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Friday, November 22, 2024Bit o' This & a Bit o' That So where was I? Recently, I had the unenviable task of having to go 'down South'. I live in Yorkshire, which is definitely classified as 'up North'. (Some say Yorkshire is Gods Own Country, whereas others say it's full of flat caps, miserable gits & warm beer. I'm saying bugger all, cos after all, I have to live here!) I booked train tickets & accommodation, packed a small case & away I went. I had a blonde moment & got to the station an hour before my train was due. Duh! Adrian was with me & very kindly lugged my case around, while we went in search of coffee. At my time of travel, Doncaster train station lifts were out of order AGAIN & schlepping up & down several flights of steps left my knees feeling like I'd run a bloody marathon. By the time I boarded the train to Kings Cross, I was rummaging in my handbag for painkillers. The train journey was uneventful, but after standing in a queue to get a cab from Kings Cross to London Bridge station, my patience was taking a battering, courtesy of a God Botherer with a loudspeaker, who practically shouted to no one who wanted to listen, that the Big J was the answer to all of the misfortune/war/pestilence/disease/utter bollocks in the world. I could've quite easily shoved his loudspeaker down his throat with a smug smile that said "Let your God fix that!". Everyone is entitled to their opinion, I get that, but it just pisses on my battery when these self-righteous shites inflict their opinion on a trapped audience - i.e. us poor commuters waiting oh so patiently for a taxi. (I have to add that if I had a bit more self-confidence, plus a sense of direction, I could take the easy route & catch the Tube/underground across the city to my next station. Unfortunately, I'm not very self-confident & my sense of direction is dangerous at best.) I finally got a cab & thought I'd have just enough time to get to London Bridge, in time for my connection. I thought wrong. My black cab driver was chirpy enough, but 10mins into the journey (fucking traffic) he turned around to tell me that Just Stop Oil eco protestors had blocked several roads & he had to take a longer route..........which took more time.......because every other bastard car on the road appeared to have been diverted to avoid the protest. I got to London Bridge station with less than a minute to sprint about 500m to the platform. My bulk & sprint are complete foreigners to each other. So I missed my connection. And had to wait almost an hour for the next train to Hastings, my final destination. There was no seating on the platform. Sods Law grrrr. By the time the train came, the 5 o'clock freak out was in full swing & there was standing room only in the carriage. My legs & specifically my knees were screaming silently for some relief. That only came half-way through the journey. I was not a happy bunny. I knew the station where I had to get off had a flight of steps from the platform & I was dreading having to climb them, lugging my case. I was so grateful when a fellow passenger offered to carry my bag for me - chivalry is not dead! I thanked the guy profusely, as he carried it to just outside the station for me. Moving on.....I got a cab to the hotel where I'd booked in......only to be told (apologetically) that the room I'd pre-booked had been given to someone else. I really was NOT AMUSED! After a brief discussion, the manager of the hotel allocated me another room on the ground floor, with its own access to the outside deck (for us heathens that smoke). I made a cuppa tea, took my takkies off & flaked out on the bed. I was well & truly knackered. I kept telling myself I'm too old for this shit! A journey from home - if all goes according to plan - really isn't hassle, but a journey fraught with delays & obstacles just feels like it ages me by at least a decade. Needless to say, I slept well that night, aided by several painkillers. The following day involved sorting out paperwork, meeting various people & getting all of my mums ducks in a row. Dubs* is now in a nursing home, so I had to sort out the sale of her static caravan. Thankfully, despite it taking bloody weeks, the sale was concluded & the new owner is very happy. The following day, I had breakfast & then spent the whole day with Dubs. She's been bed-ridden for 9mths now & is unfortunately showing very early signs of 'losing the plot', but thankfully on that particular day, she was pretty much on the ball & the conversations flowed. One more sleep & it was time for me to head home again.....yay! The trip back was 100% uneventful, despite one train being cancelled. A couple of months ago & after a bit of research, I decided to register with a reputable online dating agency. I'm really not into what I term Fast Fuck apps (Tinder, Plenty of Fish etc.) because in essence, I don't find the prospect of getting laid by a complete stranger very appealing. I don't need to get laid & some men I've