The Tower

I wrote this today, imagining the horror, smelling the aftermath as I exited the tube. I felt so sad. I live with sorrow for all that is lost and hope for all that is yet to be found, proud of our heroes and of people coming together, ashamed that it could possibly have been prevented.

The Tower

The smell hangs in the air

Burnt plastic is pungent

Yet no smoke rises

Hungry flames extinguished

People no longer stop and stare

All that remains is the shell

Black and hollow

Ravaged and silent

Screaming in sadness

Reminding us of the hell

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From 3 minutes to 3k

Man running in a gym on a treadmill concept for exercising, fitness and healthy lifestyleToday I’m feeling proud of myself.

When I first started going to the gym I could barely run 3 minutes without the ankle giving me trouble. Now it’s a very different story.

I worked up to 10 minutes, running at 9.0 (whatever that is). Then I worked up to 9.5 and then did 11 mins.

Today I set the machine for Heart Rate, 11 mins @ 9.5.

The treadmill turned. 9.5, Nah, lets try 10. Okay – I can do this. I’m aiming for 2 k in 11 mins.

At 1.90k the machine decided I’ve reached my maximum heart rate…

I DON’T THINK SO.

Kept jogging on the spot. Machine back on as quick as I could. Back to 10 and for some reason set for 10mins even though I only had 0.2k to go.

So what did I do?

0.2k? Nah,

I just kept on running!

I’ll do to five mins I said, well that’s another 0.85.

Might as well do the last 0.25…

Well, that’s another K so I’m only 0.2 off 3k now so well… Keep on running, keep on running Dory sings in my head.

So I did!

3 minute Jo is long gone. I said goodbye to her weeks ago.

3K Jo is here (for now) so there’s no excuses.

Just keep running!

5K here I come!

Appearing to Dissapear

But I’m still here.


I don’t like to write for the sake of it. I want to have something to say. I was always told I talk to much and for those of you who know me you will know this is true and I always have something to say! But of course, I’m not talking about just ‘something’, like what I had for dinner last night (A very naughty not gluten free papa johns pizza now you’ve asked), I’m talking about the big things.

I’ve just been finding it hard to write recently. I started The Mother’s Story and it is so difficult to write. It doesn’t ‘feel’ right yet. It doesn’t have that flow. It’s also very emotionally draining to put my experiences into words. It’s not just writing, it acknowledging what I’ve been though and facing it for what it is. I cruised through it all, as I do, walls up, not dealing, just moving forward , getting it done. So, I guess the writing is dealing, and I guess part of me just isn’t ready for some of that yet!

But I need to write. It helps me leave myself behind. To be stronger. To be wiser. To be me.

X

Messing with my mind.

⚠️ Possible TMI ⚠️

Last month I tried to let go. I tried to draw the line. To say enough was enough. Not giving up. Not walking away. Just letting go.

Time to focus on me, my health, mentally and physically.

I’ve spent most of the last four years consumed by the mother in me. The desire to become a parent.

And yes I’ve fought long. And I’ve sure as hell fought hard. I’ve kicked and screamed and given my mind, body and soul hell. I think my Gynecologist will run in the opposite direction if he sees me again. (Unless I’m paying of course, so I’ve resorted to letters for now!)

My journey. My struggle. My battle. I’m a brat! I know it. I’m glad of it. I always get what I want. Please don’t get me wrong. I’ve never had anything handed to me. I’ve ALWAYS had to work hard for what I want. This is no exception. But I usually get it. Apart from now.

Now, I’ve been fighting so long I’m not sure if I really wanted it at all. Or if I only wanted it because it didn’t seem to come easy and I love a good fight. Or if I’m just telling myself these things to soften the blow.

So, I tried to let go. I was done.

Then, two weeks ago, on a Tuesday, when I thought was 2dpo (days past ovulation), cramps. I thought I’d done to many sit ups or twists at the gym. Perhaps I’d ovulated late?

Same again the next day.

Come Friday… What is this as I run down the stairs at work? Nipples of doom. I haven’t had those since I came off the pill and if it is that It’s far too early for those surely?

Over the next week my breasts decide to hurt on an exponential scale. This hasn’t happened since before my surgery. Even then nowhere near this early.

