Post 3 ‘The Elusive Kebab’ (Part 2) a.k.a. ‘The Blood Doner’*

 *(sic) in recognition of one of the late great Tony Hancock’s most popular half-hours.  Thanks to Dave Lewis for the suggestion.

The power wheelchair fell off the kerb.  For a moment I thought that the chair had come to an abrupt stop.  However, eventually it started to topple over.  The chair moved, in almost comically slow motion, to the right, as in some cartoon animation. 

 I remember thinking “I’m going to lose control; I’m going to hit my head on the tarmac; it’s going to hurt”.  I lost control.  I hit my head on the tarmac.  It hurt.   

Fortunately, I remained conscious.  I had been very lucky.  I could still think clearly.  Although I had hit my head on a very hard surface it could easily have been worse.  I might have landed on a sharp object such as a nail or piece of broken glass.  Or, a car could have been passing.  Either way, the consequences would have been extremely serious.  My spectacles had been damaged and have still not been repaired, due to lockdown (more on this later in the post).

(My spectacles, or what was left of them.  Have refrained from making any puns about being ’arm-less)

I gave a silent prayer of thanks to God that I was not badly hurt – which was probably hypocritical of me as I still find it hard to believe that He exists – although I am less of a doubter following the recent Alpha course I attended online.  I certainly learned a lot.  If you want to know more go to www.alpha.org

Nevertheless, it became apparent that I was still in trouble.  A large pool of blood had formed on the road, close to my right ear.   As Woody Allen once famously said after his film character had a minor accident and spilled some of the red stuff – “Blood!  That’s supposed to be on the inside.”

I shouted for help.  At first, no-one came.  Then a woman came to my assistance.  When she saw what had happened, she returned immediately with a towel to stem the flow of blood.  Fortunately, the flow was more of a trickle than a torrent.   However, a wave of anxiety swept over me.  I take Warfarin to treat my Atrial Fibrillation (not a good name for a band – too long, not catchy enough).  Warfarin is an anticoagulant (or blood-thinner), used in prevention and treatment of harmful blood clots.  I take Warfarin and 2 other medicines that also thin the blood.  Not getting blood clots comes under the ‘good’ category; bleeding to death on a road in the town centre is ‘bad’.   Fortunately, the towel did the trick – holding it firmly against my head wound stemmed the flow of blood.  

By now, about 12-15 people had gathered.  Some were local residents who lived nearby and had heard the commotion and had come out of their homes to offer help.  Someone phoned for an ambulance.  I was now sitting in a semi-upright position.  Some residents made sure I was protected from cars driving up and down the road.  The road was a cul-de-sac so cars went past me in low gear, but drivers still needed to take care.  Most drivers were very considerate, but, inevitably, there was one exception.  One driver, unknown to me, demanded that I move out of the way.  I could probably have done so, but I had not been assessed by medical professionals, and I was unwilling to risk further injury.  The driver continued to berate me.  For one brief moment I suddenly had an uncontrollable desire to grab the kebab and insert it up & into the driver’s rear passage (and I refer not to the alleyway leading into the back garden of his house).  This idea floated into my mind following a post on Facebook by my friend J.  She recently posted that she was walking her dog R on the pavement.  She was nearly sent flying by 4 cyclists coming up behind her.  They were riding more than one abreast.  Both J and R, were lucky to escape serious injury.  Even so, the poor old creature (R not J) was severely shaken up.   Understandably J was extremely angry; this could be deduced from the punishment she said she would have meted out to the cyclists should she have caught up with them.  Suffice to say that handlebar insertion up & into the rear passage (good name for a band) of each cyclist would have featured prominently.  J is a lovely lady, but I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her (on a pavement, or off it).   Only joking, J, you're not that scary!

(J’s dog R recovering from her unpleasant experience)

Fortunately, the local residents came to my rescue, and made the driver see the error of his ways (and yes, it was a male driver).  I almost decided to omit this detail as I’m aware that it can be considered just as sexist to negatively stereotype the male species as it is to do the same to the female species.  However, I don’t agree – women still have it far worse than men in all areas of life.  Even so, women have a greater degree of mental strength than men and far more resilient.  Who would you rather have as POTUS – Donald Trump or Michelle Obama?  (Or, for that matter, Joe Biden or Michelle Obama?).  I hope you agree, but if not please do let me know.  End of rant. 

