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Martini On The Rocks, anyone?

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Last month I described how much it hurt to inject Humira, the anti-TNF biologic which is prescribed for my ankylosing spondylitis and IBD. I scoured the internet for advice on how to reduce the pain, and found that most patients favoured numbing the injection site with an ice cube before injecting. Another patient’s nurse had advised that she rub either side of the site gently as the needle went in to increase blood flow and encourage the solution to dissipate more quickly. Someone else said that putting their leg up on a chair so it was straight, rather than bent, worked wonders. Frankly, I’d have hung upside down from a tree whilst smoking a cigar and counting to 100 in Mandarin if someone had suggested it.

Armed with that information in mind, I set up shop for my next injection. Believe me, I had to gear up to that all day. It’s like knowing you have to punch yourself in the face after dinner to give yourself a convincing black eye so you don’t have to go to work the next day. I mean, only a total mentalist would just go ahead and punch themselves in the face, right?

This time I poured myself a Martini, took a fake Cornetto from the freezer and decided to try out three new moves:

Right, let's do this

Right, let’s do this

Move One: I put my leg up on the chair, out straight rather than bent

Move Two: I rubbed the injection site gently either side of the needle as I pushed said needle into my thigh (this was harder than it sounds. I could have done with three hands at this point)

Move Three: Instead of trying to inject in one go, like I did with Enbrel, I thought some breathing exercises would help. I took a deep breath and exhaled as I pushed the plunger thing down for two seconds. I stopped for another two seconds, then did the same again. I was still on the verge of tears but puffing my breath and taking it slowly worked. It was maybe 30% less painful than before.

Two weeks later, I did all the same stuff but I also numbed the injection site with an ice-cube, swapped the fake Cornetto for some Lindt milk chocolate and substituted the Martini for a rather nice dessert wine.

Booze, drugs, legs

Booze, drugs, legs – like a scene from ‘Trainspotting’ only clean

I’m not sure if the ice, the dessert wine or Lindt were to blame (possibly none of the aforementioned) but I do know that it hurt more with a cold leg, so I scrubbed that move off the list.

Such a tiny bit of blood for something which hurts so berated

Pah – such a tiny bit of blood for something which hurts so flipping much!

My dead mink, Fried Eggs, then picked up the syringe and said he wanted to try it because, and I quote (no, really) that he ‘had a sore leg from falling out of bed’. I had to wrestle it from his little paw before he hurt himself. Kids, eh?

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Fried Eggs, no!

So there you have it. It still hurts, but a bit less. Really, I wouldn’t even do it if I didn’t have a treat at the end of it. That, and the fact that without it, I would die. I’m not being dramatic. I would die. The pain would be so agonising that I would end up throwing myself off a motorway bridge. Please don’t think I’m being glib about suicide; I’m not. I’ve been in that exact same situation and it was anti-TNF therapy which saved my life a decade ago, and is still doing so today.

That’s my ritual now. I inject, Gautier brings me a treat and afterwards we watch ‘Brooklyn 99’ on Netflix so I can laugh my head off rather than think, ‘OW OW OW OW OW MAN THAT STINGS’ for ages.

In other news, I fell off some rocks and acquired a salad spinner.

The salad spinner is my new friend; it’s made by a company called OXO who, in a nutshell, design everyday objects things better than other companies design everyday objects. If you’ve got fibromyalgia or arthritis in your arms, spinning salad is quite an effort (although granted, not one you probably make that often). I can’t even eat salad very often as I can’t digest it, but when I do, I use this. It has a clever button which does all the work for you while you stand there resting your arms and saying ‘Keep going, little spinner!’ Even their vegetable peelers glide over carrots like a dream; never thought I’d find pleasure in a peeler but I do. If you’re in pain, every effort hurts, so it’s worth investing in items which reduce that. If you’re not in pain, you’ll still have fun spinning salad. You can thank me later.

As for the rocks, Gautier and I were at a seaside town north of Bordeaux called Royan which we didn’t much like. I was in my bamboo ensemble: bamboo bag, bamboo earrings, bamboo bangles, bamboo-ish dress with bamboo buttons; here’s me taking a photo of myself in the loo, doing my best stupid idiot face into the mirror:

Bamboo overload

Bamboo overload

It turns out Royan didn’t much like me either; after a lovely dinner at a beach side restaurant at sunset, I suggested we go for a little walk on the sand. There I was, full to bursting with fish goujons and chips and so happy to be back by the sea (I miss Brighton so much I can’t tell you). Anyway, I digress. Here is my dinner:

Yum! Everything was going so well...

Yum! Everything was going so well…

Looks perfect for a midnight stroll, doesn’t it? That’s what I thought.

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I was well excited about the sand

Granted, I’d had a cocktail which must have clouded my judgement somewhat, but here’s what happened: I attempted to climb over a low wall, onto some giant rocks, then step down to the sand. Gautier was helping me. It should have been one, two, three steps and landed. Unfortunately, what I had thought was sand was, in fact, a massive, flat rock which was just looked – under the midnight sky – like sand.

Needless to say I lost my balance and was catapulted onto my left shoulder and my FACE. Yes, my face. My right leg went from under me and my foot scraped itself on the rock. Thankfully my face found a bit of sand rather than rock. I was holding my tiny bear, Chips, in my left hand. He screamed, I screamed and my aim was to save him from hitting the sand, so I held him aloft, which upset my balance even further. What a div.

Gautier picked me up and told me off. He is like that; he tells me off first, then asks if I’m OK. I wasn’t OK; my foot was bleeding and I did a cry.

