Another week of Protein shakes... and a taste of dumping syndrome

So now I'm into the third week; two weeks since the op.  I had thought to be going back to work this week but I realise now this is not sensible - it's still difficult to get through the endless regime of dispersible medication, and the very thought of the skimmed milk protein shake for breakfast (so important for some protein) is beginning to make my tummy churn...  Oh for some solid food!

Now this is the choice I REALLY want for breakfast... but I have a while to wait yet.

The nutritionist phoned near the end of the week and we made an appointment for a check-up at the end of June at the clinic.  I asked her about the exhausted hungry feeling in the morning and she quizzed me on how much protein I was getting.  Like how much protein is in the protein shake?  Well 19 grams - which is pretty good, but not good enough.

Apparently the target is 45 grams a day.  Interesting, as everything else (including the soups) has MINIMAL protein content; you just don't get it in fruit juice and sugar-free drinks...  She suggested a Slimfast drink would be a good supplement, so I tried one mid afternoon.  Disaster.  Well, not disaster, that would be putting it much too strongly, but a mild taste of dumpling syndrome - sweating, feeling faint, heart pounding - generally unwell.  What is dumping syndrome, you may ask?  It's specific to having a bypass operation and relates to the body going in to a sort of shock at having too much sugar or fat 'dumped' into the lower intestine.  Because the operation bypasses the ileum and duodenum, where fats and sugars are absorbed by the body, these enter the system lower down and the intestine is not able to process these 'nutrients'.  So I guess I have been rerouted, in case I was in any doubt!  I used to get a sugar-rush from drinking Slimfast shakes before the op (they have quite a bit of readily available sugar, and as it's liquid it just runs straight through) - more so that I would get from eating a chocolate or two - so my two packs of 6 bottles are now redundant...


Sat on the OCADO app looking at the protein content of soups.  Hopeless.  Even chicken soup which should be made from, er, chicken, has a woefully low amount of protein.  This is one of the problems with the diet Lilly warned me about - getting enough protein for healing and muscle retention.  However, I am working at the protein and hunger aspect from another direction, by adding more bulk to my soups (thicker too, my stomach seems happy with thicker) in the form of DIRECT PROTEIN.  I remembered a had frozen the last few little slices of chicken breast from my pre-op diet - defrosted them and added to mushroom soup - all blended with the whizzer, some seasoning and a little milk.  What a difference. It was heavenly - tasted like canned chicken in white sauce.  With a nice bowl of soup with added protein twice a day the starving feelings are waning.  Returned yesterday as an almost tender stomach after going for a long walk (for me) and obviously needed nutrition. A small glass of vegetable juice and the discomfort went away.  So there is a need to learn new signals from my body whilst everything is healing up.

On Saturday Jon took me to Sainsburys and we bought lots of fruits and vegetables to add to his diet and more cans of soup for me, along with steamed salmon, chicken breast, fresh ham (no water added) and corned beef - all to add to the soups.  So far I've had pea and salmon (hmm, bit windy there though) and parsnip and ham - today will be chicken and chicken for lunch and oxtail with corned beef for dinner.  Preparing the salmon yesterday there was a huge urge just to pop it in my mouth - so soft and tender; had to make do with licking my fingers instead. I reckon I've got a bit nearer my protein quota today.

So what has been taking my attention during the long days lounging around thinking about what I should be drinking, or sticking in myself (the clexane) or drinking?  The cats of course.  There is a whole world out there, largely outside of our awareness, the tumultuous and complex world of cat relationships.  When we first started letting our girlies outside a few weeks ago we thought the worst we would have to deal with was Lara's intermittent antics prompted by irrepressible curiosity and naivety.  Then came Mr Socks.  We have a local stray that we've been feeding (a tuxedo male we guess) coined Mr Socks because of his long white socks on his back legs.  The outdoor excursions of our three are now daily peppered with altercations with this boy, who is putting on weight slowly due to our feeding and now wants to come inside - camping out on our exterior mat when he's not off bullying other local cats.  Our two little girls he actively attacks - and would do Sophie as well if he wasn't scared of her.  Every time the back door is open to allow them out I'm up and down after one noise or another, making sure the marauder isn't at the gates.  Just hoping he's an intact male as we aim to trap him and take him to the vet for investigation.  If he's not been done he's at the mercy of his hormones - and will be an altogether better boy if fixed.  If he has been done we have an anti-social bully on our hands who we can't allow to starve.  Sigh.

Okay, nearly finished a bowl of chicken soup with added chicken.  Lara has licked out the tin for me (so helpful). Amazing gurgling of digestion going on so I think I'll take a leaf out of the feline book and have a little snooze - me and Jessie on the sofa, Lara and Sophie on the window ledge and Mr Socks on his mat outside the patio doors.  Peace.

Black Tongue - things they don't tell you...

Well here I am starting into the second week since surgery.  Actually that started on Saturday, but Saturday was far too nice a day to be blogging - sunny and warm and I spent a good while sipping fruit juice in the garden admiring the bees buzzing round our flowers and watching Jon pottering in his kingdom.

Today it is cold, damp, I have the heating on and I'm drinking hot stock... Ah the coquettish nature of the British summer.

Coming back from hospital was a milestone and felt good until the next morning when the affects of the last 'happy pill' (a so called opiate cocktail designed to give you that bright, positive world's-a-better-place feeling) had worn off.  Horrible dry mouth, painfully bloated with gas, tenderness and general debility if you try to do anything.  I was a bit of a wreck for visitors.

So the first week - not the best, and must advise anyone approaching a similar procedure that you will feel generally exhausted, swollen, sore and traumatised by having to drink so many supplements when everything is accompanied by belching, gurgling and sometimes hiccupping.  However, it passes.

There are dispersible tablets for everything. Actually that's something to be grateful for as Lilly had to open up capsules and EAT the foul contents; now they've made a soluable version which is pleasantly fruity.  So here we go: First, an anti-acid, on the tongue, 30-60 minutes before food.  Next, make up a protein shake with liquidiser.  This takes about 30 minutes to drink, slowly.  Then, dissolve vitamin tablet in water.  Dissolve Zinc tablet in water (tip - both together in squash kills two birds with one stone).  Then, clexane injection around navel (not as bad as it sounds) and iron syrup (disgusting to others I actually LIKE this, it's made with maltitol, yum).

Keep drinking.  Then, small bowl of sieved soup for lunch, thin and runny.  Then another dissolved zinc (tip - it will dissolve in a very small glass but don't overfill or it will go everywhere).  Mid afternoon it's the calcium.  Keep drinking.  Dinner = second half of the can of soup.  Another dissolved zinc.  More iron syrup. Keep drinking, keep some water beside the bed to see you through the night.

The other thing to remember is that you only have 7 small holes on the outside, which are generally healing well, but inside a lot has changed.  As the nurse has put it, someone has taken a knife to your insides and it will take the body time to readjust and repair, so expect to feel tired.  No-one tells you about the alarming evacuations from the other end though, in all the post-operative literature.  Lots of information about feeding and drinking, but nothing about the ultimate result...  Not attractive, we shall leave it there.  Then there's the tongue.  Stuck my tongue out yesterday - as you do - in front of the mirror and got a shock.  It is black.  As you can see (I could have gone closer but have spared you this delight) there is a black coating on my once pink tongue.

Twenty minutes of scrubbing later and we have a more acceptable offering. Apparently you can pay a lot of money to get a special device to do this but a soft toothbrush and some Colgate seem to do the trick :-)

There's also a rather unpleasant film taste inside my mouth.  Normally a sign of poor dental hygiene this appears to be caused by the vitamins and iron liquid.  It is not a pretty sight but should sort out once I start taking pills instead of liquid, which will be a while yet.  But if anyone else gets black tongue, don't worry, it's not a problem.

