I was born with eczema. The family photo albums are devoid of baby Cambria; future generations will probably be led to believe that I sprang into existence around my first birthday, once my skin and hair had grown back. My earliest childhood memories are of itching, itching and more itching; of teachers horrified by the state of my skin; of my baby sister getting into mortal trouble for painting the bedroom with handprints of my precious E45 emollient cream.
The summer I was seven, I developed hayfever. If I had been bored at school before, I was positively distracted now. I could scratch my itchy skin, but I couldn't itch behind my eyes or inside my nose. Every successive summer from then on brought its own brand of antihistamine - my body seemed to develop a resistance to each one as it came along.
Skip ahead a few years, and grown-up Cambria moves to the big city. Neither eczema (except on very cold days) nor hayfever (except in spring when tree pollen season begins) has plagued me with anything like the ferocity it did when I was small, and my skin and sinuses are grateful. Still, I've never shaken the habit of biting my fingernails. The decision to have either beautiful manicures or skin to hold oneself together makes itself, and to risk one for the other is something I'll probably never be able to do.
For those first few years in the city, I counted myself lucky. My health was better than it ever had been, and unlike several of my relatives, I showed no signs of developing "the full package" - the triple threat of eczema, hayfever and asthma. Then the coughing started. Then it persisted. Then the chest infections started and kept coming, one after the other, mere weeks apart, relentless and mysterious and exhausting. Finally, on Halloween 2010, I had my first trip to A&E with an asthma attack. Unfortunately it took another two attacks before I was officially diagnosed and treatment began, and by then the physical and psychological damage had been done.
It killed off my career before it started, you see.
*
Yesterday I wrote about my awful pharmacist. I admit: I was psyching myself up to collect my prescription, and a little expression of my frustrations was in order. However, it turned out to be a beautiful day, and I collected a list of errands together in order to go outside, but for as short a time as possible. (Sadly, sunshine alone does not cure anxiety.) One of these other errands was the booking of my bi-annual asthma review, so I visited the doctor to make my appointment on my way to the pharmacy.
Any therapeutic effect the writing of yesterday's entry had on me was obliterated for two reasons.
He asked if I would like to take a test to gauge how well my asthma is currently controlled, by measuring my inhalation with a sort of reverse version of a peak flow meter. Apparently I failed at this; he berated my technique at length, and made no attempt to explain how to improve. Having berated him myself at similar length not more than three hours earlier, I listened with a smirk on my face, before meekly responding:
"But my asthma nurse says my technique is perfect. In fact, my next asthma review is tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps she can speak to you about it afterwards?"
His shitty grin turned to fury. "You do that," he snarled.
This time, I didn't wait for the door to close behind me before loudly proclaiming "wanker."
So imagine my horror at his having the last laugh, when I discovered at home that he had only provided me with half my monthly dose of antidepressants.
*
"Ooh, aren't you easy!" said the nurse as she found a fresh filter for her peak flow meter. "We'll be done in no time!"
It's true that my asthma hasn't bothered me at all lately. With the unseasonably warm weather, I haven't needed to use my Ventolin inhaler. My BMI is normal (which I knew), my blood pressure is spot-on (which is a surprise, given how my mood has been lately) and I don't smoke (I was loath to inform her about the amount of secondary smoke I'm exposed to).
My peak flow was a consistent 400, which is below my target of 435 but pleased my asthma nurse to no end regardless.
"Have you brought your inhalers with you today?"
I produced both Ventolin and Qvar.
"Show me how you use your blue one, please."
I shook the inhaler and expelled all the air from my lungs, right down to my diaphragm, just as I was taught in singing classes. Then I removed the cap, held it to my mouth, and activated the spray simultaneously with a deep breath inward. I held my breath for five seconds, then exhaled slowly.
"Excellent," said the nurse. "Perfect technique. Your asthma is well under control."