chatted to online appear to have difficulty in understanding that! I've been asked several times why don't I need a man & I always give the same answer: I have a robotic lawnmower, a robotic vacuum cleaner & any other 'need' I might have comes with its own USB, thank you very much! (It's a pity it doesn't make a cuppa, but then I don't have to sleep on the wet spot đ. Ahh, the joys of modern technology hey!) So, I registered with a reputable dating agency & was 'matched' with Adrian. We met for coffee, got on well & have since met regularly for either coffee or a meal. He's a couple of years older than me, is a widower & an all round perfect gentleman. He's fascinated by my interesting (slightly chaotic) life & I'm not bragging, but he's never come across someone like me before. He phones me every day & brings me flowers when he comes over to my house. I've introduced him to my bylaws & I've told Spadge about him, both of whom have wished me well in this new (ad)venture in my life. It's still 'early days' & I'm taking things slowly, because to be perfectly honest, I'm really enjoying my journey into finding ME again. I got lost - in a sense - a few decades ago, so living my life, basically for myself, is new territory & hell, I'm really enjoying it! My weight-loss journey has slowed right down, mainly because my knees hurt really badly, which hampers my enjoyment of going for a daily walk. The good news is I'm sticking to my self-imposed regime of healthy eating & haven't picked up any weight. It just pisses on my battery when a physiotherapist told me a couple of months ago to lose weight & do a bit of exercise. I've lost 23kg now but if anything, it seems to have accentuated the pain in my knees. I'm definitely of the opinion that getting old sucks. (Mind you, if a big, hairy biker pulled up to my spot on a Harley & offered to ride off into the sunset, I'd swing my leg over without hesitation. Ya can't take the rebel outta this wench just yetđ) I have an appointment with my GP next week (3wk wait for a bloody appointment!) & will suggest I'm sent for either x-rays or scan, as I can't carry on like this. In other news, Chikkin has successfully finished her first year at Stellenbosch University & is now home with the family for the end of year holidays. The Viking will be finishing this school year soon & will no doubt be looking forward to his final year of primary school. I wrote a short sci-fi story for him earlier this year - which I thoroughly enjoyed doing - so now I need to knuckle down & do another story for him. That's my lot for now..........she says to no one in particular! Time to head into the house & prepare something for dinner. I wonder if it's going to snow again.....hmmmmđ¤  
Tuesday, September 17, 2024NEW LIFE Last day of August 2024 (buckle up, get that cuppa & put everything on hold, cos this ain't a short story!) Well, well, well..... I've been away for a few years & so much has happened. I'm in the throes of a new life, which is taking a bit of getting used to. I've had enough pain, drama & anxiety over the past 5yrs to last a lifetime. I reached the lowest point some 6mths ago & had everything in place to finish what I perceived to be my miserable existence. I genuinely felt I wasn't strong enough to carry on. *sigh* It appears The Gawds felt differently & intervened, by means of my son & sisterbylaw. Fast forward & here I am, blessed to have people who love me, a great counsellor/therapist & a sense of humour, which is slowly recovering. A quick synopsis of what's gone off in the past 5yrs or so...... In 2019 a joint decision was made to leave South Africa permanently. It wasn't an easy decision to make, but politics, the steady decline of the infrastructure of the country & corruption were all contributing factors when the decision was eventually made. So we left. And resettled in a village in S. Yorkshire, England. (I'd always said I'd never live in Nigeria or the UK again. I've now proved I can never say "never!" again.) Shortly after arriving, we had the first 'lockdown' due to Covid. Our 2 dogs - Tappit & Batshit - were stuck in SA as all flights had stopped. It took 9 long months to get them to us & I'm forever grateful to their surrogate family for the care & love they were given during the separation. During the initial lockdown, Hubs couldn't travel to work - at the time, Dar-es-Salaam - so he worked on renovating the little house we'd bought. With limited funds, we transformed one room at a time, taking it from the 1970's decor to present day. We started the process of making a 'deceased estate house' into our forever home. In 2021 I noticed my left leg was swollen & no amount of treatment or medication helped. After numerous tests & hospital visits, I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. There's no denying it came as quite a shock. A programme for chemotherapy was established & it didn't take long for me to feel I'd taken a short cut to hell. In between chemo sessions, I'd be hospitalised for a couple of days at a time, due to a really bad magnesium deficiency. I'd just start to feel like a proper human again & it'd be time for another round of chemo.   