Drinking is getting quicker though.  As it's all clear liquids it runs down quite fast and I can now get through a cup of tea before it gets stone cold.  Had to give up on the skimmed milk there, and now using coffee-mate light instead - the thin milk made me feel queasy.  Okay in the protein shake though, as it's cold and I put some extra Splenda in for added sweetness.  Okay, okay I've got a sweet tooth.

So the good stuff - fancy the look of food I like, but don't have any 'need' to eat it.  Part of it is mental = you know you can't eat it because your stomach wouldn't cope with it; part of it is physical in that you just don't feel you need to eat.  I can tell when I need something substantial (like a soup) when I start feeling tired.  Put some of my favourite sugar snap peas in the fridge for Jon and boy did they look nice, but there's no temptation to actually eat them - not when you've had all the painful distended belly and the incredible gurgling just with soup.  I look at food on adverts (there was a warm grilled courgette, asparagus and feta salad and a quorn sausage the other day) that I could eat later down the line and make a mental note that it would be jolly nice, but you seem to have an awareness that all is not quite as it should be and these things are the stuff of the future at the moment.  It will all happen one step at a time.

Now I think I'll make a nice cup of tea and have a read - what a luxury!

On the way

Well, here I am on the next step to my new existence.  If 50 is the new 40 I'm catching up a bit late but it doesn't matter at all -getting to the point where you say that enough is enough and having the WHEREWITHALL to take a drastic decision isn't within everyone's remit, so for that and the support of my family I will be forever grateful - hopefully for the next 30 years, if I can follow in my parent's footsteps.

Freshly washed and wearing a new fetching accessory - these little tubes (all with blue plugs on the end - are actually descending through the carotid artery and at least one of them going directly into the heart.  Amazing - you don't feel a thing.  The most uncomfortable one is one the left forearm, which catches on things, and then the one in the inside elbow.  There's another high on the chest on the left (discretely hidden).

I'm in the Chelsfield Park hospital on Day 3 after a Gastric Bypass operation.  Basically I've had 7 small incisions in the stomach, been blow full of gas, had my stomach dissected into two with a little pouch remaining and the edges sealed with titanium staples.  Then the bottom of the new pouch has bypassed the ileum and duodenum and enters the intestine lower down.  This means that not only do you have a greatly restricted capacity, but some of the constituent parts of your food can no longer be absorbed - in particular a large part of the fats and sugar, which are normally absorbed in the upper intestine.  This operation can practically cure type 2 diabetes over night.  Whilst not diabetic, I recognise that the sugar rush I've had in recent years from pure orange juice, for an example, is a precursor.  Now if I eat too much fat or sugar at once I will experience something very unpleasantly called 'dumping syndrome'.  Today I'm having the first soup of my new life - one spoon at a time - tomato and chorizo thin and slightly spicy into my tiny stomach.  Thing is, I've eaten whatever I liked (and most of it good, admittedly) for certainly 40 years of conscious memory - it's no real hardship to do it differently now, if it will give me better health.  I've seen it, done it and got the t-shirt, you could say.  I can move on.

This really is delicious.  One sip at a time, let it trickle down.  No need to hurry; the first few weeks will all be like this, then I can start trying tiny helpings of pureed food.  I will work my way back up to savouring low-fat houmous (chick peas are on the good-for-you list from our surgeon).  I have a role model too, my gorgeous daughter who can tutor me through the whole process, having been through it all before.

So it took me an hour to eat the soup.  At home I can warm it when it cools of course - but for this first week I'm not rushing anything.  Managed to swallow my pills though - impressed there - and the gurgling in my stomach is a wonder to behold.  This will continue, I'm told - a result of the interesting plumbing.

Yesterday lunchtime I had my catheter out.  I'd been wanting it out for a day, but they won't do it until you actually start drinking.  Paul, the EXCELLENT day nurse (couldn't be smarter or nicer) told me he'd give me 12 hours to pass water or it would have to go back in.  People are scared to go when they've had an op.  I've had a knife cone biopsy (cutting away half your cervix) and gone within a few hours.  A stomach realignment is no problem.  Proving I could sip water (they have to watch the first sips) he brought me a pot of tea.  30 minutes later I have the first specimen for him.  On an empty stomach I'm like a sieve with water - in and out in no time.  Oh the bliss of the first little bit of milk in tea for two weeks.  I got through 4 small pots of tea and 2 pots of peppermint tea throughout the day.  Wonderful.

Interestingly when you've had your surgery, before you go to recovery, they put you under an X-ray and send some dye down through the whole system to make sure the new valve and stoma aren't too tight to pass fluid.  Now that's impressive.

Last night Paul gave me a happy pill.  A mixture of opiate derivatives I had wonderful morphing imagines on the back of my eyelids whilst I tried to sleep, galloping horses, wild creatures, mysterious forests and trees - I could watch them fascinated. Such a nice happy feeling too and no pain (glorious) from the trapped air, but I hardly slept more than a couple of hours.  But it was not only the pill I think - it's the realisation that I'm on the way.  I will, come some way down the line, be able to wear the clothes I like, get rid of my old big things (really for good this time) and embrace being me.  Yes, I'm on the way.

Jessie's Choice

Jon was putting in a cat flap last week - a major job as it had to go through a solid outer wall, but he's  finished it, and now they just have to learn to use it - Jessie, Lara and Sophie.

Jessie was a calico feral kitten we took in at the beginning of July 2012. Jessie was born to a feral mum in the roof space of a garage behind our house, and when her mum deserted her we caught her and took her in. Afraid and skittish, yet gentle and sweet natured, the vet recommended not to let her outside again for a long time - if ever, or we might lose her.  Well since Jessie we acquired two other gorgeous girls who have been together now for 7 months.  Jessie has come a long way since those early days and last weekend we finally let her back out into the world, after 10 months as a house cat.  

Jessie is now over a year old and recently she's got a lot less skittish, and very affectionate, so we took the plunge and left the back patio door open... At first she was curious but scared and barely got past the patio onto the lawn for the first two days. On the third she explored every inch of the garden. On the fourth day out she went to the back of the garden, hopped up the tree and went straight into the roofspace of the garage behind like an old pro - this is where she was born. 

She stayed up there all day - sometimes sunning herself on the roof of the adjoining garage outside. As it got later the other girls came in, but Jessie stayed in her old home. We shook treats, banged the dinner bowl, but although she'd poke her head out she stayed in there. 

As it was getting dark and not so warm we shut the patio door and Jon had his dinner in a chair opposite the door to see if she came back. At dusk she came down, played a little with the moths in the shadows (as she'd done as a tiny kitten) - then as darkness fell she came to the back door. I let her in. 

She was a bit skitty as she came into the light then rushed upstairs - I think to check out her new nest, under our bed, with all her soft toys and stolen socks. Then she came down as if nothing had happened and gave us loving headbutts. 

She's been in the garden every day since (apart from Friday when it poured all day) and not been back up to the old nest again. 

Now I know people say cats don't have great memories and don't do a lot of thinking, but I reckon there was a residual emotional attachment memory to her birthplace and old home. Most rescue cats never have a chance to go back to their old homes, so we have no idea how they would react. I think she was enjoying being there and just taking her time. Then she came and checked out her new home, and made her own decision. 

Jessie is our girl now, and this is her home, and it's her choice.

Decisions

Well I've done it.  After a lot of soul searching and family discussions, backed up by the inability to keep up with other people walking because of puffing and pain, I am going to undergo elective surgery.

Thursday evening was the first appointment with the Bariatric surgeon who will do the operation.  Jon took me and daughter met us there.  Newly tanned from her recent running in the sunshine she did indeed look 'whippet' fit.  She had a picture to show the surgeon - that of her pre gastric surgery two and a half years ago.  "You look fantastic" he said, his eyes shining.  He meant it.  Not only does he change people's lives but he can even give them back their lives - at 30 she felt doomed to sloth, crippling doses of anti-depressant, anti-psychotic and mood-stabilising medication and inactivity for the rest of her life.  Now she is entering cross country races and loving every step.  That's more than successful surgery.  How wonderful to be able to do that for people.  The ultimate kick.