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Monday, 26 March 2012
Pharmacist
In a city full of unfriendly people, it's surprised me to discover that one of the least friendly is my local pharmacist. Besuited and obnoxious, smug and surly by turns, he regards the people that walk through his door as cows to be milked. If he can't drag you into a monetary transaction, he treats you with the same disdain as one might treat the soil found on one's shoes.
When I was first diagnosed, I visited the pharmacy to set up a repeat prescription service. If ever there were an ideal situation for a pharmacy in relation to a residence, this would be it - it lies just around the corner, five minutes' walk away, and directly opposite my doctor's surgery. This little convenience might only have meant one less thing to worry about, but in times like these you're thankful for every convenience you're given.
So there he was, in his too-crisp suit, with his ever-present glare and a badge bearing an oddly feminine name, giving me a lingering first impression that he might have been over-compensating for something. The surgery had already forwarded him details of my medication, so all we had to discuss was how often I would want each item and whether I paid for my prescriptions. My answer clearly disappointed him, and my wallet remained unopened.
Then he offered me a free diabetes test. Sure, why not? My family has a history of type 2 diabetes, so anything to keep it at bay before it has a chance to set in is always welcome. He handed me a form to fill in and asked if I needed help calculating my BMI. I said that I didn't; at this stage I was still playing Wii Fit Plus every day, and I knew that my BMI was within normal levels. He handed me a tape measure to take a waist measurement and headed back into the dispensary for a moment. With my usual lack of common sense, I measured not just around my waist, but around my sweaters and jacket too, thus adding a couple of inches to what is normally a very respectable waistline. My mistake.
The form completed, I handed it back and he looked it over. Scanning down to my waist measurement, I noticed his eyes light up. Alarm bells started to ring. When a disagreeable person gets a gleam in their eye, experience has taught me that the end result is most often an unpleasant mood for me.
He proceeded to try to sell me an entire range of weight-loss products.
I stared at him disbelievingly as he prattled on with his pitch, joyous at the prospect of making a sale and entirely oblivious to the offence he was causing. It's one thing to tell a woman that she's overweight, but what sort of self-respecting medical practitioner tries to convince a woman she's overweight when she's visibly and statistically not? Answer: a salesman. It dawned on me that I wasn't a patient to him; I was merely a punter.
I refused to be drawn, not bothering to disguise the steel in my voice. "I'll discuss it with my doctor before I commit to buying anything." The light in his eyes faded. "Am I at risk of developing diabetes, please?"
He mumbled "no", stood up and strode back into his dispensary, visibly disgusted by how impervious I was to his sales patter. Not for the last time, I left muttering curses under my breath. Whilst it is a sad fact that most marketing techniques rely on making women paranoid about their health and/or appearance, I can happily report that I have no such insecurities. Grimly I wondered whether he would have been so frustrated with his failure to impress had I been male.
*
Several months later, he made another attempt. After delivering my prescription, he ushered me into the interview room for a medication review, which I thought was a little presumptuous of him until I discovered it was standard practice. Choosing to ignore my "weight issues" this time, he zoned in on my other ailments.
"What are you taking codeine phosphate for?"
"I have an old knee injury that flares up in cold weather."
That light switched itself on again. "I see. We sell Tens machines for twelve pounds if you're looking for an alternative to painkillers. Now, your inhalers - do ever get a cold sensation on the back of your throat when you use them?"
"Very rarely," I replied icily.
"Hmm. A cold sensation means that your lungs might not be receiving the full dose when you're inhaling. You should consider using a breath-actuated spacer. They aren't available on prescription, I'm afraid."
"Not interested, sorry."
More peevish mumblings from him, more epithets through gritted teeth from me.
