boy on my right side.

So when next you hear from me I might be topless. Now that would make an interesting picture me driving home topless with my head on the passenger seat. Do you think the head will need a seatbelt?

Sing among yourselves for now….

Donal weighed in at 2lbs which is just short of a Kilo. He was a very premature baby that his mother carried for less than six months. He had no hair, eyelashes, eyebrows or nails and his skin was porous. He was not expected to survive for very long so the Paediatrician suggested taking him home. His actual words were “He might as well die at home as in here!”

Donal’s homecoming was not as easy as it sounds. His father was sent to find a ‘small’ cot/crib which he did, and it was ready and waiting for the new occupant when he arrived with his ill mother and a nurse. The nurse lived with and became part of the family over the next six months, she was called ‘No-No’ by Donal’s two year-old brother, and the name stuck. To this day if you say the name ‘No-No’ to any of the family they know exactly who you mean.

The Paediatrician soon arrived and set to work.

He gave precise instructions about feeding and cleaning the baby. Donal was not to be washed or bathed in water! His skin was to be cleaned with olive oil and cotton wool. Food was to be administered by medicine dropper, every hour on the hour! He rigged up a large light bulb over the cot to provide extra heat for the premature baby and it was to remain on night and day. Being wintertime the temperature was quite low. A fire was lit in the bedroom and kept going day and night.

Each day was a milestone, but there were many when they fought to keep the baby alive. The Paediatrician was a regular caller and was delighted with any little improvement. The danger stage eventually passed and Donal was introduced to bottle feeding and began to put on a little weight. The first size baby clothes fitted and slowly the pleasure of washing and bath-time became part of the daily routine. The light was removed from over the cot, but Donal slept in it for a full year.

With Donal’s move to a normal sized baby cot the little one was cleaned, covered and stored in the loft. It was used again with pride for the arrival of his four younger siblings.

The little cot appeared for the first time 62 years ago. There were no incubators, or ‘Baby Units’ in hospitals like we have today, the only clothes for premature babies were dolls clothes. Houses had no central heating and washing was all done by hand. Nappies were rinsed, then boiled and when washing was complete they were line dried. The feeding bottles were sterilised by boiling. A baby was hard work back then!

The little cot moved through the family for the arrival of each new baby. Cousins, nieces and nephews all started their lives in it. I spent my early months in it as did Elly. For Donal the most precious moment was the day he placed his own daughter in the little cot. Now once again the cot is stored away and who knows, someday Donal might be blessed with a grandchild to sleep in that very special Cot.

Over the past few months I have been naughty! Not really naughty, just a teeny-weeny, little bit.

I Grannymar am a Kleptomaniac!

You see I have developed a liking for reading other folks Blogs. They cover a wide spectrum and are not all listed in my Blogroll. Perhaps one of these days I might find the time to sort it out. So how can that be naughty?

I steal phrases or sentences I like. My collection is growing.

Today for fun I wondered if I used all of them what kind of post it would turn out to be. So here goes, and (((((HUGS))))))))) to everyone I stole from. See if you recognise a few words that belong to you:

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I find myself in a strange space today as Mother Winter breathes crisp air into our my lungs, but my bathroom smells like a bucketful of barnacles that have been rotting for a week in the belly of a whale. There was no excuse for this, so I had to get down to some serious cleaning.

As I scrubbed I sang a little ditty to myself. At this stage I must confess that the only place I dare sing is in the bathroom. I didn’t ‘do’ music at school. Since I couldn’t carry a tune in my head, there was little point of me carrying a violin. As I sang croaked, my mind wandered to “Mushroom Meg”. In the town where I was born, bred and buttered, you were nobody unless you had a nickname! Mushroom Meg was at school with me, in fact we shared a desk. She called me “frost frogs”. Her granny who was German told her “This is the way people in Germany are called when they easily get cold!”

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And I eventually remember the important things. Today I remembered something important! It was Mushroom Meg‘s Happy Mummmbledy-somethingth Brithday!

As we grew up she had all the signs of too much junk food and lack of exercise. She never realised that a tube of lipstick or the latest handbag and shoes can never make-up up for dry skin, dull hair lack-lustre eyes and a tired overweight body!