To my surprise the surgeon did not recommend a gastric band at all but said he would be willing to do a sleeve or bypass procedure.  I thought the later was not an option because of my age, but he had no problem with that at all.  Only problem he perceived with the bypass would be remembering to take medication every day for the rest of my life.  Funny.  I've been talking medicine every day (until recently only herbal) for about 20 years now - no problem there.  The problem with sleeve would be that it restricts capacity, but nothing more.  I would need a strict dietary and exercise regime.  Exercise and academia don't mix well for me.  My bottom gets the most exercise some days, with tutorials and up to two hours of driving back and forth.  And it's not easy to exercise from a computer (I see husband smiling knowingly at this point).

I felt anxious overnight and really doubtful and apprehensive driving to work the next day.  As an aside, this was in my old car, no sat nav or phone, just my little green car and me. Pause for digression and explanation.

Precious car went in for MOT on Tuesday- the first, overdue (first MOT, thought it wasn't due until May earliest) - but had picked up a stone-chip on the A1 on Saturday driving to the Open Day... car consequently failed MOT due to said stone-chip. Calling the insurance company I am told that Autoglass can't replace for A WEEK unless I go outside insurance??? Through insurance = £75 excess; outside insurance = £750. Bastards. Consequence = car illegal so can't drive = car has to stay with dealer = car-less... however I still have my previous green Micra, back from my son as he's gone abroad for the year. RAC replaced dead battery Monday morning after the Sunday call-out because Jon's car was going in for service and MOT and mine was illegal to drive, etc. etc. etc...Hence the old girl is back in the saddle...

ANYWAY, driving round I'm thinking that this is just like old times - for 13 years I was driving this little car to work and back.  Tank hasn't been filled since it was used in January; pretty economic. Every now and then the waves of anxiety and dread break through as I consider the decision I have to make this morning - do I go ahead and book a totally voluntary surgery?  Will it really change my life?  Do I really need it?  Then I realise this is exactly the same feeling I had about changing the car three years ago... Of course I'm anxious - anxiety is my middle name. 

 

Said good morning to colleagues. Saw my students into their exam then went back to my office, transferred some money into my current account and phoned the weight loss centre.  I’ve got a date for the operation now – it’s going to be the 1st June.  I will need to eat a very restricted diet for 2 weeks before to shrink the liver, then nothing for 24 hours before.  Actually feel better now it's booked.   

That evening we took Chris to a carvery for a late birthday meal and I was appalled at the amount of food people were eating. I really didn’t have the stomach for it, and didn’t want a dessert. There was a really fat family (mum, dad, grandma and grandad) with a toddler in a high chair for whom they’d got the most ridiculously huge plate of food topped with a ginormous Yorkshire pudding. She was crying and they were spoon feeding her. Crazy. Jon had a nice fruit sundae and Chris chocolate brownies but the amount they ate was very moderate compared to what other people were giving themselves – all because it was ‘eat all you can’. Scary.

B-Asics

Easter is here again - and a little bit of sun has peeped through, offering the hope of spring.  In a few days time we will be off to California to visit our good friends Art and Michael in Desert Hot Springs.  Rest, relaxation, views to die for and a lovely pool I'm forbidden to use by the opthalmology assistant.  Mustn't get water in my eyes.  However I've discovered a really BASIC but effective solution to getting water into your eyes - shut them, and keep a dry flannel at the ready.  Not screwed up, just naturally shut.  I might even give it a try in the pool during the second half of the visit.  I don't think I can go through staying there without feeling that cool, slightly salt water that sparkles so beguilingly in the permanent sunshine.  The second challenge will be to resist just dipping my head in that glorious cooling heaven...

So on Friday we headed off to Cambridge early to get a parking spot for the day - Jon singing at the Kings College Chapel a piece of music I might resist naming for fear of offending the venerable composer as it was distinctive in its mediocrity and lack of any memorable moments.

My usual fears hit me when seeing where we'd parked - I would have to walk.  Walking and my feet don't get on much these days.  I'd worn my classic lace-up Sketchers and immediately on starting out felt something lumpy beneath the left foot. Damn, I would be hobbling before we ever got to head home...  However, by the time I we got to the main area the awkwardness had settled and as our day was going to be well out of kilter fitting in with rehearsals and concert we decided on an early light brunch at 11.30am.  Jon had a vegetarian 'full English breakfast' (a peculiar concept dominated by a dish of baked beans in the centre - yuk) and I opted for a wholemeal chicken and mayonnaise salad baguette.  This was distinctive also in it's mediocrity and lack of contents - a single slice of tomato, single slice of lettuce, single slice of cucumber along with a white mush that purported to be chicken and mayonnaise.  A single slice of tomato!  I ask you!  I know there is a recession on, but surely for £4.50 you could give a customer at least HALF a tomato... Don't go to the Copper Kettle in Cambridge if you value your salad. Okay, rant over.

Usually I go and sit in the Chapel while Jon rehearses but this time, energised by my new visual capacity and painless feet, I said I'd walk around for the next few hours.  What a wonderful time I had! Wandering along at my own pace, in circles much of the time, moderately lost at others (daughter will sympathise here) just LOOKING at things.  Looking, and seeing things in focus.  Distance details, good.  Turn head suddenly, good.  Walk into shops with changing light conditions, good.  Walk out of shops into a new focal depth, good.  Need to read fine print - pop the glasses on, not a problem.  Bitterly cold (-4 windchill apparently) but a slow plod and intermittent entry to shops (well what woman could resist) whiled away a very pleasant three hours.  I had forgotten how nice it is to walk around.  Usually I'm struggling to keep up with Jon.  His longer legs mean I have to walk 1.5 times as fast as him to keep up with his policeman's plod (I've timed it). Being a small fat person this inevitably leaves me trailing dismally behind, of late staring at the pavement because every time I looked up at the world I would be scarily seeing double.  Today I have two happy advantages - I can take my time and I can see!!

Managed to spend over £100 in Holland & Barrett getting holiday pills (even with the buy-one-get-one-half-price - they won't be going under any time soon...) and to resist buying cameras with 'Pet Setting' having interrogated the hell out of shopkeepers before going outside to check Amazon prices on the iPad...  Played with the iPad mini in the Apple store, enquired about shoes with arch supports in several shops (nothing doing), circumnavigated the market several times before buying another handbag (ideal for the holiday I think) and used M&S as a toilet - pardon me, used the toilet in M&S  ;-)

Arrived back to Kings Parade and sat outside the Copper Kettle hoping for a coffee,  but it seems Easter is too early to expect outside cafe service.  Jon's rehearsal complete he was free until the concert.  We perambulated a little and came across a running shop with a treadmill in plain view... should I?  We went in.  "I'm looking for some supportive running shoes for a fat lady over-pronator to walk in..."  The young lady was efficient and methodical.  First watch me walk and then use the treadmill to monitor my gait.  Never used a treadmill before and the experience was nothing short of hilarious.  Leaning forward to stop from toppling it's very difficult to 'walk normally' and what the sweet young lady thought might be my 'normal walking pace' would have been more like jogging with my weight, but I was duly videoed walking in a pair of standard running shoes.  I joined her for the playback.  SHOCK.  No over-pronation AT ALL, in fact an amazing straight, steady gait, demonstrating strong ankles despite the excess weight.  Personal theory?  Sketchers shape-ups - being wearing them almost constantly for about 2 years until discovering Fitflops in the last few months.  All that wobbly instability has strengthened my ankles and basically my walking gait is fine.  So why all the pain if I don't use support shoes?  She watches my feet as I stand barefoot. My arches are dropping when I stand without arch supports.  TOO MUCH WEIGHT. There it goes again...

I am now the proud owner of a pair of ASICS (not your basics but the best asics on display) Nimbus Gel with arch and gel support and special elastic quick release laces for the plane :-)  You never know, they might be used for something more than walking if I don't wear them out in the next few months.  This is they.