Indigestion, gas and nausea. Odd. Unusual and very different to the norm.

You’re probably thinking the same as me by now

11dpo(?) Temp still up. Breasts still sore n large. I could test but I won’t break my rule. A bit of spotting when I visit the bathroom. What the!!!

12dpo(?) Same again. Spotting heavier, almost a light flow. Breasts still sore. Usually, my temperature returns to normal the day before my period and my breasts stop hurting. That’s how I know it’s coming.

My app says it’s not due for two days. My breasts agree. My uterus on the other hand, seems to have other ideas.

So now I’m just confused. And sad. I thought I had left this behind but my body is tricking me, playing games with my mind.

I know I’m not pregnant.

So why make me think I might be?

Did I ovulate at 14dpo (this hasn’t happened since the two months immediately after surgery)? If I did ovulate on day 14? PROGRESS?!?

And if so, what was all the other business?

Could it be a chemical? I didn’t test. I don’t test; EVER. Seeing one pink line waving back at me instead of two is too much (Did I mention I hate pink, always have. Makes sense now). Should I have broken my rule? And for what? If it is it’s progress, it’s the most I’ve ever managed to my knowledge. PROGRESS?!?

Can I really be making progress again after all this time?

The glimmers of hope like moonlight dancing on the waves.

I try to leave her behind, the mother in me. But it seems she’s not done. Not willing to walk away. Still willing to fight. Still brave enough to hope.

Do I ignore her. Happy as I am? Without the cherry on top?

Do I succum to her demands again and live my life filled with restrictions and rules and charts and dipping sticks in cups of pee.

It’s clear she’s not going anywhere but she can’t be in control either.

I am. I choose me.

But I also choose her.

She will always be welcome. Watching my back, alerting me to my health when necessary. In hope or dispair. Finding joy in my nieces and nephew, my friends children. Finding sadness for myself in others pregnancy announcements and happiness for them that they get to be parents and never have this battle to fight, this pain to bear. Watching with a heavy heart as my friends have multiple babies in all the time it has taken me to not have one. Glowing with pride as I watch those babies grow into perfect little people. Answering tactfully when people ask when I will have children in a way which won’t hurt anyone.

Perhaps one day her hope will be realised and she can have her moment…

Perhaps one day she’ll slip away silently without me noticing and I’ll realise when it’s too late…

So feel free to stay my friend. You’re right of course. We shouldn’t give up. We shouldn’t stop hoping.

It’s just sometimes it’s all too much.

*************************

CD2. 5am, lying in bed in agony. Temp still high. Breasts still sore. Stomach, back, legs and lower chest burning in pain. Endo is a bitch!

*************************

Am I winning?

scales_1So I’ve been going to the gym for a while now. My fitness level is improving as is my muscle strength, even if my immune system seems to be taking a hit.

My trousers are looser; I can pull some pairs of jeans up and down without undoing them and my jogging bottoms fall down when I run!

When my partner came home last week from working away he asked where my bum had gone.

Problem?

 

I haven’t lost ANY weight.
Can I still be winning?

 

*Image from bbcgoodfood.

I’m not running, I’m just walking

(Sung to tune of Just Looking by Stereophonics…)

I was in the gym today thinking about the people who were there. Giving them little back stories about why they were there, just for my own entertainment, like when I make up reasons why all of the cars are stuck in traffic, stories about where the drivers are heading and why.

There is the marathon runner raising money for charity, the secret nacho libre who fights crime at night, the rower training for the next olympics, the fabulous at fifty looking hot as ever for her much younger and well earnt toy boy and flying man, destroyer of gym machines everywhere, to name a few.

I need to be clear, I’m not judging them or why they are there, just exercisercising my imagination as well as my body.

Then I wondered what people might think of me. Do they invent stories about me or do they judge?

A seemingly healthy woman in her mid thirties not really running on the treadmill, lifting the lightest weights, doing the strangest exercises on the blance ball and the most unconventional stretches.

Do they wonder why they rarely see me running? What’s the point in going to the gym if you don’t run?

Do they wonder why I only do short sets of light weights? Aren’t I supposed to be working out?

Do they wonder why I spend so much time on the balance ball, wobbling left to right, front and back. What on earth can I be doing?

