A Load of Bollocks!

It’s the 18th February 2016. Not a particularly notable date for most people. For me, however, it is one of some considerable significance. It is a day I celebrate, and with good reason. Today marks three years CANCER FREE (and also a bollock short, but that's neither here nor there!)

The NHS gets criticised heavily, from people within the UK, to our glorious politicians, who continually tell us everything that’s wrong with it, and then promptly do nothing to fix said issues. Similarly, it comes under considerable attack from right-wing Americans, who use it to point out all the flaws of Universal healthcare, and how much better off they are paying ten years earnings to fix their ingrowing toenail.

Well, for me, the NHS has been nothing short of bloody brilliant. I was diagnosed, referred to the hospital, and under the knife, within the space of THREE WEEKS. Alongside the self examination which detected the tumour, there is absolutely no doubt that the NHS saved me a whole barrage of treatment. No chemotherapy. No radiation. One operation (and a hell of a lot of follow ups, but who gives a shit about that!). My oncologist is one phone call away, if I have any concerns, and when, last year, I did find some swelling in the lonely testicle, swinging down below, all on it’s Todd, I had an ultrasound within around ten days.

In short, I owe my life to the NHS. For fifteen years, it was a privilege to work for them as a nurse. I have needed their care on numerous occasions; none more so than in the wake of a cancer diagnosis. And they have never let me down. Not once.

It is entirely due to the care and kindness of the surgeons, oncologists, nursing staff and doctors that I am still here, being a belligerent old fart..

I have another two years before I can declare myself “cured”. I am technically “in remission”, To me, those are just words. I pay much more attention to blood tests, and have become intimately acquainted with terms like AFP, HCG and LFP (tumour makers). And as long as they stay within the desired parameters, the cancer remains GONE.

With every passing anniversary, the likelihood of it returning lessens considerably. That said, I will still remain vigilant, keeping an eye on ol’ lonely-ball.

Alongside the incredible support from the NHS (and of course, family and friends), the support I have received from people on Twitter has been beyond measure. Extraordinary kindness from people whom I have never met. You know who you are. And I am more grateful for your support and continued friendship than you could possibly imagine.

I was bloody lucky. I had no great battle to contend with. I am equally, acutely aware of the difficulties and hardships others have faced, and continue to face on a daily basis. My cancer pales into insignificance, by comparison. And I hope, where I can, that I can offer the same support that has so kindly been afforded me.

But today. Just this one day. This one’s mine. It belongs to me. And I’m grabbing it with both hands!

Apologetically Munching Humble Pie

Well.. This is one blog post that's going to stick in my craw. But it needs writing. Doubtless, most of you are aware of issues between myself and another user (Stewart). You may also be aware of my friendship with a couple who recently lost a child to sepsis.

A couple of days ago, I saw Stewart starting to interact with the sepsis hashtag. I have no idea what his motives are, whether they are intended for self aggrandisement or borne out of legitimate concern for the cause. Frankly, I don't care. Neither is it relevant to this post.

When I saw Stewart interacting with the mother of the little boy, I went positively ballistic. With such a high volume of people discussing sepsis, it seemed to be an extraordinary coincidence that, out of all of the people to interact with, he would choose someone who I am friends with, and who I interviewed recently on here.

People who know me, my Twitter followers and blog readers, know that I am methodical, punctilious, analytical and try to confine my tweets and particularly my blog posts to facts which I can substantiate. And in this case, I fucked up. Royally. I reached, what to me appeared to be a logical conclusion, based on the tweets I saw, and on the past behaviour of the subject of this post.

In relation to sock-puppets, stalking and being a general pain in the arse, I stand by every word. People are free to interpret my posts how they see fit. Another post recently emerged, validating my sock-puppet claims against him. It is therefore, perhaps, understandable that I would draw a logical conclusion in this case.

I did draw a conclusion, and it was WRONG. Stewart did NOT initiate the conversation with the family; rather THEY picked up on one of his tweets, and responded. Now they are aware of who Stewart is, particularly in relation to our past history, they have blocked him, and elected not to interact any further with him. However, a number of posts have emerged on his blog, one, in particular is quite salient, as it assumed, as did I, that the dialogue was initiated by Stewart. Whilst it is correct that he first initiated contact with the Sepsis Trust, I feel it only right that I set the record straight with regard to his contact with the family. He emphatically did not make "first contact", and I apologise for leaping to the conclusion that he did.