Off we went, back to the hotel (which was fortunately about 20 feet away), with my sandal in one hand and a very traumatised Chips in the other. I limped back to our room and did the first aid bit. Gautier enjoys pouring white spirit on cuts and grazes; I was pushed over by a strong wind once and grazed the hell out of my hands. He just threw this stuff on them like a torturer would. I was squealing like a stuck pig. Man, that stuff BURNS. Chips wanted to help, so he put the plaster on.

Poor Chips; he was so upset but stayed calm to administer first aid

Poor Chips; he was so upset but stayed calm to administer first aid

Great job, Chips!

Great job, Chips!

The next day I limped about even more than I usually limp about, and wondered aloud my shoulder hurt so much. ‘Because you fell on it,’ Gautier reminded me. By day two, I could barely stand on it as the bruise started to come out. On day three I got bitten by something in the garden (not a camel, more likely a spider) on the same foot, which then blew up like a hideous sausage.

At one point I thought I was going to have to saw it off; fortunately some anti-histamines and a herbal concoction from the mother-in-law’s medicine cabinet saved me from that. Hallelujah.

This week I am mostly attempting not to injure myself or get bitten.

I’ll let you know how I get on.

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C’est La Vie

Cover Jpeg

To buy the paperback version of my book, click here

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I’m writing this from France. I’m sitting at the kitchen table at Gautier’s mum’s house with a cup of coffee, looking out of the beautiful big window watching two pigeons kiss each other at the top of the weeping willow tree in their garden. Gautier and I have just returned from a little walk, and on our way past the garden noticed a half-built bird’s nest in the tree at the front of the house. I wanted to help build the nest, I said.

‘How?’ asked Gautier, his eyebrows raised.
‘I can collect some twigs and put them at the bottom of the tree for him,’ I offered.
He pointed at the grass that was covered in twigs and said, ‘Er, I think he can manage, monkey.’
‘Maybe, but it’s cold and I could just help a bit,’ I whined.
‘You are already not well!’ he scolded. ‘You don’t need to be outside in the freezing cold picking up twigs!’

He was probably right, but still. Later that night Gautier went outside for a cigarette (ugh, I know) and announced that said nest had a dove atop it. A dove! How lovely is that? I haven’t seen any boring birds here; just magpies and blue tits and now this lovely dove.

The lovely dove from above

That was today. Yesterday was just as exciting, and I’m not even being sarcastic. Monique (Gautier’s mum) drove us to the giant fruit and vegetable market thing which houses leeks the size of hockey sticks and oranges as big as a baby’s head. They also had a pick ‘n’ mix counter, so Gautier and I snuck off to that. I then ate some sweets in the back of the car on the way to the next stop (I am 42 years-old). Here are our sweets, and one of them was a rainbow-coloured iguana!

Sweeeeeeets!

After the fruit and veg and sweets, we headed for the health food shop so I could get some gluten-free stuff; I’m not 100% GF, more like 80%. If I want a treat (which in France is constantly), then I have it, but day-to-day I have GF pasta, GF oats and GF bread, and bake with ground almonds and/or GF flour. I was surprised at the amount of GF food available; I had always thought that the French would scoff at any idea of intolerance to ‘du pain’ in the same way that they think vegetarianism is a terrible affliction rather than a lifestyle choice. We went out for lunch on Saturday and the menu was chock-a-block with foie gras (despicable; I’ve managed to stop Gautier from eating it, finally), pork, veal and other animals. There were fish options, thank God, so I chose scallops followed by the lobster ravioli. There wasn’t one vegetarian option on the menu. I guess the number of vegetarians in a small town like this can be counted on one hand, if at all, so there’s really not much call for it. If I was vegetarian AND watching what I ate for digestive purposes I’d starve to death. Here’s my plate; it’s not for the faint of heart:

‘Help meeeee!’

I look fine on the outside but I feel like my entire insides have been replaced with those of a very old person’s, so food is of great comfort to me as I’m often quite saddened by stuff. I’m always on the loo, I can’t digest my food, can’t stand up straight, can’t walk far, I’m always freezing cold, I take tonnes of medication, I’m always tired… the list goes on. Basically, I’m trapped in the body of a 90-year-old, so ageing is not something I relish one bit. I’ve got numerous hospital appointments coming up which will determine whether or not I need to consider switching biologics. I’m also presenting with symptoms for Crohn’s or colitis (again? With no colon? Yeah, I know). I have ulceration in my J-pouch but I’m getting pain and bloating every time I eat at the moment, and I’ve never had that. What amazing timing.

Gautier’s mum and stepdad recently converted the ground floor of their massive house into a self-contained apartment which overlooks the garden, so when we stay we have the equivalent of a one-bedroom flat to ourselves and I have a sneaky space upstairs in which to write. The house is four storeys; the entire top floor is a cinema room. Yes, a cinema room. Bonkers or what? I should also mention at this point that Gautier’s stepdad is brilliant, and the crazy shizz here is that he’s like, six years older than me. How funny is that? So when people say ‘Ugh, holidaying with your in-laws, what a nightmare!’ I’m like, ‘Dude, you have no idea.’ They’re so far removed from stereotypical in-laws it’s untrue; it’s more like being around friends, although Gautier’s mum never stops cooking and still buys his socks and stuff I don’t have any friends who do that for him. Here’s the house, it’ll do:

Bit small, but I’m sure we’ll manage

 

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I went shopping and bought ALL the Breton stripes. Next up, berets and onions!

We visited the charcuterie the other day. Check out the hideous stuff these people eat. I managed to make the butcher laugh, which must mean I know some French. I told him that it was like a horror film, all these animal innards everywhere, even BRAINS. We came away with a giant piece of beef, and a pig’s foot. The latter was ‘a treat’ for Monique and Gautier. Bleuch!

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Pig’s feet. A treat, apparently

 

Vomit Cake, otherwise known as tripe terrine with carrots in it. Have you ever?

 

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