It was a shit time & that's actually quite an understatement! The doctors & nursing staff at Doncaster Royal Infirmary - specifically the Chatsfield Suite - truly were awesome in every way. Nothing was ever too much trouble & they always took the time to listen to every patient undergoing chemo, should they want or need to talk. My veins didn't particularly like being punctured & many times, it would take up to 5 attempts in both of my hands & arms to get a line in. Eventually I had a PICC line (peripherally inserted central catheter) which made life much easier. The side effects from the chemo were fucking awful; vomiting, constipation, horrendous mouth ulcers, numbness in my fingers, loss of the senses of taste & smell, to name but a few. I was very lucky as my hair thinned considerably, but didn't fall out. I had several bandanas at the ready, but never really needed them. During the months when I was having chemo, we were lucky enough to get a contractor to pave the whole of the front garden. Christ, just writing about it brings back so many bad memoriesđ§. To cut a long, sordid story short, which ironically still hasn't ended over 2yrs down the line, a neighbour got his knickers in a knot & objected to our paving. This progressed to him trying to intimidate us in various ways & when that failed, he phoned the police, no doubt thinking they would scare us into doing what he wanted. Needless to say, when he was found to be at fault regarding harassment & intimidating tactics, he fell back on his last trick & pulled the racist card. We were from S. Africa, he's black, therefore we're racist. It didn't work. But he won't give up. I'll possibly write more at a later date, but I've said enough for now. I was on my penultimate chemo treatment, when the nagging pain in one of Hubs' shoulders was diagnosed as lung cancer. It came as an almighty shock. He had a PET scan, which showed the cancer had already spread to his bones, liver & lymph nodes. Arrangements were made for him to start chemo & I cancelled my last round, as I needed to be fit enough to look after my partner-in-life of over 45yrs. He thankfully wasn't in too much pain, but the chemo took a lot out of him. He crossed over to immunotherapy after 3 or 4 rounds of chemo & regular blood tests showed he was allegedly doing well. The test results lied. He travelled to Dar-es-Salaam for work, just for one week per month & to this day, I don't know how he had the strength to do it. He lost his beard, which really pissed him off! He wanted to do a couple of things on his Bucket List, so fuck the expense, we fulfilled a few dreams. We went to the USA again, hired a gas guzzling V8 SUV & drove the magnificent Blue Ridge Parkway, from start to finish - all 630 odd miles - in the spectacular fall colours. Our timing was spot on & it genuinely was perfection in every sense. We went to Memphis, saw Graceland (very disappointing), went to Dollywood (so incredibly well organised!) went to Nashville, where I was lucky enough to fulfill my dream of going to the Grand Ole Opry, plus we spent a few days in New Orleans, where we listened to jazz & blues bands & singers whilst sitting in favoured sidewalk cafes & bars. We ate authentic gumbo & both agreed my home cooked version, from the 1955 American Peoples Cookbook was far better than the insipid dish we had in Bourbon Street. Nothing could replace the experience though & that's essentially what we went for. We also did a cruise in Norway, as Hubs wanted to see the Norwegian Fjords. We got to see them, but the chemo was really taking it's toll on him & he was exhausted. We got (yet more!) fridge magnets & both tucked away memories of a very special time. Hubs was just happy he'd managed to see something on his Bucket List, My partner in life & love started losing the ability to walk. Then he lost the ability to use his left hand. A further scan revealed a brain tumour, which was affecting his mobility. Our son managed to get away from his high-pressure job for a week, but with travelling times, it meant he had just 4 days with us. He came with us to an appointment with the neuro-oncologist & it wasn't good news. In a nutshell, Hubs was told he had anything from a few weeks to a couple of months left to live. My incredible partner in life took it all in without complaint. When our son returned to S. Africa, he knew it would be the last time he'd see his dad. Over the next few weeks, Hubs was hospitalised a couple of times. Further scans revealed the brain tumour had multiplied from 1 to 3, then to an indeterminate cluster. Mobility was becoming a serious issue & overall his health was deteriorating rapidly. He hated being in hospital & once discharged, begged me not to ever let him be admitted again, no matter what the emergency was. I agreed. The real blessing was that Hubs didn't have much pain. When it did hit though, his GP made sure he had an ample supply of morphine at hand. As the end drew closer, I feel so horribly guilty by admitting that I couldn't cope by myself. I did my best, but physically, I just couldn't manage. Myself, my bylaws* & my incredibly brave husband decided the best option would be for him to go into a hospice. I don't think I will ever not feel guilty about that decision, even though we all know it was the right thing to do. Our GP made arrangements & within 48hrs, the transfer from home to hospice was made. I won't go into detail, as I'm typing through tears right now.....but my brave, clever, adventurous, amazing partner in life & love of 46yrs years, died peacefully 3 days later.  