I like facts. Evidence. Proof. I believe I have supplied it, in abundance, with regard to his past behaviour. In this instance, I didn't do my research properly, before opening my big pie-hole. I simply saw him interacting with a family who I have come to care about very deeply. My natural instinct was to defend them, and in attempting to do so, I failed to acquaint myself with all of the requisite facts.

Whatever Stewart's motives are for his various charity works are, I leave for you to decide. You are, almost certainly, aware of my thoughts on the subject. This isn't about his past behaviour, or his motivation. Neither is it about my opinion of his past actions. It is intended, as always, to be fair and honest.

And so, whilst it may stick in my craw, I offer my apologies for incorrectly assuming and stating that Stewart initiated contact with the family in question. I don't enjoy doing so, however, I firmly believe that if I fuck up, I should hold my hands up, admit it, apologise (no matter how much it stings to do so), and make sure the FACTS are presented, accurately, and without bias.

It is a salutary lesson that past actions do not constitute evidence, and occasionally, coincidences DO happen. In this instance, I erred, and although well intentioned, I jumped to the wrong conclusions. For that, I apologise, wholly and unreservedly.

I’m Going Slightly Mad…!

Some of you will have already read my post on anxiety, depression and panic attacks. If you haven't, it gives you an insight into life with anxiety related disorders and how I manage them. (You can find the post HERE).

On Friday, I posted the following on my Twitter account…

“Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs, Je n'ai plus besoin d'eux, C'est payé, balayé, oublié Je me fous du passé Je Ne Regrette Rien......

Aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi…”

For those who don't speak French, it was intended as a farewell. The first part consists of the lyrics to the beautifully poignant Edith Piaf song, Je Ne Regrette Rien. The last part is my own addition.

“My sorrows, my pleasures, I do not need them anymore, It is paid, swept away, forgotten. I do not care about the past. I Regret Nothing ...... Today, it begins with you.. Goodbye until we meet again”.

It isn't (or rather, wasn't) a suicide note before anyone assumes so. It was a farewell to Twitter, to social media. I had intended to go to bed, get up in the morning and close my account, blog and quietly withdraw from an online presence.

For reasons best known to absolutely no one, least of all me, my brain had decided isolationism was something I needed. Since I dislike goodbyes, I thought a poetic departure felt right.

Sleep eluded me when I went to bed. I wasn't sad or depressed, per se, just highly anxious and with an overwhelming desire to shut the outside world out and be left alone. As the day progressed, panic attacks took their hold, and they did so with gusto. There were a couple of times when I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. I've had severe panic attacks before, and two nervous breakdowns in the past, so I knew it was simply a case of riding it out. Only it didn't pan out quite as well as I'd hoped. The attacks continued long into the night. It is fortunate that at 3am the night after my last tweet, no shops within my vicinity were open, or I would have fallen off the wagon. As some of you may know, I am recovering alcoholic. In point of fact, today marks 16 years since I quit drinking. On that night, I could have cheerfully sunk a bottle of scotch.

By the morning, after a night of almost constant panic, and a good deal of physical pain, courtesy of the inevitable flare up of my Crohn’s disease, I was physically and mentally exhausted. I had been medicating with diazepam throughout the night, to little effect. 10mg is usually enough to stave off a panic attack. By 10am, I think I had taken around 50mg.

The morning was something of an exhaustive haze. My usually voracious appetite had vanished, my head felt as though Slayer and Slipknot were having a battle of the bands inside my brain, and the exhaustion and tiredness was indescribable. I haven't felt so low and burned out in years, decades even. My limbs ached like all hell, to the point I could barely stand up.

Recognising that this was something more serious than my usual “normal” panic disorder, I rang my GP, who gave me an appointment that evening. (Yes, our NHS is awful.. Weeks of waiting..!)

I explained everything to my Doctor. He did a few tests. Notably, my blood pressure was incredibly low. He took blood to rule out anything physical, and concluded that I had a “minor mental breakdown”; essentially, what used to be known as a nervous breakdown.

My regular dose of SSRI antidepressants has, as a result, been tripled in dosage, and my nighttime tricyclic medication has been increased by double. Until the increased doses take full effect, I have to counter the inevitable panic attacks with diazepam.

