Mind The Gap A-Z
Brain Tumour and Breast Cancer Blogger
Wednesday, March 20, 2024
Crafty Chocolate
Saturday, August 5, 2023
Exercising my Brain
It has been an extraordinary amount of time since I last wrote a blog.
As you know I
published my social history book The Last Class in November 2021, well,
it also kept me busy in 2022.
With help from my beloved Mr H, I spent a lot of time honouring the requests of the Midland Adult School. This was to send a copy to every public library in Birmingham, plus every current and past member who we had details for and of course copies for people who requested to purchase one. They are still trickling out of my hands; I am now on my last 18 out of an original 300 copies. Other copies have sold on Amazon and through the publisher Brewin Books.
It is not a
best seller by any means but that was never the intention. My pride emanates
from the fact that I have recorded, forever, the story of a Philanthropic Organisation
which had a significant part in bringing education to the working class of Britain.
I recorded the personal memories of some of its members and along the way achieved
something that I know makes my late Great Grandad Tom very happy.
I organised a launch of the book for the Rubery Class at my mom’s house. The look of surprise on their faces when they walked into the room where I had the books laid out in true ‘book launch’ style lit up my heart and settled in my everlasting memory. Alan, one of the members took a step back from the table and when I asked him why he said “I had absolutely no idea it would be so professional, a real book.” I asked each member to sign a copy of the book which will be treasured record of them all.
I was also invited to do a talk to the Lickey Hills Local History Society. The room was packed with friendly faces, a few familiar, many not. The last public talk I gave was in 2011 at a Brain Tumour conference so I had to try and control my jangling nerves. But after the first five minutes with my notes in hand I got into my professional swing.
A friend subsequently
came across a review of my talk in The Village Magazine. The article
started with…
“The guest speaker at the Lickey Hills Society
had the packed Trinity Centre enthralled writes Keith Woolford. Dawn
Hamill, who gave a talk on The Story of the Midland Adult School, was part of a
family that took advantage of, and ultimately benefited from the scheme.”
A tingle of elation ran through my body as I read it…
Now that life has resumed and some kind or normality post Covid lockdowns exists, I need a plan. So, even though my mobility took a big hit, and my new - post Covid - normal now includes two walking sticks instead of one, a rollator called Canardly and a Zimmer frame, I shall get back to regularly exercising my brain at the lap top.
I may even set up a new Blog because Blogger have made their blog site even harder to negotiate or maybe its my older brain getting weary...
Friday, November 26, 2021
Words on the Wind
On a week away this summer a rotund man says
It must be a real pain just sitting there taking in the sunshine, as he passes while waving his arms around to take in the sunny blue sky, sea beyond and screeching seagulls.
My stomach rumbles.
I mull over how long I should leave it before I mention my hunger to Mr H, knowing he will offer to fetch me something as I laze in my deckchair, smelling of sun cream covered skin. Maybe an avocado bagel from the kiosk I think...
I wonder how much they cost a day?
£11 I call out as the two ladies pass. They stop, turn their heads and smile a thank you.
Hello you are through to British Gas if you have a boiler breakdown press 1... fades with the phone owners footsteps crunching on the pebbled beach in front of us.
It was grey on Tuesday but we still went for a swim a mature lady giggles as she and her companion walk, engrossed in their friendly chitter chatter, oblivious to my pen scratching across the page of my notebook.
Almost everyone peers inside as they pass. Unembarrassed curiosity disappointed when all they see are two chairs occupied by Mr H and me, our rucksack, knitting, books and shoes abandoned on the floor. They are hoping to see a quintessential beach hut. Pastel blue and white interior with shells dangling from string, a kettle whistling on a camping stove, empty cups awaiting the hot water while pretty, tied back curtains flutter in the breeze.Sand in my shoes a small child moans, nestled in his Dad's arms as they wander towards the bucket and spade shop...
Nosey dogs of all shapes, colours and sizes are eager to investigate the inside of our hut before being yanked away by their lead, held by an absent minded owner.
A people conscious, bucket and spade laden grandma walks ahead of her dawdling grandson calling out we are holding everyone up here. And when they stand aside, like a queue at temporary traffic lights, the trailing hoards rapidly filter past.