Dealing with Hubs' death has left a minefield of mixed emotions with me. One of the biggest psychological hurdles I still haven't fully accepted is why did he have to die? I got cancer. I should have died, not him! Why am I still living & breathing, when in my opinion (of myself, which even with therapy, is still low) I have little to offer the world, yet he could have offered so much? Some 18mths later, on dark days, I give myself a mental hiding for thinking it should have been me who died, but I am working through it & can only assume, one day I will accept that maybe, I'm here for a reason. Logistically, certain things were sorted before Hubs died. We sold the Harleys (devastating!) & the car. I've had to sort out alot of things by myself, which has been emotionally draining, but I think I'm finally winning the battle. I spent the first year in a total fucking dwaal** & it wasn't until I reached absolute rock bottom that I got help. My incredible son had alot of issues with his relationship with his dad & I pleaded with him to please get help, which he did, yet I had blinkers on when it came to me needing help. I was handling everything by myself (no I wasn't!) & I was coping alone (no I wasn't!) so why would I need help? I had enough painkillers to to put an end to my misery & I had everything lined up, ready to take the gap & join my partner. The only thing that stopped me was my dog Tappit. What would happen to him? I wasn't heartless enough to have him put to sleep & the thought of him having to be rehomed just did my head in....I couldn't do it. I took a very long, very hard look at myself & I didn't like what I saw. My wonderful sisterbylaw just 'popped in for a cuppa' one Saturday morning, said "How are you doing sweetheart?" & the floodgates opened. I let my pain, my sadness, my anger, my hopelessness all pour out in a very jumbled mess. I talked & talked, I cried & sobbed, because I felt like a failure for not being able to cope with everything. She hugged me & spoke to me in a way that made me feel worthy & indeed, very loved. I will forever in her debt for that day. My son had secretly got in touch with her, explaining he was getting worried about me & without a second thought, she was at my door, telling me to put the kettle onđ. From that day on, I realised I needed help & I got it. It would take months to get help via the (free) NHS, so I bit the bullet & found a private counsellor/therapist. I honestly don't care how much it costs me & trust me, I have very limited financial resources, but what I do care about, is finding 'me' again & learning coping mechanisms that will make my life easier. In a nutshell, all I can say is I'm getting there, slowly but surely, I'm getting there. Both of our beloved dogs - Batshit & Tappit - have crossed the 'rainbow bridge'. Batshit literally shut down whilst both Hubs & I were in Tanzania for a short holiday. Tappit died very recently & I was absolutely devastated. He was my rock during the past 18mths & I miss him so very much. I've had enough death to deal with & I quite simply couldn't handle getting a new canine companion, so for now, it's just me, myself, I. On a more positive note, my wickedly handsome, brilliantly talented son Spadge was awarded Springbok colours for becoming the South African Schools Rugby Coach. I'm beyond proud!   Chikkin....oh, Grangrat's special Chikkinđ! She will be 19 soon - where have the years gone?! She excelled at school & was made a Prefect in her final year. She's now at Stellenbosch University, studying Industrial Psychology. I last saw the family in October last year, when I took Hubs ashes to be scattered at home. I wish I could afford to go back to SA this year, but sadly it's just way too expensive. I'm blessed that I can still video call or send heaps of messages. So there we have it. I have a new life, minus my partner, minus the bikes & minus the dogs, but all is not lost. I have amazing bylaws & the continuing support of some incredibly special friends. I'm learning to laugh again & I'm learning to love myself. I'm making a determined effort to lose weight & have lost 21kg of the self-imposed 35kg target by the end of the year. Oh.....not forgetting, I'll hopefully be blogging again!  * My bylaws - S & T - Hubs sister S & her hubby ** Dwaal - kind of daydream.