On to Tatties for our traditional post-rehearsal, pre-concert meal.  Fish and Chips for Jon, homemade Lasagne and Salad for me.  Now we're talking.  Thin, light pasta with a rich but not fatty tomato sauce and very light béchamel - tender minced beef and a proper salad with more ingredients than I can recall, lightly chopped in a light vinaigrette.  With a nice cold diet coke of course.

We stroll back to the college.  The sun is low now, buildings lit warmly with a golden glow belying the bitter wind.   We meet fellow singers, Cambridge students, musicians, all gravitating to the lounge area.  Time to drink some of the huge flask of luke-warm tea Jon has been carting around in his rucksack all day long. Then it's time to make our way into the chapel itself - I to take up my seat in the audience, Jon to wait in silence with the choir in the freezing pews behind the organ for the third (and choral) piece of the evening.

All the hours of rehearsal, the tantrums of the chorus master, the endless journeys back and forth around London to rehearsals, the frustrations with learning difficult music, the tiredness rehearsing after a day at work; this is the result.  The choir were good, there was no doubt.  The sound was as precise as the voluminous echo of the chapel would permit and as is often the case with complex choral music I would have little idea what they were singing about had I not read it in the programme beforehand.

So that's basically it.  It is done, and we hurry home to hungry cats.  See you next year, Cambridge.

Post Operatively...

Well, here I am - 24 hours after coming home from my second cataract surgery yesterday.  Very different experience - celebrity status amongst all the other brave souls as the single 'GA'. The petite female anaesthetist and the quirky little nurse were absolutely delightful.  The anaesthetist explained that normally people are fine with the sedative that they give you and you hardly know anything has happened :-)  Yes, I had that last time, I said, and it didn't work...  The nursing staff themselves had said 'next time, don't eat and have a general anaesthetic".  Several doses of the appropriate sedative (oral and intravenous) had been no match for my coursing adrenaline.  It reminded me of the time my daughter had needed an IVP X-ray when she was 7 years old. 'Magic cream' having been placed on the wrong arm the team then attempted to sedate her in order to inject the radioactive dye required for the kidney X-rays.  She would succumb to sedation.  Enough to knock out a 150lb man and she was still screaming and fighting - we were told to take it in turns to sit on her.  After it was over (we should never have permitted in on reflection) they said she'd had so much intravenous sedative she'd be asleep within 30 minutes.  She didn't stop running round until gone 10pm that night.  We are ladies of great adrenaline potential and a strong survival instinct in our family :-)

So, when had I last eaten or drunk?  13 hours ago.  Okay.

Subsequent to post the other week, here is the second eye appropriately robed :-)

This is one of the few moments I spent awake during the subsequent evening and after a lovely plate of macaroni cheese on toast (so comforting on the dry abused throat from the endotracheal tube). So sleepy we packed the evening in and retired at 9pm.

Anyway, back to the clinic.  Because of my recent and interesting medical history a ECG was ordered.  The screen was bleeping away in a jolly manner and the little nurse pulling all sorts of faces as she tried to print.  Eventually she tore the sheet off and screwed it up, calling for assistance.  "It looks fine on the screen" she said, "but the print-out is rubbish!"  After a few minutes an accurate trace was obtained and the nurse unscrewed the previous offering from the printer seen here:

Yes, it looks more like a polygraph or a seismograph than an ECG - happy to say my true results were normal and amazingly my pulse below 100 - a testament to the calcium channel blockers I think.  Then the blood pressure monitor and sats - the former typically stuffed up to the armpit on my short little arm with the resultant pinching leaving me cursing and my blood pressure soaring.  "If only you had a wrist one" I said - at which point she promptly put the measure on my lower arm instead!  Bliss!  I think I shall ask for that in future.  "Ah, your pulse has returned to normal", she chuckled.

Being the only GA I was left until the end of the morning and then some.  A chance for the nerves to subside and instead for Jon and I to people-watch the superbly organised chaos that was the weekend ophthalmology clinic.  For not only were there patients in for cataract surgery but also emergency and drop-in cases coming to see the sublime Dr Lobo, who sat them on a typists chair opposite his with the ophthalmology machine in-between and gave diagnoses, prescribed treatments, referred and reassured patients - even seeing people who had arrive without appointment.  And what a great man he was too - by 5pm he had not even had a break for lunch, had dealt with everyone with patience and with respect as unique individuals, even playing games with coloured lights to get a little child to look into his machine, and not once had lost his calm and patient manner.  He obviously loves his job, and so would I if I were him.  I guess in my small way I try to treat my own students with the same care and respect.

Wheeled through to the ante-room the worst thing was the insertion of the IV - but everyone was having this. Explained the scratches on my hand were from adoring kitty while they patted away painfully to 'bring up the vein'.  After it was in - nothing, until waking up in recovery.  A while dozing then back to see Jon and some cups of hospital tea and madelines before saying our goodbyes and heading home as the afternoon clinic drew to a close.

This morning we waded out through the snow to the hospital, me with two pairs of sunglasses over my patch as the light was intolerably bright.   Met up with a lady and her daughter whom we'd seen the previous day and made our way though the largely deserted hospital to the clinic where we were greeted by a room full of the one-eyed, all waiting to be called in for their patches to be removed.  When it was my turn the painful response to light was explained - a slight inflammation of the eye and a little burst blood vessel, but nothing to worry about.  All will be better within 4 weeks - well it's going to be better a lot sooner as a holiday beckons and I can't wait to see those views again.

Tonight as the night falls and the light is nearly gone I look out into the back garden with both new eyes.  Yes, it's in focus.  Try the new-new eye on it's own. Yes!  It's in focus.  I can see :-)

Brazilian Butt Lift

Okay, so I don't get enough sleep.  OH out at least two nights a week singing until late.  Up early to join the rat race round the motorway. Never get through the night without being wakened several times by my little feline poppet trying to get her 'milkies' by kneading any bit of my body available and preferably exposed with her lethal little paws... but she's so adorable what is there to do! Last night I opted to put two layers on the top half so that I could sleep through the claws, but still woke up exhausted.  Got to work at 8.30am and didn't have a moment without something to do until I left at 6.30pm.  I am looking forward to time off!

I've got a new system for dealing with that faint-from-hunger-and-tired feeling when you get in the door and there's no-one else there - I rehearse an exact sequence of movements and then work through them methodically: Keys, alarm, (stroke cats) glasses, coat, (feed cats) grill on, foil on tray, food out of fridge (stroke cats) salmon on tray, seasoning on salmon, salmon under grill, vegetables chopped and dry fried with seasoning, drink poured, tray prepared, TV on, (stroke cats) computer out, DINNER!!!  Tonight Sophie was sick on the window ledge after eating (nice retching noise from behind the curtain) - definitely hairballs again - but I managed to absorb that in the routine without getting sidetracked for too long.  Once I've eaten some energy returns and it's time to put my feet up in front of some mindless TV :-)

Boob job and Brazilian Butt Lift :-)

Tonight a nice episode of Criminal Minds followed by one of my latest 'horror shows' - Stitch Me, Lift Me Tuck Me...  This is a Harley Street Clinic with a proud specialism in providing plastic surgery for people with more money than sense.  Lots of has-been celebrity clients (as well as would-be stars) but this week the 'star' for me has been the girl having a 'Brazilian Butt Lift'.  Here is a young lady who has been depressed about her appearance for some time because she thinks her bottom should stick out more...  STICK OUT MORE!  Yes, you heard me.  For someone who all her adult life has fought against the tendency of her body to stick out in every area that compromises a smooth clothing line, the thought of having fat sucked out of your stomach and injected into your bottom to make it bigger is truly astonishing.   This painful procedure (imagine sitting down with your bottom covered in stitches) has for her been totally worth it.  Don't get me wrong - this was not a girl who had anything WRONG with her bottom - it wasn't baggy or saggy or even just plain old tired - this was a pretty young girl (a little on the chubby side) with lovely hair and skin who is only now getting herself a bikini and speaking of having the confidence to strut her stuff on some exotic foreign beach.  She just need a bigger butt - to match her bigger boobs.  Another success story for the clinic.