Also present were people from my care home, including maintenance staff.  Selflessly, they had come at the end of their shift with a van to collect my wheelchair and return it to my room.  Once the ambulance arrived, the paramedics lifted me onto a stretcher and put me in the ambulance.  I’m still unsure how they managed to get me onto the stretcher, without causing me further injury. 

Someone kindly offered to come to hospital with me in the ambulance.  However, I declined as I could foresee me being in hospital for most of the night.  In any case I was quite used to going to hospital.  I first went to hospital around age 8, when I was jumping from one concrete bollard to another.  I misjudged the distance and hit my head on the bollard.  I can still remember the lump on my head.  It was like one of those soft pink and white marshmallows.  The second stay in hospital, around the same age, was to have my tonsils and adenoids removed.   There was then a gap of almost 50 years before I was admitted to hospital, when I was rushed to hospital in November 2017 and operated upon (see earlier post).  Since then I have taken to hospital on 6 occasions – each time with suspected urosepsis (confirmed in 2 out of 6 cases).  It took me ages to realise that the word is spelt ‘urosepsis’ (the prefix being derived from ‘urology’), and not ‘eurosepsis’.  I had assumed eurosepsis was a form of sepsis prevalent solely in European countries, and that, post-Brexit, would not threaten UK nationals once we were no longer in the European Union.  

Whilst I was being put into the ambulance, the wheelchair and my other belongings were put into the van and returned to my care home.  Because the maintenance men were doing all this in their spare time (they deserve massive credit for this), the van wasn’t unloaded until the following morning.  I later learned that when the van doors were opened, around 7 am, a pungent, unpleasant aroma infiltrated the nostrils of the maintenance men.   At first, they thought that some sort of roadkill had been inadvertently put in the van; perhaps, when I toppled over in my chair, I had landed on a rabbit or a fox or a duck billed platypus or similar form of wildlife.  Then the unfortunate animal had somehow attached itself to my wheelchair.  However, the roadkill explanation was soon rejected when it became apparent that (unknown to the maintenance men) the elusive kebab had also been put into my bag and the bag then put into the van.  The kebab had matured nicely overnight……

Meanwhile, the ambulance took me to hospital.  I was taken to A&E at the same hospital I had visited only 3 hours previously.  I had to spend the night in A&E, having the head wound stitched, but eventually I was given a clean bill of health.  It was now midnight.  I was tired and keen to return to my care home.  I needed an ambulance to take me home.  Unfortunately, none were available.   I was also hungry.  I looked in vain for the kebab, but it continued to elude me.  

Instead, I had to settle for tea and biscuits.  To be fair, as you might imagine, the A&E staff were rushed off their feet and completely occupied with clinical matters, and had no capacity to provide me with a hot meal or even sandwiches.  refreshments.   Mind you, there’s nothing wrong with tea and biscuits.  I once took a girl out on a date and she was given tea and biscuits.  That’s all she had – tea and biscuits.  Nothing more.  Not once did she complain; she was quite content with tea and biscuits.  Mind you, she wasn’t very happy about the having to give blood ….

Eventually, an ambulance became available and I was returned to the care home.  It was 6 am.  The night staff (carers) were still on duty.  They were waiting for me with a manual wheelchair.  I was transferred from the stretcher into my wheelchair, and then escorted back to my room.  The carers then told me they would hoist me into bed as soon as possible, but I would need to be patient.  I replied that there was no need to put me into bed as I would be going out to choir practice in 2 hours.  I had booked a taxi to take me to the venue where we have our weekly rehearsal (it’s 2 miles away in the town centre). 

The expressions on the carers’ faces were priceless; the looks they gave me were of sheer disbelief.  They were speechless.  When their control over their vocal cords returned to normal, they pointed out that I had just had had a major trauma that needed hospital treatment (albeit not a hospital admission), and that I needed to catch up with some sleep.  I disagreed, and said so.  A good, hearty sing-song would be just what was needed to put the colour back into my cheeks.  What I didn’t realise is that I already had plenty of colour in my cheeks, or rather, on my cheeks.  The carers suggested I look in the mirror.  I was horrified to see that my face was still caked with clotted, congealed blood. I looked like someone from a particularly gory horror film.   