As the sea recedes it exposes a moss covered rocky prominence which I am itching to explore but when I mention it to Mr H he rolls his eyes saying it will be too slippy for you and I don't fancy fishing you out of the water with a broken ankle. I know he is right so I am content to watch as adults and children clamber all over it, standing and staring. And instead I imagine they are looking into pools full of sea anemones, limpets stuck to the rock like glue and crawling, creeping crabs.
As the sun dips down towards the water and the air cools, dehydrated children trail behind their equipment laden parents, their eyes watering as they suck rapidly on straws sunken into cold cups of drink, looking anywhere but where they are heading.
Shall we have a walk into town Mr H suggests as he starts to gather our belongings at the end of this beautiful Mindful day...
Tuesday, November 16, 2021
The Last Load
I hear the rumble of lorry wheels. They are here I shout to Mr H.
We step outside into the cold darkness.
It’s Wednesday evening on the 10th of November.
We have waited all day. I have been like a jack in the box every time a vehicle
drove up our road. I am shattered. I have done more sit to stand exercises in
the last 11 hours than all week.
My physio will be pleased.
Outside the huge lorry slowly chugs towards us as I wave
frantically hoping he can see me in my navy clothes as they merge with the dark
damp air.
The lorry driver gets out. Walks around the back of his
monster of a lorry and raises the hatch. He disappears into the dark echoing
vault. He eventually emerges with a pallet wrapped in plastic and makes the
slow mechanised descent to the ground.
He wheels the load over to us as we stand in the road saying
thank you, thank you, thank you, with beaming smiles.
The driver meanwhile says absolutely nothing! He takes a
photograph of us standing by the pallet and we say thank you again to his back
as he walks towards the lorry, gets inside and drives off.
There is no fanfare. Just the two of us shivering.
Let’s get a knife Mr H says…
He tears the plastic off and carries box after box into the
back room.
I rip one open and stand motionless. Staring down at the
result of five years work.
I stroke a cover. Lift one free of the box. It is heavy,
heavier than I had expected. And shiny. And big.
It is full of my words. Photographs I have collected and painstakingly
chosen to include. Stories and memories of many ladies and gents who were once members
of Adult School Classes within the Midlands.
My first book has been published.
Thirteen years to the week after my life changed because of
a brain tumour, I have become a published author of a book on Social History
and the History of Education within the Midland Adult School Union.
I am totally utterly silent. Overwhelmed as tingles run down
my arms and spine. I would never have believed it was possible.
The Last Class. The Story of the Midland Adult School
Union 1845-2020. Written by Dawn Hamill.
I have spent the last five years plodding through archives, reading
old books and interviewing past and present members of this remarkable Movement.
I have discovered that my own family history was woven into the world of The
Adult School. I have shared some truths about my own journey through life up to
and after the brain tumour. A tumour that changed my world. But gave me the
time to change my path in life.
The Rich Tapestry of Life never ceases to amaze and thrill
me.
The book is available from Brewin Books Ltd. Also Amazon. It
can be ordered from WH Smiths. If you have a query, please feel free to email
me differencedawns@gmail.com
Tuesday, October 19, 2021
Dimwits Don't Wear Masks
Yesterday over 49,000 people tested positive for Covid infection.
Within the last week an average of 124 people died as a result of Covid each day in the UK.
That’s two double decker buses full of seated people.
Friends, wives, husbands, grandparents, mothers, fathers and the occasional
child.
Every day.
If a double decker bus ran off the road and into a ditch
killing all its occupants there would be outrage. An enquiry into what happened.
Two on the same day. Well, that’s hard to imagine. Almost as
bad as everyone dying on a crashed airplane. Well four a week actually if the
weekly figures are compared with a Boeing 747.
BUT
The UK Government website displays the numbers vaccinated first thereby placing emphasis on this rather than the many thousands actually affected by the virus on a daily basis. Yes, vaccination appears to be saving lives, reducing the severity of illness in most of those vaccinated but coronavirus is still there. Still killing people in airplane loads.