Saturday, September 14, 2024L.O.V.E. It's a funny ol' world innit? Someone says "I love you" & the brain cells whizz off the scales with possibilities. Someone says "I'm in love with you" And you melt. Sigh
Friday, March 01, 2019INSERT BRAIN HERE OR MAYBE NOT.......
Last year-ish, I noticed I was getting 'the shakes' in my left hand. Nothing hectic mind you, just kinda trembly, which made holding or carrying something such as a cup of coffee, just a little bit messy. I didn't pay an awful lot of attention to it.
Spadge did.
The nagging commenced.
The nagging was ignored.
Towards the latter half of last year, I noticed the shakes/trembling had got a little bit worse. It didn't really interfere with every day life, so I mostly carried on ignoring it.
And then I started dropping things, such as a piece of paper. I'd drop it without getting that "oh shit, I dropped it" sensation.
Oops.
And then I started losing my balance a bit. Again, nothing hectic, but more like I'm just a dingbat & figure I was born clumsy.
Spadge nagged some more.
A few family health issues came to a head (is that a pun?) last year. After our trip to the USA, followed a few weeks later by a coast-to-coast rally, it became blatantly obvious that Hubs could not cope any more. He couldn't walk more than 25m without stopping & resting as the pain in his legs was so bad. So, I took the bull by the horns & made a new (previously cancelled) appointment with a vascular surgeon for Hubs. We've known for ages that he HAD to have surgery for blocked arteries in his legs. This could only be done in Port Elizabeth, some 350km from home. It took heaps of arranging, but the date was set to see the surgeon.
Sometime around August last year, Mummy Shans, my daughterbylaw, got a really shitty flu virus & ended up seeing a neurologist in Port Elizabeth. (Although it took months, I'm pleased to say she's finally recovered.) I think it was around November time, I went into town & grabbed a cuppa with Spadge. I got the normal grilling & nagging about seeing a specialist about 'the shakes', which was met with the standard answer of it wasn't bad/can't afford it/blah blah blah etc.
Next thing I know he's on the blower to the neurologist that Mummy Shans saw & got an appointment to coincide with Hubs' appointment with the vascular surgeon. Ooh 'eck. I s'pose I could've cancelled, but that would've caused all manner of ructions & trust me, when Spadge throws a wobble, I don't particularly want to be on the receiving end.
So, the house & pet sitter was organized, Hubs took time off work, a really pukka Air BnB just 1km from the hospital was organized & off we trundled to Port Elizabeth. Two days later, Hubs is having major surgery. Four days later I'm seeing The Brain Doctor. To cut a long story short, an MRI was sorted just a few hours after my appointment. I had to go straight back to TBD for the results. I was fully expecting a witty conclusion, y'know, along the lines of "Ahh...there was a vacant space" or a little placard showing up on my scan saying 'Insert Brain Here'. What I wasn't expecting, was TBD to sit & pore over the freshly streamed images (via his iPad) of my sludge for several minutes. He remained quiet, but then said "I need to show you....." & proceeded to come & sit next to me, clutching his iPad.
"There's a thickening of the (insert big, complicated word) which is this white outline"
Means bugger all to me, although I confess that I was tempted to say I've simply got a thick 'ead.
TBD then went on to tell me there were 2 points of interest, namely a cluster of blotches at the base of my brain stem & then 2 blotches (1 on either side) on my brain. The right blotch was bigger than the left blotch. All of these blotches are blood clots, meaning I've had a series of small strokes.