(Russell upon return to the care home.  Originally I was going to give this pic the caption ‘You Handsome Devil’ from The Smiths’ eponymous song.  The song contains the classic lines “I’d like to get my hands, on your mammary glands”.  Apparently when a music journalist asked Morrissey if he would ever consider reforming the band, he replied “I’d rather eat my own testicles”.  A somewhat shocking and unexpected reply, not least because Morrissey is famously vegetarian).

Eventually common sense prevailed, and I gave up any ideas I had about going to choir practice.  I cancelled my taxi and went to my bed, where I slept for the remainder of the day.

Now, 6 months after the accident, I have made a full recovery.  The wheelchair needed minor repairs, but is still fully functioning.  However, eyewear is still an issue.

I now have 4 optical options as to which spectacles will complete my facial appearance:

(a) designer glasses (black frame) - damaged in elusive kebab incident

(b) designer glasses (blue frame) – damaged in non-kebab related incident

(c) non-designer glasses (old prescription)

(d) no glasses

Pair (a) have the correct prescription, but were damaged when I fell out of my wheelchair and hit my head on the tarmac.  The right arm of the glasses became detached from the frame.  However, the arm itself remained intact.  One of the senior carers has kindly offered to do a repair for me, as, due to COVID-19, I cannot get into town to the opticians.  However, in an act of staggering incompetence, I have now lost the arm somewhere in my room.   The following items, last seen in my room, are also currently missing:

•   the letters '· B' and 'O' from the Scrabble set
•   a packet of Boots Muffles wax ear plugs (containing both used and unused items)
•   a tool to remove hair (facial, nasal and auricular, but not pubic)
•   a packet of Trebor sugar-free mints (mostly unused)

Until recently I was wearing my spare pair (b), but unfortunately, at present they are unusable.  A week after my accident I was in the roof garden of the care home.  I had not noticed my glasses had fallen on the ground.  I then ran over them with my wheelchair (by accident).  The damage was even more severe than that incurred by pair (a).  

(Russell's spare pair of glasses having run over them with his wheelchair.  The two arms are clearly pointing in a different trajectory)

And that’s that, really.  I don’t know when I will be able to get into the town centre in my power wheelchair.  COVID-19 means it could be 6 months, 12 months, even longer, perhaps never.  Will I be able to get another kebab?  At this rate, small businesses will fold, and there may be no fish and chip shop in the town centre.  If this happens, then the kebab won’t just be elusive – it will be extinct.

Post 2: The Elusive Kebab (Part 1)

 

Originally, I named this post ‘Chasing the kebab’, but this brought to mind some form of recreational drug use, rather than the innocent foodstuff that resulted in an accident that required treatment in an Accident and Emergency (A&E) Department.  So, what happened on that fateful day in March 2020?  This post will reveal all.

 In the morning, I went with a female friend to visit her husband in hospital.    The hospital is in a busy city centre, 10 miles from the town in where I live.  My friend H is unfamiliar with the city centre, and the hospital can be difficult to locate, if you’re unfamiliar with the route.   Also, often you can’t find a parking space.  For these reasons, H and I had decided to travel in by bus.  So, I arranged to meet H at the bus station in the town centre. 

 I’ve been a wheelchair user for over 2 years (please don’t call me ‘wheelchair-bound’; you wouldn’t refer to a car user as ‘car-bound’!).  Travelling on a bus in my battery-operated power chair is not normally a problem for me.  Mostly, I am able to steer within confined spaces.  I say mostly because I recently reversed my chair into the wall of my room in the care home and left a big hole there.  The evidence is shown below:

The infamous hole in the wall.  Note the fabric of the board is clearly visible

I’m now far less self-conscious about waiting for the driver to get off the bus to put down the ramp for me.   H and I got on board the bus.  I confidently gained momentum in second gear and in one seamless movement went up the ramp, continued round to the right and stopped just in front of the other passengers.  In order to do this manoeuvre, I needed to go eyeball to eyeball with the occupants of the front seats.  These seats are intended for the infirm and elderly who are unable to make it to the back of the bus.  I would try desperately to avoid eye contact so I couldn’t see the apprehension in their eyes, afraid that I would run over their toes. 