At the start of Lockdown 1 I was part of a group of friends who started zooming each Sunday, initially to support our dear friend John who was completely socially isolated as a result. As my Blog readers will know John sadly died but not of Covid. However, we have carried on zooming most weeks as we reach out to each other, voices of reason, debating the news headlines, deciding which masks are the best to wear on an airplane and in shops…
As a group – all retired - we fit into the brigade of vaccinated, eagerly
awaiting boosters, mask compliant, sanitising, handwashing, still social distancing
where we can and avoiding places/situations where we can’t.
Yet it feels as though there are not many of us left.
At the weekend Mr H and I stopped at a service station on
the M5 to use the loo and it was buzzing with crowds of non-mask wearing people
pushing past me as I headed, slowly, towards the sign for the Toilets. Mr H as
usual was by my side to block those non mask wearing pushers who were in too
much of a hurry to give a wobbly me the space I needed.
You wouldn’t think we were in the midst of a pandemic at
all would you I said to Mr H as we walked. I was feeling so angry I checked
the UK Gov Guidance which states: When You Should Wear a Face Covering:
We expect and recommend that members of the public continue to wear face coverings
in crowded and enclosed places (sounds like a service station to me…) where you
come into contact with people you don’t meet. For example, on public transport…
This brings me to Dimwits and back to my zooming friends. In
particular our zoom master, the organiser of our weekly chats Jeff Smith. He
has kept us entertained with his lengthy emails, summarising and commenting on
the day’s news headlines. He has just returned from a holiday in Mallorca and
this was our zoom sponsors take on what he witnessed…
There are just so many cases nowadays
in the UK, very nearly 45,000 yesterday… at an average rate of 387 per every
100,000 over the last seven days.
According to Reuters this morning, in
Spain over the last seven days, the average is currently at 4% of its peak…
that is an average of 1,538 cases per day, just 22 cases per 100,000. A significant
difference.
This is the personal view of an intelligent member
of the public who has witnessed first-hand the different approaches in the UK
and Europe. It is clear that a large percentage of the UK population don’t want
to protect their fellow man.
Monday, June 14, 2021
Farewell John
During the last three years I’ve said too many tearful goodbyes to people who I have loved and who have stamped their special characters into my soul.
Monday, February 15, 2021
And the winner is...
Love is in the air and when I wonder into the kitchen two red envelopes
await. The one with my name on has a bag of heart shaped chocolates behind it!
I don’t open it as I am up early and Mr H sleeps on.
I look up from my computer screen when he wonders down the stairs and
immediately asks
Do you want another coffee?
Ooh yes please I reply without a glance in his direction.
Oh, and will you read this letter for me to check that I have included
everything…
The last few months I have been working harder than I ever have. My days
at the computer are long, my eyes are sore but I now have a deadline to meet.
The book I have been undertaking research for and then writing over the
last five years is almost ready to go to my publisher.
Yes, MY PUBLISHER… every time I say those words, I grin
I have signed a publishing contract – grin
I have been talking to my publisher – blush with pride
My book - The Last Class – The Story of the Midland Adult
School Union 1845-2010, is about the history of the astonishing Adult School
Movement in the Midlands. Once a flourishing organisation, it is now about to
close is doors and only the last class will meet. The Rubery Class. The Class
which my Mom has attended for almost sixty years. The history and memories of
the last living members of some of the Birmingham Classes are woven into this
book along with my own recently discovered family history. Snippets of my own
life peek out from some of the pages.
I am beginning to get excited, I am however, keeping it in check with a
heavy book as I try to unravel the world of copyright law for the many images
to be included.
After an hour and another cup of coffee I remember it's Valentine’s Day
so drag myself out of my computer chair to give Mr H a hug and his card…
This year I am convinced that my card will be the winner, appropriate
for the moment depicting what has occupied almost all of my time since the
start of Coronavirus…
Mr H agrees… and I make my way back to the computer…
Sunday, October 4, 2020
I am not a Grandma
My nan uses one of those.
My grandad was told to have one but he refused as he didn’t
want to be seen using it
My grandma has one
Each time I manage to squeeze the words four-wheel walker
out of my reluctant mouth to share the new horror in my world, people spurt those words which make it tougher for me to acknowledge at the age of 57 I
need more help with my walking.
