More Paramedics

OK, I don’t know how to put a photo here. When I have, it’s been due to accidental success rather than know how.

Last night I had to call for paramedics to come and clear my lungs with a nebuliser. They scared me for a moment when they asked what I was usually given for this. Of course, I know what I am usually given but my alarm was, briefly, that they didn’t know what they were doing. I wanted that feeling of the cavalry having arrived and being safe. Happily, harmony was restored and when they left I could speak easily without gasping for breath.

So it took a while to get to sleep after that as I was trembling from the steroids used. I then slept late and was woken by the phone ringing. I didn’t have a clue where I was or what had awakened me but then in a flash reality kicks in. It was the secretary of the respiratory consultant that I’ve missed seeing twice due to my health. She was very stern with me but conceded that I would have been unable to cancel my appointment while sleeping under the influence of morphine. I am still not certain of my status with that appointment, but I have a phone call booked with my GP tomorrow. I can tell him about it.

I am writhing with dystonia today. It is probably an affect of the steroid nebuliser. Nevertheless, it disconcerts me because I don’t know of anyone with the skills needed to treat me. I have already become accustomed to the medicine that was prescribed to help me sleep. The dystonia does make me nervous. I have the rarest type and as far as I know am the only person who has it in Britain. This is loneliness.

I wish my daughter had not moved in with her boyfriend’s family. I miss her so much and her visits are never frequent enough. I love her so much and lately I’ve felt like she is in her room, behind the wall behind my bed. The sensation comforts me until I realise she is not there.

I am thrilled to discover that blogging is a community and I have had some wonderful encounters through comments and emails. For this I am grateful to other bloggers, learning from them and my appreciation is heartfelt.


Repost from Dissident Voice


by Chrissie Morris Brady / May 15th, 2016

They talk about being in harm’s way,
your son, father, husband
They’re in slaughter’s way and
often don’t see another day.
Bullets tear open guts,
blow their brains out spilling on the dirt.
Grenades blow limbs off, shell shock,
blood soaking shirts.
Killed, maimed, driven insane in harm’s way.
Collateral damage, friendly fire,
euphemisms to placate.
Civilians ravaged, murdered, raped,
bombs rained down on, crossfire
and soldiers mistaken for the enemy,
shot by compatriots.
This friendly fire has no love,
ironic way to meet life’s end.
Body bags, toe tags, no coffin yet,
but finally draped by the flag.
Field hospitals, ankle deep in blood,
limbs cut off, the mind numbed
Going home a hero, but soon forgotten,
driven to drink, homeless, alone.
Isolated by night terrors,
dead mates they would have died for,
and wish they had, better a grave than a living hell.

That’s just our soldiers who live by a convention,
now starvation is a weapon against the innocent.
Those made homeless by indiscriminate bombings,
Children made orphans, parents made into the nameless
Of losing children, sisters, brothers, cousins.
How the belly aches for food, for love, sheltering arms
There are none.