    

Passengers on the front row of the omnibus having spotted Robert moving towards them

In fairness to myself, more often than not, the toes remained intact (which I felt was a more than acceptable outcome).  Occasionally, contact was made.  Whenever this happened, I would say “I’m terribly sorry”, receiving in return a response such as “no harm done”, or, “these things happen”, or “it’s ok, I’ve had someone run over my toes before – I’m used to it”.

 Next, I had to reverse into the space allocated for people with a disabling condition (please avoid the term ‘the disabled’!).  It’s a bit of a faff, but gets easier with practice.  The problem with the reversing manoeuvre is that there is a metal pole to be negotiated.  The pole is not visible to me as I have my back to it.  In my early days I used to reverse straight into the centre of the pole (unintentionally).  I would then need to move forwards towards the front-rowers and their toes so I could make a second attempt. 

Then I started to make progress; I managed to get to the point where I would merely scrape the wheelchair along the side of the pole, thus enabling me to continue the reversing procedure, and bring it to a successful conclusion.  Unfortunately, the interaction of chair on pole resulted in a very loud, unpleasant shrieking noise, like the sound of two armadillos mating.  (I’m unsure if this is a good analogy – I’ve never witnessed armadillos engaged in acts of passion - but you get the picture).  I like animals.  Here’s a pic of me with an armadillo on my lap, if you don’t believe me. 

 

No armadillos were harmed in the making of this blog

We arrived at the hospital on time.  Visiting hours were 1-3 pm.  It was 12.30 p.m.  We had time to kill.  We decided to get a drink from Costa Coffee (free advertising for Costa - good).  I then made a decision that had unforeseen consequences.  If I go on a long journey, I always take a bag with me.  It will contain some or all of the following; waterproof top, sweater, urine bottle, newspaper, water bottle, fruit, shopping, and pepper spray to repel unwanted Aston Villa (AVFC) supporters. (My football allegiance is to Birmingham City Football Club [BCFC].  BCFC and AVFC are bitter rivals).

 

I’ve supported and suffered BCFC ‘since I were a lad’. Recently, the club’s star player, Jude Bellingham, aged 17, was transferred to the German club Borussia Dortmund for a fee in the region of £20,000,000.  Bellingham played only 44 games for BCFC.  Despite this the club decided to ‘retire’ Bellingham’s No. 22 shirt, “in an attempt to inspire the next generation”.  This has left the club open to ridicule as most clubs only ‘retire’ shirts when a player has played for their club most/all of his life, probably making in the region of 700-800 appearances.  One BCFC fan was quoted as saying, with just a hint of sarcasm, “we will aim to get exactly 22 points next season as a tribute to Jude” (most clubs would expect to get at least double that amount of points in a full season).   

 I always carry the bag on the back of my wheelchair, held safely and securely by a carabiner.  (A carabiner is not someone who likes holidaying in the West Indies.  Instead, it is a shackle, consisting of a metal loop with a spring-loaded gate used to quickly and reversibly connect components). 

Carabiner in 'open' mode

On this occasion, I decided to attach the bag to the arm of my wheelchair, with the bag resting on my lap.

The rest of the visit passed off without incident.  H’s husband was feeling much better than the previous day, and well on the road to recovery.  It was not the coronavirus as first suspected.  Visiting time came and went very quickly.

 H and I then made the bus journey back to our home town.  We got off the bus around 3.30 p.m.  We then parted company; H collecting her car from the car park, so she could collect her kids from school.    

I started to wend my way homeward.  As I did so, I realised I was hungry.  I’d had a full breakfast before I came out, but nothing since then.  I had thought about getting a snack from Costa when we had our coffee break but prices were ridiculously expensive (free advertising for Costa – not so good).  In any case, I needed something more substantial than a snack.  Therefore, I decided I wanted to get up close and personal with a kebab and chips (and not just a small portion). 

