I'm a Vet!

 

“You’re a vet,” Hubs announces as we’re sitting on the sofa the other night.

“What?” I’m confused.

“You’re a vet. Vets get an animal in and it can’t tell them where to look or what pain or discomfort feels like. They have to follow their instincts and prod around gently until they work out what’s wrong.”

He’s right. I am a vet.

Beloved Aspie does not communicate pain or bodily discomforts well, if at all. Added to which he has a high pain threshold which means by the time he is ‘indicating’ that something might be wrong – it’s really wrong.

Take his ears. Early one January morning he came and sat on the floor in front of me and said simply, “I can’t move my head.” He looked quite grey, with dark shadows under his eyes. Immediately panicking about meningitis, I called the hospital and in we went. I don’t know how the doctors worked it out that day, but he had a cholesteatoma, a growth that was dissolving the bone around it, eating the ear bones and burning into the mastoid. They told me it must be agony for him and why hadn’t I acted when he hurt. Because I had no idea. He hadn’t said one word. (Five operations later, he is now profoundly deaf).

It set us off on a huge journey to understand and communicate pain. But a learning curve is just that…

Then there was the hernia. One night, he said he had tummy ache. Well that’s progress. I had a feel of his tummy and it was a bit swollen, so I told him to go to bed and stretch gently to give it space to relax. Ten minutes later he was puking violently in the bathroom while I quizzed the nurse on NHS Direct phone line. This is the boy who hadn’t vomited since he was a toddler.

At A&E, Beloved Aspie calmly explains to the doctor how he has had this lump that he has just been ‘popping back in’ until this week when he couldn’t. How long it had been going on, I don’t know. He hadn’t said a word. Luckily surgery was straightforward, if you ignore the bit where the anaesthetist had to hide under the bed to sneak up on him with the needle as he’s phobic.

And they’re just two of the stories.

So, on the ‘vet’ night, we were gathering to watch X Files and he sweeps in, a tornado of frustration, loudly berating why these ‘bodily malfunctions’ have to happen.

Me? Total red alert.

And?

Nothing.

Because there is a further issue these days: privacy.  He’s a young man. He no longer wishes to discuss ‘bodily malfunctions’ with anyone -especially not me. It’s quite a predicament: I don’t want to overstep boundaries and oblige him to share stuff he doesn’t want to. But at the same time, I don’t want to wait for something manageable to become a crisis. As ever, I’m between a rock and a hard place.

I decide to leave us all to sleep on it. Let the frustrations and panic evaporate into the cold light of day. And I bring it up briefly in the car as I drive him home from work. He says he doesn’t need to talk about it.

So, I’m going to respect his privacy and accept that as ‘I’m fine’ and hope to goodness I’m not a rubbish vet.

Don't wear purple - you'll pee!

We all know that advertising is a craft designed to manipulate our desires, but every once in a while it seems to say something else altogether.

I’m worried about men.

If they see a bunch of women laughing and they’re wearing purple, they know they are all wetting themselves. But it’s ok – they’ve got Tena Lady or Always panty liners on.

And if they meet a hot chick in the lift and she giggles and she’s wearing purple – on no! She’s just wet herself, too!

Worse still, these women are barely 40

.

What are they trying to tell us? That as we approach ‘the change’, we’ll also lose bladder control in everyday situations? Great. And also- not true. I for one would like to point out that if you catch me laughing my head off –relax –I’m not leaking. Perhaps I have Pilates to thank for that.

Approaching ‘the change’, perimenopause or menopause doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It’s like your teens all over again – a time for reinvention or rediscovery.

I’ve been talking with another author around the launch of her latest novel (Jane McLoughlin and ‘The Unfriended’). Her novel begins with four young women arriving at university and their ensuing growth – working out who they are and what they want from the world. Much the same as my character Kate in …But I love You. Some of us might look back at those years with a shudder: some lessons were harder to learn than others. Some of us look back at those years with joy at the freedom they offered, the freedom to grow into yourself.

Well, I intend to take this period of change with that latter spirit. I’m going to grow into my new self, possibly a little disgracefully, but for now, without the need for Tena Lady.

I’m off to the comedy club on Saturday – I think I’ll wear purple!

If you’re local, join Jane and I in conversation at Brendon Books, Taunton on Thursday 19^th Nov at 6pm as part of Taunton Literary Festival.  

Banksy's Dismaland disregards Disability

Dear Banksy, 

Thank you for bringing Dismaland to my HOME!!

When you set up your bemusement park a mere 15 minutes away my son was thrilled. He has been a fan for many years…though that may now have changed.

My son has Asperger’s Syndrome and the fact that he ‘got’ your work is a miracle in itself. He admired it, questioned it, and learned from it.

As soon as he learned Dismaland was open, he dogged me to get tickets. (When I say ‘dogged’, Aspie’s are notoriously obsessive when they have a goal – and yes, I am the one who has to respond). Needless to say, your abysmal website failed to produce time and time again. And sorry, you may be cool and clever, but I am not paying £50 for tickets that cost £3, as the other touting websites offered.

After many a rant at my inadequate attempts via the website, my son accepted that he was going to have to chance queuing up. We worked out a strategy to make this feel manageable, so off he went with his support worker, full of hope and excitement.

Well, you know where this ends – in an interminable queue.

He phoned for advice having stood for two hours, only to be told that there was the slightest chance they’d get in –AFTER the next hour it would take to process the people with tickets, then the long queue in front of him. They were also told that there was further queuing inside the site. If you know anything of Asperger’s, you didn’t just create Dismaland, you created hell.

Perhaps that’s what you wanted. It has been said that it’s all part of the ‘dismal’ experience. Well, guess what – I don’t appreciate having a miserable reality forced upon the world I work really hard to make pleasant for a young man who faces crap every day.

Thanks for hurting him and disappointing him. Thank you for your witty cruelty. 

As your brochure says, ‘It’s not art unless it has the potential to be a disaster’.

Congratulations on your art: I’m still fixing the disaster.