It is quite a few months since the last time we met for lunch; she had poor health for a year or two. I was afraid to hug her too hard because she seemed so very tiny and fragile. I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon; before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging. So I phoned Mushroom Meg with my usual birthday greeting: Yay for annual continuation days! (Birthdays) We talked of things we “coulda-woulda-shoulda” done, and she told me about her sister “Lucy Leek”

I can no longer hear the name Lucy Leek without becoming incandescent with rage about something or other. Lucy Leek has very strange ideas. She seems to think when you pay cash into a bank it goes in their safe wrapped up in rubber bands with your name on until you need to withdraw it again. Her attitude could use a little adjustment, when our dear Lucy Leek gets something into her mind hell and high water won’t stop her trying to force her ideas on her audience. I certainly could use a bit more patience with her.

So things are going stingingly in Funnymoon-land. Elly called to tell me she had an emergency trip to doctor as an insect bite has flared up badly. Thanks to the EU health card that we should all carry, the visit was free.

All the travelling reminded me of something I have discovered about a sense of place. It is that you can travel the country, seeing, touching, tasting, talking to people, participating in their community events and come to know something about each one.

The most important discovery of all, however, is that place truly resides within your heart and soul and memories.

As When the sun sets on this day, remember that God, in his infinite low sodium wisdom, loves you! And for what it’s worth- I do too!

I feel like I have a swimming pool of water in my ears. The left ear is worse than the right one. Last week when I was out and about I met an acquaintance, and we stood in the street to chat and catch up on each others families etc. The usual traffic was passing by and I realised that I was concentrating on her mouth. OMG! I was trying to Lip Read! This is a recent phenomenon. In fact I have only noticed it since my last stay in Cardiac Care.

In Message in a Bottle Part 2 I mentioned that event and how I was in the early stages of Hypothermia. My temperature was checked every 15 minutes by a contraption that was stuck in my ears. Now I wonder if that had anything to do with my problem, or is it yet another side effect to a new medication added to the basket full I already have.

I spoke to my GP about it and she examined both ears. She said I had plenty of wax in there so we started with drops to see if they might dissolve and solve the problem. They didn’t! Next stage is to have my ears syringed on Wednesday next. This is a warning, if you see me wobbling about the street I will be ‘jober as a sudge’ and not under the alfluence of incohol! Nothing louder than a whisper will be allowed around here for the remainder of the week.

Excuse me! I apologise. I have burped! My mother would be horrified; she always told us it was impolite to burp. I will try not to do it again.

As I put my hands back on the keyboard I realise they do not match today. The right has a long scratch that has formed into a scab while the left one has a multi-coloured bruise. These blemishes are my reward for a few hours in the garden the other day. I only have to think about touching something and a bruise appears. It is enough to make me shiver.

It set thinking. Why do we shiver, bruise, form scabs on scratches burp, or have excessive wax in our ears?

Why do we shiver?

When we shiver, our bodies are doing the opposite of sweating. Sweating cools the body by putting a layer of liquid on the skin. Shivering tightens the skin and shakes the muscles, a process that conserves and generates heat. You can stop your shivering by bundling up—just like your mother says.

Why does a bruise turn colours?

A bruise is actually a pocket of blood under the skin caused by a broken blood vessel. It changes colour and fades as the body reabsorbs the blood from the bruise.

How does a scab form?

Scabs patch up holes in the skin. Certain cells in our bloodstream recognize when our skin has been broken. These cells, called platelets, start patching the break in the skin and call in other blood components to help complete the process. They do an amazing job. Don’t make your platelets work overtime by picking your scabs!

What causes a burp?

When we eat, we swallow air with our food. Our stomach already has air in it from bacteria that produces gas and from chemical reactions caused by digestive enzymes. When there is too much air to fit in our stomach, we force some out in what we call a “burp.” It’s funny that something considered impolite occurs so naturally.

Where does ear wax come from?

Ear wax is made by skin glands near our ear drums. The wax protects the ear canals and acts as a barrier against bugs and bacteria. Only in cartoons can it be used for candles!

So now you know!