 Fortunately, the local fish and chip shop was open.  I ordered large mixed kebab, large chips, large naan bread, large salad, and large salt & vinegar.  I decided I would eat my feast back at the care home.  I now had on my lap, not only my bag, but a humungous kebab-shaped food parcel. 

A smaller version of the kebab.  Not to scale.  The actual kebab was 10 times bigger.  Plus, it had chips – probably about 1000 of them).  Plus, it was wrapped – but is shown unwrapped so kebab is visible.  At this point the kebab retains its ‘non-elusive’ status.

I started to make my way home.  I went slowly, as I needed to consider both the shopping bag and the kebab on my lap.  I made my way up the main street and across the market place.  This brought me to the bottom of a steep hill.  I was not worried about the ascent.  I always go up a pavement on the right side of the road, with the kerb on my left and the houses on my right.  I have a tendency to lean to my right following the onset of the cancer, and the subsequent compression surgery.  The camber of the pavement is such that when I go up the pavement in this way there is a downward slope from top right to bottom left.  So, fortunately my leaning to the right is cancelled out by the camber to the left.  

This meant that my trip up the hill was, as usual, smooth and uneventful.  At the top of the hill there is a pedestrian crossing accessible to people using wheelchairs via a dropped kerb.  As usual, I went across the crossing keeping in a straight line, not deviating to left or right.  I went up the dropped kerb on the other side and turned right. 

At this point of the journey I always need total concentration.  The pavement goes from almost level to very steep in less than 2 metres.  Also, the camber of the pavement divides sharply 3 ways; left, right, and straight ahead.  I needed to go straight ahead.  At this point my kebab decided it wanted to become ‘elusive’, and made a break for freedom.  It started to fall off my lap.  I made a desperate grab for it.  I managed to stop it falling on the ground. 

Unfortunately, the successful grab meant I lost control of the hand-operated joystick on my chair, which selects the gears.  Instead of going straight ahead as required, the chair went off to the right close to the kerb which was almost 12cm high.  I took my hand off the control and the chair came immediately to a stop. 

The offending article. 

Specialist joysticks, a.k.a. ‘assistive technology pointing devices’, are used by people with fairly severe physical disabilities. According to the magazine Armadillo Monthly they are used on electric powered wheelchairs for control since ’they are simple and effective to use as a control method’.  Ahem.  Yes, well …. maybe …..

Unfortunately, by now the chair was on the edge of the kerb, wobbling precariously, like the mini (the small car, not the short skirt) on the fulcrum of the mountain in the final frame of The Italian Job (watch the original film from 1969, not the 2003 remake). 

 I tried desperately to get the wheels of the chair back on the pavement.  However, the chair refused to go to the left – it even moved slightly to the right.  So, I kept very, very, very still, hoping that someone would rescue me …..

 

The next time – in Part 2 - the kebab continues to be elusive … but then turns up in an unexpected place …..

 

The World I Fell Into* (an introduction)

• Hello.  I’d like to introduce myself as Robert Penny**, aged 61, white, male.  I live in a care home in England.  All other residents are over 75, but I get on well with them.  I enjoy interacting with my carers, and there is much banter (when I came to the care home in April 2018, I made it clear that I welcomed banter).  Even though it can be hard at times, even grim, there is also fun & laughter in the home, perhaps confounding my expectations.  However, I don’t want to give the wrong impression; the staff are very caring, extremely hard-working & highly professional.  
  

• So, how did I end up in a care home at my relatively young age?  In November 2017, I was looking to the future, having retired a month earlier.  I had worked - in both private & public sectors - for almost 40 years (I left the private sector to work in the caring public sector …).   I was keen to relax & make a fresh start.  
  

• I can play guitar (averagely), but always wanted to play keyboard.  I also wanted to speak a new foreign language e.g. Italian, Polish.  I did acquire a few Polish words from a carer who left Poland for the UK; these were, arm, leg, left, right.  This enabled me to form the following word combinations; left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, and octopus (don’t ask).   
  

• I also wanted a dog to walk.  I like animals – here’s a photo of me with a cat on my lap, if you don’t believe me.  I had a ginger & white tom cat (Reg) who was my pride & joy.  More later.