This Saturday I'm having possibly my first operation in the next few months (more later, don't ask) - and this is a minor one.  I'm having the lens in my right eye replaced - my second cataract surgery.  It's come up quicker than I thought and I'm glad.  Last time I left it to get really bad (getting more expensive pairs of glasses to compensate) until I could only see 4 inches in front of my face.  Not this time.  Yes I'm scared; I'm a woos and I admit it.  But I know it's never going to get any better.  I've got the hairdresser booked for 3 days later to tidy up my shaggy mop and fading tones - Jon is taking me.  Tired as I am that will really make me feel a million dollars, and all for the price of a cut and colour :-)

Laxity

Not blogged for a while - this is a busy time of year for me - but there is an issue that's been on my mind for so many years I reckon it deserves a little air time.

My knees have always played up when my weight goes up.  Now is no different.  Back to my heaviest in 40 years and any sort of stairs are awkward and painful; in the night and on getting up even walking is very painful.  Driving to work and the hour sitting in the car can leave me hobbling on arrival.  Yet I see far heavier people than myself trotting along in dainty footwear.  For me there has to be deep cushioning and arch support just to walk around on a daily basis.  The weight is one thing I have a plan to tackle - but why am I so particularly disabled by a few excess stone? Trying to walk down the stairs in the morning my legs are like an old woman with arthritis - wobbly and tender - but I know I haven't got any of the redness or swelling that would indicate arthritis.  It's just damned painful and worse with every pound of weight.  But it is the weight I'm sure - I've tried exclusion diets (did I have a wheat or gluten allergy?) and thought it was working until I acknowledged I was also losing weight as a consequence.  Gradually I have had to acknowledge that every time the weight reaches a certain mark the joint pains begin to become debilitating.

When I was an infant and started walking (late, by all accounts) I was diagnosed as flat footed, as I had a strange clumsy gait.  Special shoes and time and this sorted itself out, but if I walk too far without support when I'm heavy I still feel as if my arches are collapsing.  At my lightest (in my late 20's) I tried jogging - something I always dreamed of experiencing - but just as I managed my first mile I was hit with excruciating pain in my knees and the inability to even squat down to get into the freezer.  Couldn't push a shopping trolley or bend down, let alone run.  Any sideways pressure was really painful, so slipping in the shower - ouch.  The doctor diagnosed 'grazed patellas' and on manipulating my knees declared my ligaments were very loose - he could move my knee joints sideways more than he expected.  Basically I had hyper-extended my knees whilst running, particularly downhill, because of lax ligaments.  Prescription = rest and exercises to strengthen the ligaments that support the knee, to prevent the joint from slipping. Took about 18 months to feel better and no more jogging for me...

Twelve years ago, thereabouts, I embarrassingly came off my scooter at about 5 miles an hour on ice.  Tried to stop from hitting a wall by putting out my left leg and boot.  Should have let go of the throttle but didn't - inexperience.  Consequence = hot burning slicing feeling in my outer thigh and knee and lying part under my bike with my left knee bend round at an unnatural angle.  Whilst still partially in shock I grabbed the said leg and hauled it back straight.  Then I yelled...  My knee cap had disappeared several inches down my shin, there was a hole in my thigh which took years to finally fill in, and zero muscle tone requiring crutches and learning to walk from the buttock. More strengthening exercises and a warning not to do it again. Eventually got an MRI scan of the knee - in typical NHS fashion long after the event (had I gone straight to A&E they would have done it as a matter of course) and 'early Osgood-Schlatter Disease' was noted; inflammation of the bone and cartilage/tendon of the patella.  Over the next few years I got used to 'protecting the left' and the occasional and unpredictable collapse of the knee when stepping off a curb.

So now I start putting the pieces together.  I think I have something called 'ligamentous laxity' of the knees - and possibly other joints as well.  One of the early signs in childhood is late walking and a diagnosis of flat feet.  In actuality it is the laxity of the ligaments which causes the young arch to drop when standing - when sitting to arch will be present. The loose ligaments make it easier to injure the knee by the joint moving more than it should, such as jogging with inadequate shoes.   In my bike accident I undoubtedly nearly dislocated my knee but the laxity meant it actually stretched where it shouldn't.  Popping of the knees (I get this turning over in bed sometimes), pain on stairs (particularly going down) and feeling as if the arches are dropping.

So I have laxity of the knees. Nothing too awful, nothing really debilitating, but enough to make weight matter. And I've had a series of insults to the patella tendon which have exacerbated the problem.  Along with natural aging it means that every time I go up and down stairs I'm putting a huge pressure on unstable joints and this is worse after relaxing - so getting up in the night my ligaments are loose and the instability worse.  Putting good supportive slippers on helps to stop the arches shifting but ultimately I need to LOSE WEIGHT because, unlike the very large ladies in their stilettos with their super-stable knee joints I literally cannot support my own weight.  So watch this space...


Then of course there's the BUNIONS ;-)

Seeing the world with new eyes...

This morning I felt a bit queasy and dizzy headed.  Tried to find out about the Eye Clinic appointment this evening, but only answering machines to leave details on.  Phoned work and told them I would be in for the lecture this afternoon but not before.  Take it easy. You've still got just under half a busy term to go.

Podium in the lecture theatre was emitting an horrific grinding static; totally off putting to me and irritating as well to the students, who could hear it clearly especially with the microphone on.  In the end I gave up, switched the microphone off and moved over to the front row to continue delivery.  I could see smiles rising on the faces around - they like it when things feel more personal.  The presentation today was on Social Cognitive theory - including self-theories and how we construct both preconscious and conscious schema to represent both how we perceive the world and how we respond to what we see.

Guy on the news - Jaron Lanier - big white guy with the most massively long dreads I've ever seen.  He is one of the conceptualisers of free internet and the creator of virtual reality who thought thirty years ago that by now we would all be seeing the world through new eyes - virtual reality eyes.  If we didn't like the reality we had we could submerge ourselves in an alternative reality, constructed using computers, of course.  Now with the downturn in the economy he has started to see the world of the internet and free information he helped to create with new eyes: whilst we pay for access to the virtual world but everything we provide can be used 'free' (for marketing and targeting  there will never be any ethical brakes on the use of information. Lanier thinks we should start charging for what we GIVE, not just what we RECEIVE. Ordinary people should be paid for information - including data obtained by CCTV camera on the streets of London, information and pictures provided on Facebook and right down to twitter 'tweets'.

"Lanier argues that the early internet years have fetishised open access and knowledge-sharing in a way that has distracted people from demanding fairness and job security in an economy predicated on data flow."

 An interesting idea, but I'm sure someone somewhere would still be making their money out of all the buying and selling of little packets of information that would ensue. 

So - I arrive at the clinic and park up. The building itself is one I never knew existed.  It's got a strange little picket fence and inside is a patchwork of outdated styles tacked together in passes for rooms, with other rooms leading off where consultations appear to be made.  Just as things seem to be thinning out alarmingly the biggest, brownest, oldest looking door opens and the eye specialist calls me in.

After the left eye - now it's the turn of the right!

Long and short of it is that, as I expected, there is a cataract growing in the centre of the right eye now.  It's only small, he says, you may want to get new stronger glasses and wait for a while. No, I've had enough of that already - and it's never going to get better. I'm getting scared driving at night again because of the distortion and when I walk into a new environment (new focal depth) I'm confused and uncomfortable as I can't make the visual adjustment.  He's done the obligatory health diary and I'm relieved to see that he understands what vasospasm and variant angina is and suggests I have this eye done under a general anaesthetic. He doesn't want a patient having palpitations with anxiety... He'll even do it before we go on holiday, if I like, so that I can see the views!  Ah - but I have to go to work, I nearly say.  'We work at weekends', he tells me - op on the Saturday, check-up visit on the Sunday.  All I might miss would be one Monday lecture.  Maybe I'm worth it....

