Peaceful.

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So far, so good. As I write this, it’s just clocked over to 12pm, and my house is completely peaceful. It’s an amazing thing, and I’m not sure it’s ever happened before. At around 10.30, everyone got up, and I made soft boiled eggs and toast for Damien and I, and hard boiled eggs and toast for Heather, while Lisha, who dislikes eggs, made herself some sausages to put on a sandwich. For the first time in a long time, we all sat down to breakfast together, and had a conversation. For those of you who don’t know, Heather and I have odd sleep schedules due to our conditions and we rarely get up on time for breakfast – we’ve either been up all night, or have missed it entirely.

After breakfast, Lisha, Heather and I all retired to the sofa to pick up our laptops. We’re technology fiends and couldn’t cope without it. Damien, instead of his usual crazy endeavours which leave us twitching and grumpy, has retired to the other sofa, lain down and is reading the second Harry Potter book. Hallelujah! It’s never been so quiet in this house before, and I really think that all of us need it today, after yesterday’s insanity.

I’m also on my second cup of tea, which is a feat since I normally forget they exist at all and get berated for it. The microwave and I are best friends, you know. I don’t cook in the microwave at all, but it heats my tea up so I like it. A lot.

On another note, I have some plans which are going to affect my life in a big way, and I’m not sure how people outside of my immediate home are gonna take it. It’s my business, really. I hope that people will be happy for me as it’s something I’ve really wanted for a long time and the means justify the end for me.

Oh well. We’re just gonna have to wait and see, aren’t we?

Kirstie.

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Playing in the Park, Knuckles and Pigeons.

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Easter can be so exhausting as an adult – your child, hopped up on sugar, racing round the house or whining that they can’t find the rest of the eggs and they give up. Encouraging them to continue can only lead to more whining, which really isn’t what you want. Thankfully, this year, we were blessed with beautiful weather – which we decided to take advantage of.

As I’m feeling exceptionally sore, we decided to take the wheelchair down to the park with us – a walk of about a mile which I simply couldn’t do – I could barely walk across the road. The trip there, however.. was frankly a nightmare. Uneven paths tipping the wheelchair to the side, sections entirely without paths which left my having no choice but to walk with my crutch so that the wheelchair would actually move.

On the way there, we came across a pigeon who was injured. Now, I don’t particularly like pigeons, but I hate to see an animal suffer, and its wing was badly hurt, with feathers sticking in all directions. My phone has no credit left, so I yelled out – across the busy street – to a gentleman who was clearly using his phone. I asked him to call the RSPB, the protection agency for birds in Scotland. To my dismay, he made a completely rubbish excuse and carried on walking. I was left with no choice but to leave the bird where it was and hope no harm came to it, as it was a fair trek from home.

Continuing on, we made it to the park, which had a gigantic duck pond  on first entrance and was very scenic. Daffodils bloomed everywhere and, despite my urging that they be left alone, my son couldn’t help but pick me a bunch. There were plenty there, so hopefully it wasn’t too bad a deed to accept them. I now have them in a vase on our dinner table.

After a short trail, we made it to the play park we’d been aiming for, and let Damien burn off as much of the excess sugar energy as we could, before the cooling air and approaching night sent us home, looking for food and comfort. On the way back, I looked for the pigeon, wondering if I could perhaps wrap it in the cardigan I had and take it home to be looked at. Alas, it was nowhere to be found – thankfully, that included the middle of the road. Hopefully, someone else saw its plight and made the phone call I couldn’t.

Back home, we all flopped down in a mess of tiredness and contentedness, trying to deal with a Damien whose mood had dropped low as a result of a sugar crash. An hour later, after food, he was straight off to bed and pleased to be doing so.

Sometime during the day, I picked up an injury. I have a tiny cut on my finger joint, but I don’t think that’s what’s wrong with it. It’s swollen, and the joint doesn’t feel right. Now, I can move it, but it feels stiff, but not arthritic. It’s also bruised. Odd, right?

Anyway, it’s been a long day which has been satisfying; very glad we went out or D would have been going spare. As it is, he’s worn out and ready for a sleep.

I think I am, too.

Kirstie

The Hunt Is On!

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As I write this post, my seven year old son is frantically racing around our four bedroom flat looking for 33 small & tiny easter eggs, put there by the Easter Bunny. Oh yes, the magic is very much alive under this roof. He’s received letters from Santa and the Easter Bunny congratulating him on being so well behaved and reminding him to remain kind and compassionate. He’s even received a teeny tiny letter from the Tooth Fairy telling him the tooth he lost was in great condition and remember to always brush his teeth.

As bad as it seems, “lying” to your kids, It’s also an effective parenting tool and, if used correctly, it can imbue them with a sense of confidence and self-awareness, because it’s not just Mummy saying this – the powers that ‘see all’ also say it, and that’s a comparison made on every other little boy and girl. When he grows up and finds out it’s not really from them? I’ll just remind him that it doesn’t make the words any less true, that we love him wholeheartedly and we meant every word.