A stick is no longer enough.
A feeling of dismay washes over me each time I glance sideways. It
blocks my view of the garden so I move it under the stairs.
But it stares at me each time I walk past… whispering you
are old now only the elderly use these…
If you google the words balance and falls the words older
and elderly jump from every page. I have fallen too many times this year.
But I am not old or elderly.
Six falls in July alone.
I tripped over my own feet, left my foot behind when I walked between rooms, I even lost my balance and
fell to my knees on the moving walkway on our only visit to Tesco during this
prolonged Coronavirus lockdown.
They came last week to assess me. My heart pounded and I
clenched my sweaty palms, knowing I needed the review.
But I didn’t want them to come.
The nurse and physio from the Community Falls and Mobility service
my GP had referred me to, stepped inside. They oozed professionalism and
kindness, nodding understandingly when I burst into tears at their words.
It is unsafe to be so dependent on Mr H when you walk outside, because if you fall, you
will take him down too...
It makes sense but my heart and pride don’t like the sensible option.
They tell me the answer is a stable four-wheel walker with a bloody
seat. The words I had assumed would be spoken but dreaded from the pit of my
soul.
I now have new exercises to do daily to strengthen my leg
muscles – maybe they will do the trick I pray – similar exercises I was doing
at my weekly pre coronavirus exercise class for wobbly people, which needless
to say hasn’t taken place since March. A
whole six months…
Things have gradually been getting worse over the last couple of years.
It started with an increase in the number of my seizures. Making me afraid to
walk alone across an open flat space for fear that one would swipe me off my
feet mid-way. I started to walk close to walls – where there were any – giving me
something to grab if a wobble or trip caught me out. Then a change in my
epilepsy drugs which improved my seizures but I am convinced made my walking
and balance worse. My Epilepsy consultant thinks not but we are tweaking my dose just in case.
In December I froze trying to get down the stairs at the cinema
– something I have managed with Mr H until then. We needed the help of a third person,
a kind stranger, to get me down safely as silent tears dripped off my nose while
everyone there tried not to stare. My 88 year old Mum has had more stair rails installed for me. Not her!
A fall down the stairs at home followed with a visit to
A&E, a CT scan of my head and a weeks’ worth of head spinning concussion smashed my confidence into smithereens.
Gentle slopes have become mountains. I feel as though I am in
the front seat of a roller coaster ready to tip over the edge of a hundred
metre drop before plummeting down to the ground. Vomit threatens to spurt out
of my mouth when the camber of a pavement changes. I can no longer cross a road
without Mr H. I grip onto his arm and stare at the ground while he checks for traffic
before firmly telling me to walk. I shuffle like, yes, an old person. Fearful
that stepping into the road will bring disaster. Another fall. A broken leg.
I prefer not to go out anymore. Yet I want to walk to the
allotment…
The mask, apron and glove wearing Physio Assistant and Occupational
Therapist come with the walker. They take time to talk to me with reassuring
smiles, tweak the height of my kitchen perching stool so I no longer slip off. With smiling eyes, the OT assesses our
home to make it safer for me. I now have
appointments for walking practice outside and an order for six more grab rails
to be placed around the home. A raised toilet seat, for god sake, to stop me
pulling on the sink to get up and down off the loo. A step to make it easier to
get into and out of the shower…
I am deteriorating. My brain is letting me down. My heart sinks each time I think about
it. I don’t understand why. I want to scream and shout with sad tears running
down my face.
The four-wheel walker is still there. Nausea rises each time
I turn round.
I feel embarrassed. I dread the platitudes, the sympathetic
looks and strained smiles as people look me up and down in surprise.
I dread more of the… my nan, grandma, grandad declarations.