Next thing is the focal depth - 'you do know you'll have to wear glasses to read from now on'.  I explain that the left eye lens is slightly myopic - I can see to read, work the computer and see him, all with clarity.  Can I have the right eye to see distance, I ask - then I've got an eye for each?  It's what my brain is used to.  Are you right handed, he asks.  I'm left eye dominant - I know that's unusual - and right handed.  Yes, very unusual he replies.  Okay, bring your prescription with you to the pre-op - we'll match your right eye to it.  I will have one eye to see close, one eye to see distance, and both with clarity!  My brain will be in heaven! I hope we can find a weekend soon to get it done - it will be literally seeing the world with new eyes ;-)

Perspectives

All a matter of perspective.  Just watching Spiral with the extraordinary convoluted loyalties and moralities of the police and justice system. It all seems very curious to me as there seems to be a general acceptance that anything goes in order to achieve an outcome.  I ask Jon if that sort of thing ever went on when he was in the police force. He doesn't answer.  I guess they think in France that sometimes you have to fight things on the same level with people that simply don't care about the consequences.  Well there are a lot of people on Spiral who in one way or another don't seem to be concerned about the consequences. It's a matter of perspective to them.

I broke a tooth this week.  Just fell to pieces in my mouth.  Got an appointment straight away with the dentist.  Predictably he said I would need a crown, as the tooth was already well filled and the remaining outer shell had fractured.  Before you know it he's popping an injection in and drilling the remainder down to a peg.  Oh well, another £500 I wasn't expecting, I think.  He explains he will be using a Zirconia filling - it will be as strong as rock, 'well, stronger'.   I'm sent down to wait whilst the temporary filling hardens.  Returning to the chair he explains I will need my teeth cleaned before the new crown is fitted.  The lower tooth on  on other side will one day need doing as well; the fracture was caused by the pressure from the crown above and I have crowns on both sides.  Great, now my new super-hard crown will be cracking the crown above, which is of a lesser quality than the new one, of course. Yet again I'm amazed at how anxious I get about these procedures. My palpitations have only just about subsided by the time I'm ready to go.

I'm called over to the desk.  They've prepared my 'quote'.  Well, quote it says but as the treatment has already started I am hardly in a position not to pay. I look at the amount - £1210!!!  Over twice what I was expected.  In a cute little move my dentist has found an even more expensive material than the previous ceramic (which was the ultimate in it's time) and now from my perspective I will have a tooth that will most certainly outlive me, costs more than any other part of my body, will not be seen by anybody but me (and only if I choose to look) and that may cause more damage in my mouth in the long run.  Splendid. My anxiety this time (and frequently before) has clouded my ability to see how easily I'm led into more expense than I wanted simply by not stopping and asking what other options are available (and what the price will be) before putting my bum in the chair.  Looking online I find Zirconia crowns cost between £500-700.  My actual crown is costing £850; the rest is 'treatment, fitting, etc'.  If I'd gone to Budapest, I read, it might have cost me £290.  From my dentist's perspective he's made a tidy little profit which can go towards doing up his surgery... again. There goes my Summer School money and I don't even earn it until July.

I had taken my precious Mac in to the dealer to mended - the usb ports had stopped working and it needed a new motherboard (sorry, 'logic' board) - under warranty, thank goodness.  In order to sit next to Sophie  on the sofa (and with an aching mouth) I try to finish my latest batch of marking on my 15" workhorse but Office keeps crashing and the computer keeps freezing (those hold-the-button-down to restart jobbies).  You could make a cuppa and drink it every time it has to restart. Jeeeezzz.  Frustrated, I take a browse on the web for full size laptops as my poor faithful old Toshiba is actually full to the brim (literally) and the fan is charging away like a jet engine whilst I'm working.  You could still fry an egg on it after a couple of hours.

I see this amazing spec in a fully warranted reconditioned Asus machine in Argos Outlet - costing a little more than a 5th of the price of the tooth - 1TB hard drive, 6GB ram, nice blue aluminium, so not the dust magnet like my current patent black machine...  Put it that way and within a couple of days I'm typing this blog on my new machine! :-)

It's a matter of perspective, you see.  Cracking good machine and I get to play with Windows 8, which has, I find, a split personality. I can use 'new ways of working' and/or seamlessly switch to the old.  Even (as Jon points out) swapping between both with the touch of a button. For a computer junkie like me that is pure heaven.  I can wile away many happy an evening after work fiddling with this silent, non-overheating (boy, did my Toshiba get HOT), HDMI screen, 2 second 'Instant On' (the equivalent of stop-start technology) machine.  The dual-core Celeron processor means it probably isn't great for gaming but what would I want with one of those?  I write lectures, blogs and posts on Catchat, manipulate statistics, wade through electronic marking, read and respond to mail, sort photos and browse the web for information - whilst keeping precious kitties company, of course.  From my perspective it's absolutely Purrrfect.

In fact Jon likes the perspective of my new laptop so much he is now having one as well...

Causality

Causality is a big thing in statistics.  Just because x is related to y does not mean y caused x to happen.  My day started with a demonstration of causality.

Eggs.  Tired this morning; should have gone to bed before Jon got home but didn't.  Came down to a quiet house, fed the cats and went to the fridge to get some bread for toast. Lara's daBird toys are on top of the fridge - out of reach, but tantalisingly waving around as I open and shut the door.  Lara jumps up onto the counter, peering up at the precious prize.  Coffee, I need my decaff.  There's enough water for my cup in the Senseo.  I collect my mug and put the sweeteners in, press the button.  Get the butter out for the eggs.  Look at the coffee.  No foam. Odd.  Ah, I've forgotten to put a new coffee pad in the machine!  Idiot.  Take the cup over to pour down the drain.  Something is in the back of my mind.  An unpleasant scuffling sound and a plop.  Eggs.  My two yellow boxes of new Extra Large eggs are both on the floor, inverted, with yellow globes glistening and melding within the globulous transparency of raw egg white.  I have just lost potentially a dozen eggs.  The cause?  Well there is Lara, innocently standing where the boxes stood the moment before, next to the fridge.   What has happened?  Lara has tried to climb on the boxes to get to her toy; it made her higher.  Lara has knocked all my eggs onto the floor.  Of course I should have taken the cue and moved either the eggs or the toy.  So the true cause of the accident, knowing Lara's character and potential for impulsive attempts to get what she wants, was my failing to prevent it...

Have you ever tried to scoop broken eggs off a tiled floor? My first aim, after shouting at the cats, who immediately ran to help by investigating this new feature on their floor, was to rescue any intact or nearly intact eggs.  Four were suitable for storing carefully in a bowl, fractured but not smashed.  Of the remaining 8 I managed to salvage a few which could be used for scrambled egg for breakfast but every moment not spent tackling the rest resulted in the further spread of gloop which resisted my every attempt to scoop it off the floor by just glooping in another direction. Eventually I had to subdue it with a vast amount of kitchen roll before washing the area repeatedly until my shoes stopped sticking.

I was 15 minutes late leaving for work and 15 minutes late arriving.  Eggs. The rather large scrambled egg was rather nice, however.