Not to mention, he’ll finally know that all those presents were from us, and not Santa Clause. That’s my only issue with Christmas.. you have to buy enough presents to convince your child that Santa exists and also buy him a bunch from you. It’s expensive. Which means that when he’s unwrapping those gifts, you have to bite your tongue and remember that it’s for the greater good, to make him happy, which is all that matters in the end.

Oh, to be a child! I can’t wait to have more. Hopefully I won’t have to wait too much longer… But as for today, back to the hunt, and to watching him scoff so much chocolate he inevitably gets tummy ache and wont eat dinner.

Oh and by the way – Happy Ostara.

Kirstie.

The Dreaded Lurgies.

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Is there anything more irritating than getting ill? In my case, it’s tonsillitis. I hate this illness more than I hate spiders, and I really hate spiders. The issue with this is tied directly to my impatience. Just under nine years ago, when I was pregnant, I got this dreaded lurgy and as I was unable to take painkillers or antibiotics for it, I took drastic action. Dabbing a local anesthetic liquid on my tonsils, I literally pulled out the dry skin which was flaking into the back of my throat. It hurt, but no more so than picking off a scab by accident.

It wasn’t until the tonsillitis cleared up at the end of that week that I realised the extent of what I’d done – I literally had pulled an entire half of my tonsil out on the left side. Needless to say, doctors and friends alike labelled me crazy. Maybe I am, but I simply can’t stand lingering pain which I have the power to speed up the healing on.

So, with this in mind, my current method of dealing with tonsillitis is pretty tame. Antibiotics on the first day, antibiotic ear drops, and a room filled with tea tree vapours from my oil burner is the standard, now. Not to mention a quick shot of vodka to really kill off those little bleep bacteria.

How far have you gone to get over an illness? What’s the most irritating one you’ve had to deal with? Leave comments!

Kirstie.

Tidy House, Relaxed Mind & Don’t Call Me a Victim.

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Today, we tidied our flat fully for the first time since we moved at the end of January – Don’t judge, we had way more clutter than we knew what to do with – A garage full of ‘useful things’ suddenly becomes a burden in a house where boxes of things just don’t match the decor.

I hate tidying, but I hate mess even more. As an ‘artist’ with mild ADHD, clutter and mess just confuses my already overactive brain, and all I can think about is how bad it’s bothering me. There’s something calming in a pristine room – not necessarily military pristine, but taking your personal room and making it the cleanest it could possibly be. I, for one, look around and something within me just goes, “Ahhh.” and settles into that mental armchair where you can just stop, and think about everything around you. Yes. It’s perfect.

My life has so much turmoil right now. My mother was recently hospitalised, and it’s only tomorrow that she’s to be discharged – this is after being told she would be discharged 5 days ago. Her Multiple Sclerosis has progressed to more physical symptoms – I won’t describe what, because my mother is.. was.. a very private person. She was a very outspoken and strong woman before the MS stole her mind and attacked her body. This is a woman who worked from the bottom up to become a G-Grade nurse in a hospital – she was, at one point, a paramedic. She often spoke of her nursing, but rarely about working in the ambulances – I can only imagine that it’s because she saw a lot of death in those ambulances, but then went on to looking after special care infants in the very same hospital I was born in – and became one of those special care infants. There’s a cycle to life, and she knew it earlier than most ever dream of. I think she must have been about 35 when she was forced to give up work, and it crippled her. It did more damage than the MS to her psyche at that point, but she couldn’t hold the babies any more, her hands were becoming too numb.

The doctors told my mother she’d be wheelchair bound within 5 years or so. My mother gained her black belt in karate when she was 42, around 7 years after they said that. She is living proof that no diagnosis/expectancy rates are set in stone. It’s all in the fight. As for me, I have fibromyalgia, but I am a fighter. Anything less would be an insult to the mother who gave birth to me, even if her mind is gone and she wouldn’t notice.

My wheelchair isn’t a cage of disability, it’s a vessel of freedom. Using the chair in shopping centres, supermarkets and high streets means that I rest and can walk further at home – often with my crutch as my balance sucks on a good day (I have a 75% hearing loss in my right ear, this often causes unsteadiness). I wish that I could just make it all go away and stash the crutch under the bed, I hate being the ‘disabled girl’. I hate people seeing me wheel into my sons school and seeing the pity in their eyes. Don’t pity me.

It’s insulting to think that I am anything but normal. I love most of the things that my friends love, I make a point to indulge in my guilty pleasures, even if I suffer for it the next day. I have the best support in the world in the guise of Heather and Lisha. They are basically co-parents to my son, Damien. He’s amazing, intelligent and loving. We’ve done well, I’d say.

I’m unconventional, a little crazy, maternal, a fighter, an artist, an activist… I’m proud to be all of these things, and I will continue to be each and every one of them as long as possible. I have clawed my way out of financial suffering, the threat of homelessness, the verge of starvation – Things are looking much better now, and our landlord is extremely understanding of any issues and knows we will pay him back our arrears as soon as we physically can.

I look around and I think –

“I have earned all that I have, but my possessions do not possess me. All I truly need is four walls and four chambers of my heart filled with the love for those who journey with me.”