• I’ve had mental health problems (a.k.a.  mental illness – but MHPs sounds more P.C.) all my life, even in childhood (although I didn’t realise it at the time).  The problems were anxiety & depression, both caused largely by the Obsessive Thought Patterns (good name for a band).  More later.   
  
• In contrast, my physical health has been good.    However, in November 2017, I was suffering from back & leg problems.  After walking 10 yards, I had to stop because I was in agony.  The pain only lessened if I bent forwards & rested for a minute.  I also couldn’t sleep.  I normally slept on my side, but this was now too uncomfortable.   Only one position let me remain pain-free, & relax sufficiently to fall asleep – lying on my back with knees bent & soles of my feet flat on the bed.  
  
• I’d not yet been formal diagnosed.  I saw an osteopath, then a physiotherapist.  Both tried, unsuccessfully, to diagnose & treat me & reduce my pain.   Eventually, both recommended an MRI scan.  However, people find the procedure claustrophobic.  I wasn’t claustrophobic, but I simply couldn’t lie still in the MRI scanner for 60 seconds, let alone the 30 minutes needed for a full scan.  The pain was unbearable.  I tried, unsuccessfully, on 5 occasions to have the MRI scan.  By now, I felt deep despair, was in great pain, & couldn’t see a way forward.

• Then, without warning, MRI scans became irrelevant.  One day my back gave way.  I’d been struggling to stand on my right leg anyway, but now both legs gave way & I collapsed. I was at the top of the stairs, sitting on my posterior.  I tried to stand, but couldn’t.  I should have had the sense to use my i-phone to call for help.  Instead, I decided I wanted to watch football on the TV & make a sandwich.  I descended the stairs on my bottom.  It took a long time but I did it.  Somehow, I managed to sit on a chair & watched the TV & considered my next move.  
  
• Even though I was still in pain, & needed help, my stomach told me it wanted food.  So, I edged towards the kitchen, crab-like, sitting on the chair & sliding across the floor.  Progress was slow.  Reluctantly, I abandoned the idea of food.  In truth, I needed water, as I was dehydrated.  I decided to do the reverse journey.  
  
• Going up the stairs backwards was much harder than going down sitting forwards.  Eventually, I got back to my bedroom.  A few months earlier I’d have worried I might have sat on Reg, asleep on one of the steps.  I’d have been inconsolable if I had caused him injury.  I like animals – here’s a photo of me with a goat on my lap, if you don’t believe me. 
  

• However, I didn’t need to worry about Reg as ‘fortunately’ he had passed away a few months earlier.  
  
• My memory of what happened next is hazy.   I remember talking to my friend & neighbour, explaining what had happened.  She rang emergency services & paramedics arrived.  I was taken to hospital by ambulance & admitted, via A&E, to the spinal unit.  After a series of checks (I may even have finally been given the elusive MRI scan), I was told by a consultant that I had got metastatic prostate cancer.  I had had a Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) test.  PSA is a protein produced by The Prostatic Epithelium (another good name for a band).  I didn’t know I had a Prostatic Epithelium and was quite happy to remain in blissful ignorance of such a fact.  I was supposed to have a PSA level of between 1-4 ng/ml (‘ng’ is a really good 2-letter word to use in scrabble).  My PSA level was 4000!  (even 3999 would have been better).  
• The cancer cells had spread to my spine and done irreparable damage.  For the rest of my life, I would be paralysed from the top of my rib cage all the way down to the soles of my feet.  Fortunately, I have apparently retained my dry sense of humour.  I can still make people laugh; sometimes due to a deliberate witticism, other times to my inadvertent acts of sheer stupidity, which fortunately have their funny side.
• I spent several months in hospital - more later - but eventually, I had to consider my options.  Ideally, I wanted to live independently, but this was not possible – at least not in the near future.  So, after doing The Cost Benefit Analysis (not a good name for a band), I decided to check out the local care home …..       

*   With acknowledgement to Melanie Reid and her book The World I Fell Out Of’ which helped   inspire me to start writing this blog.

**   I’m writing under a nom de plume; Robert is my middle name, Penny is the first name of my sister who died in infancy.