Today I got a surprise when my ex-colleague arrived at the office to complete the clear-out of her things.  She was to have spent the term working with me on the module but having disagreed with our line manager over teaching duties accelerated her retirement and her last day is next week.  Immediately I felt myself tensing.  On the one hand it was nice to see her; on the other I found my peace shattered and today I was feeling really tired.  I realise that this term, working with new colleagues who do not need me to 'mind them' and who take some small responsibilities for aspects of administration has made this term less tiring than I expected. My colleague tells me that some of her health problems have worsened over the last few months.  "You know, don't you" she says, "it's this place!"  She goes on to declare that everyone hates it here, and that she's glad to be getting out.  "I dont hate it" I state plainly.  "I'm doing a job that I enjoy with colleagues I like and respect." I know she is convinced that workplace issues have caused her health problems, to the extend that she blames our line manager for all her problems.  This one person has caused her health to deteriorate and her stress levels to soar.  In truth I think her stress is caused not by another person but by the mismatch between her expectations and reality; the wearing down of her internal resources to cope with the demands of her job after a series of major life stressors over the last few years.  In case I'm determined not to let her attitude get me down.  She informs me she's binned all her lectures. Got rid of everything.  Anyone who takes over the course next year will have to work their own programme, despite it having been validated in it's current form.  We'll need to get together and sort out Summer School in the next few weeks, she informs me, as she will be away until just before.  She asks me to send her the materials.  She hasn't got them (despite my giving them to her every year) - she has deleted all her work.  She wants us to rewrite part of the course. I say I haven't got time to rewrite it; if she wants to change some of the material she presents, that's fine.  She wants to get rid of some of the 'serious' stuff.  She thinks we should make it more 'fun'. I point out it's a credit bearing module, so we have to keep an academic focus.  She then starts telling me that she doesn't like the material about the MBTI on some of the slides.  This was material I asked for her input on previously. I'm feeling aggravated already.  I'm trying to work.  I have a teaching observation to do in 30 minutes.  I don't want to argue about this joint collaboration but already I'm beginning to regret I agreed to do it again this year.  Maybe it's just not worth it because I really don't want all this aggravation. But I keep quiet, as I always do.  So does she cause me to be stressed?  Well just as I tell her that it's not our boss that has caused her health problems, so I can't claim that she causes me to be stressed.  The stress arises from inside myself but I guess my consistently stifling my annoyance and irritation - irritation against myself too for allowing myself to take these things personally as much as anything - that could be causally related to a rise in my stress levels...

Nice programme tonight on the universe.  Gravity.  Apparently when Einstein looked at the work of Newton in identifying gravity he was not satisfied.  He needed to explain what caused gravity in order to accept the phenomenon was truly explained.  He was able to do this in his theory of relativity. A modern scientist looking at microscopic rock fragments from Mars proposes that it is not possible to assert that the shapes are remnants of living creatures without being 100% certain they were not caused by something else. Of course he's right.  To assume causality we either have to prove beyond doubt that it is a remnant of a life form (and we can't) or that there are no other possible explanations of the effect.  Are there other plausible explanations?  Yes, it could have been an affect of the thin gold coating used to allow the sample to be accessible to the electron microscope - he proves this by duplicating the effect on a terrestrial rock. There's too much doubt for us to assume causality.

Tonight I'm tired.  I think the reason is partly due to a lack of sleep, but the cause (even of that) is a lot more complicated...

Consequences

So travelling uneventfully this morning when after the penultimate junction on the M25 traffic begins to slow. Check SatNav (on to check ETA and traffic issues rather than to remind me of the all-too-familiar journey) - road showing clear.  Round a bend and see up ahead there are lights on the big overhead motorway sign.  Too far away to read, but a traffic message none the less.  This particular sign is rarely lit to indicate distance to junction - something like 'Junction 21: 23 miles 36 minutes" - and anyway the pattern of letters doesn't match. It's definitely a warning of some kind.  The usual at this point is "Queue on slip road" but there are two many words for this.

We crawl towards the sign.  Then it comes into view: "Take your litter with you like other people do"  WTF?? Someone bored this morning, thought that they would put some irrelevant message up in the middle of the rush hour??  As we pass the sign, traffic speeds up.  I get to the slip and find there is no queue at all, unusual at this time of day.  So the congestion has occurred because of the sign, nothing else... Consequences.

This of course starts me musing.  There can be consequences every day for the small decisions that we make - many that we will never know anything about.  Of course all traffic accidents are due to consequences, if you think of it that way.  Presenting the key assumptions of the normal distribution to statistics students today my slide displays the claim: "80% of drivers believe they are above average."  Of course with the majority of any distribution scoring average (around 68% within a normal curve) this is an impossibility.  If you think you're good you're probably average.

So why do 80% of people think they are better than everyone else I ask?  Some blank looks, then one girl offers "because they are over-confident".  Yes, I respond - but why might drivers be overconfident of their road skills?  More blank looks.  Okay, well this may be a consequence of a psychological principle known as the fundamental attribution error (or correspondence bias or attribution error).  This is the tendency of all of us to confer dispositional-related reasons for the observed behaviour of others, whilst recognising situational influences relative to ours.  How might this apply to driving?  When we observe erratic behaviour in other road users we think they are useless drivers.  When we run into difficulties ourselves we blame it on the weather, the road, or anything other than our abilities.  So basically we think in comparison to others we're better drivers ;-)  A consequence of course of this way of thinking can be over-confidence...

Back to musing.  Today I'm rejecting Radio 4 in preference to sing along with my mixed tracks on a USB key. The music prompts me to think about Jon going out singing last night, a rehearsal for Don Giovanni.  He knows the opera well, he's sung the role several times but he still has trouble remembering the words.  Ah, I hear you say, but men are not as good as learning words as women; it's a man thing.  Well that may be, but not all men have problems learning words.  And another thing - I can't remember the words to many things I've learnt over the years, even though I practiced long and hard; but the words in a popular song, heard 10 or 20 years ago, can come back to me to such an extent that I can sing along with delight.  Now I know enough to realise this can't be random.  There has to be a reason why I find some songs etched in my mind and others totally elusive - and it isn't just the genre - there are snatches of other things that are similarly never far from recall...

I pass the Sterling corner roundabout.  There is Morrison's (where I enjoy shopping on my way home - been there a couple of years now) and a couple of other distinctive places I can't recall now (even though it was only earlier today) and a BMW car showroom (which I don't think I noticed ever before!).  So why, when mentioning to Jon about the roundabout yesterday did I say, "You know, the Truprint roundabout".  Truprint, Bonusprint, a series of photographic print services that have been gone for years - a consequence no doubt of digital printing and less need for large premises.  So why would I have associated the roundabout in that instance with the old shops instead of the new one I visit often?  A throwback?  What is a throwback anyway?

A throwback as I understand it is an occurrence which is linked to a previous state of being - so a throwback in terms of gene expression is a characteristic which reappears having supposedly been filtered out of the current species profile; or a person or thing having the appearance of something from a previous time - hence 'throwback to the 50's' in terms of home decor.  So something returning or alluding to a more primitive expression or type.  For memory then?  Neuropsychologists now tell us that the most primitive form of memory is emotional memory - basic emotional responses to meaningful (even prelinguistic) stimuli or events. So maybe an old memory replacing a more recent one may occur as a consequence of the previous memory holding some emotional significance.

Back to Truprint then - why the Truprint roundabout?  Well I recall now the first time we travelled down the A1 and I noticed the photographic development centres.  It gave me a strange emotional feeling.  For years Truprint, Bonusprint and others were an important part of my life; all the photos I took of the children were sent for developing in those gaily coloured envelopes.  There was a lot of emotional significance associated with those envelopes; precious memories, attempts to freeze in time happy moments all too transient as your children grow. My precious children, for whom I invested so much emotional energy over so many years.  No wonder it's the Truprint roundabout!

Now I think back to the music issue - and it strikes me of course that the reason why I remember some songs so well is because they hold emotional significance.  Other words are such a struggle to learn because they mean nothing to me.  It's a technical exercise, no more.  And of course, now I think of it, it's a well know psychological fact that emotional significance can enhance memory recall in many areas. We remember emotionally charged events more immediately and with more clarity than non-emotionally charged.  Where the music has meant something to me or stirred my emotions it is much more likely to be etched in my memory.