My first reaction was bloody hell.
My second reaction was thank gawd I take rat poison (Warfarin) because without it, I assume the strokes would've cause a lot more damage. He pointed out that it didn't appear I had (early onset) Parkinsons Disease, but couldn't rule it out entirely. (Spadge was worried I might be in for Parkinsons) More testing would have to be done at a later date etc etc. In the meantime, take these pills, which should ease the tremors, but don't drive whilst taking them, as they make you dozy.
Blinding.
At the time of writing - some 3wks after seeing TBD - I still haven't taken the pills. All the time Hubs is home recuperating from his surgery, I can't afford to be dozy.
Last week, Hubs had to see our GP as his cut was infected. After sorting him out, the GP had a chat with us about TBD's report, which he said made interesting reading.
The fascinating bit, as far as I'm concerned, is that TBD reported that he'd told me my 'symptoms' weren't surprising, due to a "history" of hypertension & that I should;
Quit smoking
Stop taking Warfarin
Quit taking Premarin (HRT)
I spat my dummy. TBD never said a fucking word to me about any of those 3 things....not a single fucking word! My 'history' of hypertension is less than 5yrs long. I never knew having high blood pressure - due primarily to stress - would cause a thickening of whatever it is that lines my brain. I've handled a heap of shit in my life, but never had a problem with hypertension until 5yrs ago. Whether it's an age related thing, I honestly couldn't say, but obviously, something, somewhere in my internal working changed & I need medication for it.
As for quitting smoking, well, it ain't gonna happen. I know the health risks associated with smoking & having dealt with cancer related issues in the past, don't put it all down to smoking.
If I stop taking rat poison, my blood will thicken within a fortnight & it will either kill me or put me in a vegetative state for the rest of my days. So, until I'm offered an option, I'll stick to my Warfarin & my blood will stay thin enough to avoid any catastrophic consequences.
As for HRT, even Hubs mentioned to our GP "For Chrissakes, don't take her off it!" Without it, I am the absolute, complete & total Bitch From Hell. It is my little green sanity pill. Without it, I'll quite happily throw myself off a bridge.
I chatted with Spadge about what TBD saw. He wants me to go back for more testing, which I'm really not keen on, cannot afford & don't particularly feel the need for right now. Needless to say, my soon-to-be 38yr old baby boy isn't impressed with me.
Maybe if I quit the fags, ditch the HRT & stop the rat poison, I won't have hypertension.
In fact I know I won't, cos I'll be dead.
Thursday, December 20, 2018BUCKET LIST STUFF INNIT
https://showme.co.za/east-london/lifestyle/henry-the-rebel-harleys-high-chaparral/
This is a synopsis of a trip me & Hubs did recently. I'm feeling well chuffed as it was published locally!
Will put heaps of photos & stuff on a bit later.
Saturday, May 26, 2018ON GETTING MY NOSE PIERCED......
I came to a gob-smacking
reality check recently & diagnosed myself to be an out & out masochist.
I had my 2nd & final, (thank gawd) sitting to finish my half-sleeve
(tattoo) done & the lovely lady who does piercing pitched up, so in the
spirit of living up to the Growing Old Disgracefully state of mind, decided to
have my nose pierced.
(Whilst I was getting inked,
a customer came in to have her nose pierced & I never heard so much as a
squeak, so I just assumed it was pretty painless.)
Holy mother of all things
small & furry, I nearly fucking died! The tears ran down my face & the
snot from my nose & I thought it would never fucking end! The lovely young lady,
who performed what felt like rhinoplasty by a witchdoctor, assured me it wasn't
"so bad" & would be over in a matter of seconds.
She
fucking LIED!!!!
Jaysus, there's me thinking
(stupidly) that aforementioned lovely lady, would have a small gadget that she
inserted into the chosen nostril & then - quick as a flash - would press a
trigger & hey presto, a hole would be punctured.
I should have backed out
when she held up a sealed, sterile needle, about 2" long.