For the last two days, all I have wanted to do is sleep, or at the very least, rest. I've had no interest in food, although have been determined to ensure I DO eat, as I have no desire to add keeling over to the mix!

Today, I feel MUCH better. Physically and mentally exhausted, and emotionally somewhat numb; a curious sensation for a depressive person. But, all in all, I'm starting to level out again. It helps that I have something positive upon which to reflect; the previously mentioned anniversary of my parting company with the grog. And the knowledge that, even in my darkest hours, when the desire was strongest, I managed to stave off the intense desire to bury my head at the bottom of a bottle.

I have to go back to my GP on Thursday, to monitor how I'm progressing, and I'm being referred to a psychologist, with the option to voluntarily cancel the appointment when it comes, should things be back on an even keel, which I'm hoping they will.

Quite what precipitated all of this is anyone's guess. Mine is that I'll never really know. Past experience has taught me that these things crop up out of the blue, for no obvious reason. Social isolation and the desire to withdraw from interacting with the outside world is a painfully lonely experience, and one I wouldn't wish upon anyone. As for the rest.

One thing I have learned through this, is how much people I have never met, care deeply. I have been inundated with messages on Twitter. I will do my very best to respond to them all, although it may take me a while. I cannot thank you all enough for the support, for caring, and for making sure I'm alive and kicking. I'm slowly getting back to some semblance of normality, whatever the hell that is (!), and I'll be back to being a belligerent old arsehole before you know it!

I'm incredibly grateful to each and every person who has sent messages of support or enquired after my well-being. You know who you are, and so if I don't reply to you personally, please know that I have seen all your messages, and appreciate each and every one of them. I'll do my best to reply, but for obvious reasons, my interaction with people may be a little limited for the next few days, and my concentration isn't at peak performance at present. Writing this has been incredibly cathartic, and my sense of humour is back with a vengeance, so with a little luck, and thanks to the extraordinary support of my Doctor (and our bloody brilliant NHS), family, and especially the support and kindness of those who I have never met. I've touched on what a “nervous breakdown” is like, however truly articulating it is next to impossible. I hope my words are the only experience you have of it. For most, I suspect, mercifully, you'll never have to go through anything like it. Some, unfortunately, will. And when you do, I hope I can offer the same support and extend the same kindness that has been shown to me in the past few days.

MentalOllie (fuck it.. If you can't own your own insanities and foibles, ‘tis a sorry state of affairs!)

Musing on Mother's Day and Adoption

I have, for the last few days, been pondering what my next blog post should be about. I have a couple of posts lined up, but was inspired to write this one by some comments I read by someone on YouTube, seemingly struggling to come to terms that they were adopted. I have sent them a message, offering some advice, and don't propose to discuss them further, out of respect for their privacy and personal situation.

It did however, get me thinking. Something I seldom do, at least with regard to this particular topic. It's a subject I rarely discuss, for reasons which will become apparent, but when I was around 6 months old, I was adopted.

I have to confess, I have seen countless television programs and read countless articles of people struggling to come to terms with the fact they were adopted. And whilst I understand, to a degree, why, I struggle to to relate to them.. It seems to be particularly problematic amongst people who find out in later life. Perhaps my experience will be of some use to prospective adoptive parents, as well as children who have been adopted.

Honesty, in life, is ALWAYS the best policy, in my experience. I have always known I was adopted. It must have been explained to me when I was very young, as I have absolutely no recollection of being told whatsoever. I think, perhaps, younger children seem better equipped to process this "information" than teenagers, or indeed adults. I firmly believe that a child who grows up armed with all the facts about their origins is much better placed to deal with them as they progress through life.

I have ONE set of parents. My Mum and my Dad. I had Grandparents, now, sadly, deceased. I have an extended family in the form of Aunts, Uncles etc. I also have a sister, who was conceived naturally by my Mother. Due to her health, it was thought she would be unable to have children of her own, hence their decision to adopt. 

All of these wonderful people in my life ARE my family. I have never thought of them as anything else. More importantly, they have never thought of, or treated ME as anything but family. Certainly, with regard to my sister, I have never felt "second place", nor have I ever been treated as such. To my parents, we are equal. To ME, we are equal. To HER, again, we are equal.