They DO NOT help me. I fear the jokes;
well at least you have a basket to carry the allotment
produce back up the hill…
can I have a go? can I use your seat?
why don’t you just jazz it up
There are no young versions, they are all the same – metal and
plastic, blue, black and grey
I need a new friendly name for my monster. It will never define me, it’s my enabler…
Tuesday, July 14, 2020
Masks and Slimy Snot
It has been many years since I last wore a mask. In fact, pre-Coronavirus, I am struggling to remember when it might have been. But as soon as I realised that wearing a face covering was to become the norm in crowded spaces, where the two-metre distance was hard to maintain, I sought out my supply. I considered using a snood or scarf but felt it would be too much like hard work to wash it after each use. So, my answer came in a pretty double or optional triple layer mask, home-made by my friend Jacky.
Then another mask wearing couple entered the café and I
watched with my mouth agape as, once seated, the man grabbed the front of his
mask with both hands and scrunched it up before putting it face down onto the
table.
I’ve seen this behaviour so many times. People pulling on
the front of their face covering or mask, continually pressing on the bridge of
their nose, pulling the covering on and off their face like they are wiping a
snotty nose beneath ... The Infection Prevention and Control Nurse within me cringes every time, I want to advise, tell them to stop...
Each time this is done, hands and everything subsequently touched
are covered with the virus -if present- and any other respiratory or
environmental micro-organisms which have collected
on the inside and outside of the face covering.
Wearing face coverings in public, often in close contact
with others, also seems to give some an invincible air: I’ve got a mask on
therefore the virus can’t get within a leopard’s leap of me.
Whereas, I have learnt that my mask or face covering, at
best prevents me, should I be an asymptomatic carrier, from spreading any respiratory
droplets which contain Coronavirus to others in close proximity. It may also have
a minor effect on protecting me from some virus containing droplets in a cough or sneeze should I get close to a person who has the virus.
When I handle my mask, I imagine that it is covered in
someone else’s slimy snot; not something to be grabbed with both fists and
left on a table where food is to be placed:
I do not touch it until I need to remove it.
When I remove it, I unloop it from my ears, avoiding touching the front or
inside before dropping it into a plastic bag which I carry with me. Then I wash
or sanitise my hands.
If I need to wear it again before returning home, I only touch the loops of the
mask – always maintaining the same side of the material facing outwards.
Once home, with clean hands, I remove my covering from my face or plastic bag,
wash it in hot soapy water and leave to dry. Then I wash my hands again.
Personally, I don’t use a disposable mask but if anyone does
and wants to re-use it, it seems sensible to keep it in the bag or hung in a suitable
place away from all regularly used surfaces.
Questions about cleaning the house also tumble around in my
mind. But I know that any detergent such as washing up liquid or simple soap
and water are sufficient for cleaning my house.
The great thing about this virus is that it is an enveloped
virus. This means, like my lockdown abdomen which has been full of cake, it has
a fatty (lipid) outer wall. Here’s where we can celebrate,
as this layer (membrane) makes it much easier to kill when outside of the body.
Unlike my stubborn cake filled abdomen, this fragile outer layer is relatively easy
to break down using soap and water and once done, results in destruction of the
virus.
Bleach on surfaces will also work but as one author
described it; using bleach is like using a bludgeon to swat a fly. Cleaning
products, including hand sanitisers, containing at least 60% Alcohol are also effective
but the Bludgeon and fly come to mind unless away from a sink in the
case of keeping hands clean.
Talking about hands brings me to my final point and a man in
Pink marigold gloves. I titter as I type… Gloved hands are still hands which can
pick up and transfer the virus or any other micro-organisms. So, wearing gloves
does not mean we will not come into contact with the virus if it is there.
There are five points worth noting here:
1. Used appropriately gloves can reduce but won’t eradicate
hand contamination and can spread micro-organisms. They are primarily and most appropriately for healthcare workers use.
2. Hands must always be washed or sanitised after
glove removal because hands are inevitably contaminated when gloves are removed.
3. Disposable gloves are just that disposable and
will not withstand ‘cleaning’ with alcohol.
4. Used gloves, shoved into pockets will contaminate the clothing.
I never wear gloves in shops, instead when out, I rely on the effective use of hand sanitiser, hand washing where possible and not touching my face.
Stay safe my friends and remember if you think of used face coverings (and gloves if you insist on using them) as being covered in someone else’s wet slimy snot it will keep you focused on their safe use.