I quipped, "What, you
got a hammer to knock it through?" and she laughed.
Iâm blonde right? I sometime think my IQ is
around the same size as my favourite boots. How could I be so stupid?
I fear
her laugh will haunt me in future bad dreams.
I then learnt there was no
hammer. She would just be using brute fucking force! She could only have
weighed 40kg dripping wet, so her brute fucking force was like that of a
kitten. Once punctured, it took a fucking eternity to push through what looked
like a fucking corkscrew with a stud on the end! After I dried my tears of
pain (I'm really getting to be a wuss in my old age!) & wiped away my snot,
I laughed with the now- not-so-lovely-piercing-lady, whilst thinking I must
have a massive bat in the cave*. It took a while to get used
to this very strange feeling. Nursing my watering eyes & snotty nose, I
removed myself from one torture chamber to the other & the tattooist
continued to ply his art for another hour or so.
That night, I was awakened
by the pain of a sore shoulder & being (slightly) drugged up, wondered why
I'd got a massive bogey up my nose still..........
*sigh*
I told myself the process
really couldn't be too painful, cos the piercing had already been done. The old
adage of 'Once Bitten Twice Shy' sort of niggled at the back of my sludge, but
I honestly didn't think it would hurt.
I
thought wrong!
Getting the corkscrew stud
out merely brought tears to my eyes, but the pain was bearable.
Inserting the ring involved
a bit of delicate manoeuvring, but no tears were shed.
Closing the ring with a pair
of pliers................well what can I say? Picture the brute strength of an
Olympic weightlifter squeezing my right nostril - instead of the fucking nose
ring, which had slipped out of the pliers grasp - and you'll get an idea of
what it felt like! Despite being seated, my legs felt very weak & I tried not
to hyperventilate. I couldnât help wondering if there was a training manual for
inflicting heart stopping pain on unsuspecting clients. I hasten to admit the
(now regarded) sadistic beeyatch brandishing pliers couldn't stop blubbering
her apologies & I couldn't help thinking that I seriously need psychiatric
help for wanting to do this to myself. And the saddest thing about the whole
procedure is that I had to live through it again, a few minutes
later..............after I'd stopped trembling & gained a bit of composure!
The first attempt at closing the ring didn't quite work, because my right
nostril got in the way. The second attempt yielded the same result. (By which
time, I felt like my nose must surely be the size of my arse cheek!)
I am pleased to say that the
third & final attempt at securing the closure of the aforementioned nose
ring - with the also aforementioned fucking pliers - succeeded & I had a
brief moment of thinking I had finally found God. (The moment passed very
quickly!)
I made a declaration, along
the lines of "the fucking thing is in & there's no ways it's coming
out!
A few weeks later, having
regained my composure, I ended up making an appointment with another tattoo
artist & body piercer in town. I wasnât getting more ink, but my nostril
kept going septic & I couldnât move the ring. It turned out this was because it hadnât
been closed properly (fucking pliers!) & as a result, was growing into the
skin. My arse puckered up in cringe-worthy terror when I saw the bloke brandishing a small pair of pliers! The offending ring was cut into in 2 pieces & removed. My nostril was re-pierced
& a new stud was inserted.
It took a nano second & was painless.
I couldâve kissed the bloke!
Nowadays, Iâm sporting a
beautiful, decorative gold nose ring, sent to me by my âsoul sisterâ in Canada.
I put it in myself, without
hassle.
No tears were shed in the
process & no pliers were in sight.
I didnât utter a single swear word.
Which even surprised me.
* Bogey up my nose
Monday, May 14, 2018AN INTERESTING QUOTE
I turned 60yrs young a coupla months ago. I s'pose in some respects it was quite liberating. I've done a few things I've wanted to do for a while.......I had my nose pierced, had more ink done & more recently, had my head shaved - 'cos I wanted to! I reckon I can get used to this growing old disgracefully lark.
I came across this quote recently & it really struck a chord. I've yet to make the decision. I guess it's a work still in progress.
"Someday, somewhere - anywhere,
unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that,
and only that, can be the happiest or
bitterest hour of your life."
Pablo Neruda
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