The fact I was adopted rarely enters my thoughts. It certainly doesn't preoccupy them, as it does with some people. Somewhere, out there, is a "birth giver". She is, emphatically, NOT my mother, nor will she ever be. I have no desire to find, or know, her. But, and this is very important, I bear her no ill will. Quite the contrary. I owe her an enormous debt of gratitude. 

To this day, I have no idea what her reasons for giving me up were, nor do I need to know. I assume she had good reason, and even if her motives were entirely selfish, I am still thankful. There is an old adage that "you can choose your friends, but not your family". In my case, this is only partially true. Whilst, of course, I had no say in who adopted me, my parents certainly had a choice. They chose me. And that is pretty bloody amazing! 

Two people who desperately wanted a child extended arms of love and chose me. What an extraordinary thing to do! Any arsehole can squirt out a baby. It doesn't make someone a parent. Parenting comes, as I've learned from having children of my own, comes from love, nurture, morals. When I was ill, they were there. On my first day of school, it was my parents who took me. When I was bullied beyond belief, they were in my corner. Oh, yes, Dad, I saw you follow me to school and home again, making sure I was safe. You were, and are, a great father. A great detective, you will never be! 

As I grew up, my parents saw me though a nervous breakdown, through panic attacks and depression. They saw me marry and divorce. More recently, as regular readers are aware, they saw me through a short battle with cancer. They never wavered. They were my rock, in the best of times and in the darkest. They gave, and continue to give, the one gift that money can never buy. Love. It's as simple as that. Unconditional love, support, trust, patience, kindness and understanding.

It is for those, and many more, reasons, that I seldom discuss, or even think of, my adoption. It simply isn't an issue. The fact I burst forth into the world, doubtless kicking and screaming, from the womb of another human being is completely academic. We may share the same genetics, but when it comes to family, everything I am, everything I have become is the result of my Mum and Dad, and to a degree, my extended family.

Mother's Day is rapidly approaching. A card and present will, as in every year gone by, be written/given to my Mum. The only Mother I have ever known. I have no desire to find the person who gave birth to me. She has given two gifts. She gave me the gift of life, and more importantly, she gave me the gift of two loving parents. I hope her life has been a good one, that she hasn't struggled with the fact she gave me up for adoption. I hope that she is well and has a family that loves and cares for her. It seems cruel to say I feel nothing for her, but beyond eternal gratitude, it is a harsh truth. She is irrelevant to my life. That isn't intended to sound callous, mean or vindictive. It is simply a statement of fact. 

I guess the point I am making is, adoption need not be a cross to bear, nor a chip to carry on one's shoulder. If you have been adopted, it is what YOU make of it. Certainly, not every child who has been adopted will have been as fortunate as myself. Not every adoptive parent is going to be a good one. Most, however, are, and we are the fortunate ones as a result of it. We have the unique distinction of being chosen. In a world where there are some shitty parents floating around, that is quite a privilege. As adopted persons, we should not spend our time thinking what might have been. Much better to invest that time thinking about who we are NOW, and why.

If, like me, you are the son or daughter of adoptive parents, you are blessed with parents who WANTED you. Parents who CHOSE you. If I had to choose a set of parents, I need look no further than the ones who chose me. I cannot imagine better parents. That is a hope I carry for every adopted child. I am the man I am today because of my parents. I think.. No, I HOPE, I am a good man. I certainly try to be. I try, because I was raised well. I try because I owe it to my parents.

I have raised two children, one, for five years of his life, as a single parent. Again, I hope I've done a decent job. They certainly appear, I'm proud to say, to have turned out pretty damn well. The credit for that goes, not to me, but to my parents, for the values and morals they instilled in me. 

This is, perhaps, not the most erudite blog post I have every written. What it may lack in literary skill, I hope Is made up for it though personal expression and honesty. It comes, not from the head, but from the heart.

And so, to close, I say thank you, to my Mum and Dad; my parents. To my Mum, I say "Happy Mother's Day". And I dedicate this post to her, and to her father, my Grandad, Charlie, who passed away 11 years ago, and who, along with my Grandmother, was an adoptive parent to my Mum's sister, who tragically passed away at the age of 53 from Motor Neurone Disease. Her children will spend Mother's Day in reflection and mourning. I, thankfully, will spend mine with eternal gratitude. I am "a chosen one". I am lucky. I am wanted. I am loved. And by goodness, I am bloody grateful.

Ollie