So perhaps part of why Jon has such trouble with words as opposed to the music itself is that it's the tunes he finds emotionally meaningful, not the words.  In contrast my popular music is a deliberate blend of music and lyrics which I like to listen to because together they hold some emotional significance for me.  It's no surprise really that I find them easier to remember.

To Be or Not to Be - Married

Marriage.  What is it all about?  Today we've heard on the radio from so many authorities, spokes-persons and passionate believers - all of whom know that they know what is 'right'. So what is 'right'?

Well according to the traditional Christian church the only true authority of what is right is the word of God, and the only recorded word of God is the Bible. Yes, I know that what we call the 'Bible' is a selection of sources sanctioned by the early Catholic church, but the idea is that these people were inspired - by God of course.  Some of what they proposed, sanctioned and did you would hope was not inspired by God as that would make God well... unpleasant at the very least and very dubious in motive...

I digress.  So what in the Bible is the authority on marriage?  The first and primary text arrives early in Genesis.  Yes, I know that is part of the Jewish text and we're not hearing on the media about Rabbis up in arms about the prospect of marrying two men or two women... In the second chapter of Genesis we hear that in creation Adam (man) was a lone member of his species until God took one of his ribs and formed a female - Eve.  In the NIV translation we then read: "For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh".  It is claimed that this was the first wedding and that this indicates marriage, between man and woman, is God's destiny for all.  But from what I can see there's no word 'marriage' - there's just a principle that man is a social creature and better with a partner than without.  Man is not a solitary species. And of course in accordance with nature all creatures have to breed - and for that you need sperm and an egg; so in nature procreation is definitely the province of opposing sexes. However, I think we can agree by this point in human evolution that procreation is not an essential outcome of romantic relationships - or marriage for that matter.  In fact if we don't temper our procreative proclivities as a species there may be serious issues in the long-term future with food and water.

As a one-time biblical scholar I was regularly stunned by the extraordinary extent to which such allegorical biblical statements could be used to justify all manner of social and religious devices.  Of course this is not the only reference to marriage and the behaviour of spouses in the Bible.  There are many references to the 'rules' for husbands and particularly for wives (in terms of obedience, authority, support, virtuous behaviour) in the old and new testament but it has to be remembered that the social device of marriage was well established when these texts were written.  Thousands of years of human socialisation and society, but still humans need guidelines in the form of cultural rules and moral principles.  These guidelines are largely cultural however, something we so often forget when enraged by the value systems of others whose lives we don't share.

And marriage has always been a cultural device.  According to Wikipedia, a priest was not even required to be present for a couple to decide to be married (by verbal consent) until 1545 in the UK.  Every culture has it's own marriage 'myths' and marriage principles.  Ours are not exclusive.

"Although the institution of marriage pre-dates reliable recorded history, many cultures have legends concerning the origins of marriage. The way in which a marriage is conducted and its rules and ramifications has changed over time, as has the institution itself, depending on the culture or demographic of the time."  Wikipedia

So now, in the 21st century UK, we have already acknowledged that people want to spend their lives devoted to someone they love, not necessarily someone of the opposite sex.  Maybe it took society a little by surprise that so many gay relationships celebrated civil unions as 'marriage' - we know some ourselves and very precious and devoted they are too.  But maybe we also underestimated how important commitment is to a stable society.  Now our British government is suggesting we go one step further from civil unions and allow full legal marriages to those who want to celebrate the joy of a  commitment; maybe providing a stable environment for the rearing of children, maybe just making their lives a little bit happier and complete by being able to make that very public declaration - with the promises of faithfulness and devotion that it includes.  And contributing to a stable society, of course - something we all want.  Faithfulness and devotion - yes and sex, because sex is just a natural way of expressing love within a partnership.  What is wrong about a society seeking to promote commitment and stability?

Ah, but the church believes marriage is sacred, and to be sacred it must be sanctioned by the church.  So what is meant by 'sacred'?

Definition:  Adjective:  Connected with God (or the gods) or dedicated to a religious purpose and so deserving veneration: "sacred rites"  OR
1. concerned with religion or religious purposes
2. worthy of respect or dedication
3. made or declared or believed to be holy; devoted to a deity or some religious ceremony or use
4. worthy of religious veneration
5. (often followed by 'to') devoted exclusively to a single use or purpose or person

Sacred then refers to that which is connected to religion, a principle of holiness (as defined by a deity) or something worthy of respect and dedication.

What then has 'sacred' to do with this new proposal, to extend the definition of marriage to include same sex unions? Actually as far as I can see no-one is suggesting the church has to conduct these marriages - of course a couple may WANT the church to recognise their marriage, but this is not going to be a given.  The church already has exclusions to marriage that are not upheld by civil society.  The church would not have recognised our marriage - marriage between two divorced persons is not an acceptable union. Civil marriage however recognises any commitment between a man or a woman - apart from bigamy; well in this country anyway!  Civil marriage has nothing to do with the sacred - unless we take the second definition: worthy of respect or dedication.  Any two people, regardless of their sex, who chose to form a positive, loving union where the needs of both are respected and promises are made to support and uphold their commitment in good times as well as bad - well it sounds to me like such a union is indeed worthy of respect and dedication.

So many laws are changed in our modern times to prevent crime and protect the innocent from abuse - here is the chance to make a change for positive reasons.  So come on people, this won't be the first time religion has not agreed with a civil process.  But maybe it's none of your business anyway.

Honourable or Dishonourable

If I start by mentioning the traffic I'm aware I'll start to sound obsessive...  However I can't hide my delight that the powers that be had decided after a couple of hellish weeks trying a new 'free for all' roundabout traffic scheme to reinstate the lights at the Mill Hill Roundabout!!   Free flowing traffic mid-morning (late lecture today) and 6pm.  Oh joy.

Lecture went well today and the fact that I'd neglected to put up my availability poll until this morning meant I had time to do my own thing during the morning and early afternoon.  Ceri back from her honeymoon and feeling very positive - looking enormously relaxed after just a week spending time together.  Just hope the pace doesn't knock that out of her too quickly.

So - the lecture.  Today was biological and genetic theories of personality; a lot of material and a lot to say.  A total of 68 slides, which others tell me are impossible to present in under 2 hours, but I'm sort of quietly impressed that I can pitch it just right, even with a break and finishing a little early - still getting in some little anecdotal examples and allowing time to respond to questions.  I enjoyed it, I DO enjoy it.  It's a part of teaching that I love - I feel like I'm sharing something of myself along with the material, and I can see that my enthusiasm means something to a lot of the students who are in turn so keen to feel someone cares about their learning experience.

Now today has brought some interesting news - firstly the final admission of the Rt Honourable Chris Huhne that he has lied consistently over the course of 10 years about his driving transgression.  Here is a man who insisted upon his honour with remarkable self-confidence throughout those years and now faces a spell in prison and public disgrace. How he ever thought it would go away and why he persisted so long in forcibly denying his falsification of evidence is quite mind boggling.  He has been proven indeed to be a dishonourable man.

Second is the declaration that the body of bones found under the Leicester car park is indeed Richard 3rd - the last of the British kings to die in battle and the last of the Plantagenets. With all the retrospective defamation of Richard it appears now that he was an noble man right to the end; that he fought bravely on the battle field and despite his light and delicate frame sustained several dreadful wounds before succumbing.

Almost as amazing is that the facial reconstruction, based on the skull, reveals how closely her resembled the image we have all become familiar with, but with a more gentle visage.  However, an art historian reveals that Richard's portrait had been altered after Henry came to the throne - to make him look harder, slightly evil, and more hunched.  The suggestion now is that this was a technique to try to justify the claiming of the throne by the then Duke of Richmond.  The portrayal of the man as a hunchback and an evil child-slaughtering villain, as so eloquently reflected by Shakespeare, may have been a reflection of the ensuing propaganda machine.  He had a curvature of the spine, bones reveal, but maybe Richard was in fact an honourable man, not a dishonourable one, after all.