The thing is, it’s what they don’t see that matters.

They don’t see the pain I feel in my stomach everytime one of my feet pounds on the treadmill if I run.

They don’t feel the crams in my ankle as I repeat my reps on the leg press.

They don’t hear my ankle click as my legs turn on the bicycle or feel my tendons giving way as I wobble about on the balance ball.

I’m not there to be a hero, to run a marathon or compete in the olympics. I’m just there to survive the Zombie apocalypse. The gym doesn’t mean being fast or strong for me. It means not falling over on my ankle for no reason at all or collapsing in invisible pain as I make my eascape!

This Jo will survive!

The Beauregarde Incident

Violet-BeauregardeSo last night it happened.

I went out for a perfectly lovely meal with my partner at a local fine dining restaurant. I was good and avoided gluten, enjoying a prawn and crayfish cocktail followed by a roast chicken main and accompanied by a glass or two of Rose. Absolutely delicious.

I made the boyfriend drive home as the wine had gone straight to my head, or so I thought…

Sitting on the sofa waiting for The Boy to join me to watch The Walking Dead, I surfed Facebook.

Very quickly I noticed my hand was itchy and when I looked there were red blotches on the back of it. So I rolled up my sleeve, more red blotches. I pulled off my jumper and called for The Boy. My chest and shoulders looked like I had spent all day in the sun without the appropriate protection as, it turned out, did my back and face. My top lip looked botoxed and the scars on my stomach were red raw.

Now I’m no Violet Beauregarde, and I’d skipped dessert to be good, so why on earth did I now resemble a giant raspberry?

The Boy called 111 before I had even finished removing my jeans (my legs remained milky white so all good there, although a tan wouldn’t go amiss). After speaking to a couple of Operators/Clinicians they confirmed what I thought. I’d had an allergic reaction to something and told me I would need to see an out of hours Dr.

Seriously! Don’t they know Tasha is hauled up with Negan doing the bad and Rick is about to unleash his inner Brit on the woman’s colony. Come on. This is important stuff.

So, rummaging through my apothecary, I get the call that I have an appointment at 11.40, that’s 11.40pm! It only half eight. Should I expect V.B. syndrome to last that long? Really? Hell no. Thanks very much but no thanks. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I explain. ‘I have to be up at 5. That’s far too late. I’ll be in bed.’ Instead I am told a Dr will call me. No-one told me it would be at 11.30pm, a time at which I’d made it quite clear I would be in bed.

I hit the Piriteze, watched some Zombies get their brains blown out and hit the sack.

Of course by the time the Dr called I was a) Asleep and b) Happily no longer a walking raspberry!

I now sit here wondering what had caused me to react in such a way. I’ve had the starter at that restaurant before and there was nothing in the main that should have caused that.

I guess I must have magically developed an allergy to something I’d eaten. Apparently this can happen, especially when your immune system is compromised, as it certainly is at the moment with this horrible cold (which also needs a name; yes, I’m calling it the Snot Monster).

So I guess it’s a trip to see my GP to request an allergy test. I really hope it’s not the shellfish as I LOVE prawns and shrimp and lobster and crab and scallops and… well… you get the idea.

In the meantime I’ll be carrying a box of Piriteze in my bag at all times, just in case.

Now, what shall I have for lunch? Mmm, scampi n chips…

 

**UPDATE**

Today I said goodbye to the Jo whose favorite food was Salmon and Sushi. She has to be left behind. Dr’s orders. No Seafood until my blood test results come back. He completely agreed with the diagnosis of shellfish allergy and has ordered blood test to confirm both that and my gluten intolerance, and I have another pill to add to my apothecary; a strong antihistamine to be taken for at least a month. Apparently sudden onset allergies are linked to my other nemesis but more on those when I’m ready.

**Update 3**

No allergies. Apparently there is a type of food poisoning you can get from sea food that mimics an allergic reaction. Not sure how I feel about being poisoned but I’m certainly very happy that I can eat all the shellfish I like.

I was also tested for celiac disease at the same time. Whilst this was negative it does not mean I am not intolerant to it and I still need to proceed with caution.

This is all positive though so all is good and I’m welcoming back fish fan Jo 🙂