*
Pharmacists have different responsibilities from doctors, this is true. They have to run a business alongside fulfilling NHS prescriptions, and I have no problem with a little promotion here or a whispered recommendation there. But I'm living on benefits, and I haven't paid for a single prescription since Iosing my job last year. If my pharmacist had had anything resembling the bedside manner one expects from a medical professional, he would have realised that I am not in his target market. There are people in this city, increasingly fewer but still in abundance, who earn a wage, who can pay for prescriptions and who can afford to consider alternatives - lucky, lucky people leading normal lives and wielding disposable income, to whom he should be pitching. Marketing entities are, by definition, indiscriminate in their lack of social conscience, but a little common sense never hurt anyone.
Not to mention service with a smile. That's not too much to ask for, surely?
When I was first diagnosed, I visited the pharmacy to set up a repeat prescription service. If ever there were an ideal situation for a pharmacy in relation to a residence, this would be it - it lies just around the corner, five minutes' walk away, and directly opposite my doctor's surgery. This little convenience might only have meant one less thing to worry about, but in times like these you're thankful for every convenience you're given.
So there he was, in his too-crisp suit, with his ever-present glare and a badge bearing an oddly feminine name, giving me a lingering first impression that he might have been over-compensating for something. The surgery had already forwarded him details of my medication, so all we had to discuss was how often I would want each item and whether I paid for my prescriptions. My answer clearly disappointed him, and my wallet remained unopened.
Then he offered me a free diabetes test. Sure, why not? My family has a history of type 2 diabetes, so anything to keep it at bay before it has a chance to set in is always welcome. He handed me a form to fill in and asked if I needed help calculating my BMI. I said that I didn't; at this stage I was still playing Wii Fit Plus every day, and I knew that my BMI was within normal levels. He handed me a tape measure to take a waist measurement and headed back into the dispensary for a moment. With my usual lack of common sense, I measured not just around my waist, but around my sweaters and jacket too, thus adding a couple of inches to what is normally a very respectable waistline. My mistake.
The form completed, I handed it back and he looked it over. Scanning down to my waist measurement, I noticed his eyes light up. Alarm bells started to ring. When a disagreeable person gets a gleam in their eye, experience has taught me that the end result is most often an unpleasant mood for me.
He proceeded to try to sell me an entire range of weight-loss products.
I stared at him disbelievingly as he prattled on with his pitch, joyous at the prospect of making a sale and entirely oblivious to the offence he was causing. It's one thing to tell a woman that she's overweight, but what sort of self-respecting medical practitioner tries to convince a woman she's overweight when she's visibly and statistically not? Answer: a salesman. It dawned on me that I wasn't a patient to him; I was merely a punter.
I refused to be drawn, not bothering to disguise the steel in my voice. "I'll discuss it with my doctor before I commit to buying anything." The light in his eyes faded. "Am I at risk of developing diabetes, please?"
He mumbled "no", stood up and strode back into his dispensary, visibly disgusted by how impervious I was to his sales patter. Not for the last time, I left muttering curses under my breath. Whilst it is a sad fact that most marketing techniques rely on making women paranoid about their health and/or appearance, I can happily report that I have no such insecurities. Grimly I wondered whether he would have been so frustrated with his failure to impress had I been male.
*
Several months later, he made another attempt. After delivering my prescription, he ushered me into the interview room for a medication review, which I thought was a little presumptuous of him until I discovered it was standard practice. Choosing to ignore my "weight issues" this time, he zoned in on my other ailments.
"What are you taking codeine phosphate for?"
"I have an old knee injury that flares up in cold weather."
That light switched itself on again. "I see. We sell Tens machines for twelve pounds if you're looking for an alternative to painkillers. Now, your inhalers - do ever get a cold sensation on the back of your throat when you use them?"
"Very rarely," I replied icily.
"Hmm. A cold sensation means that your lungs might not be receiving the full dose when you're inhaling. You should consider using a breath-actuated spacer. They aren't available on prescription, I'm afraid."
"Not interested, sorry."
More peevish mumblings from him, more epithets through gritted teeth from me.
*
Pharmacists have different responsibilities from doctors, this is true. They have to run a business alongside fulfilling NHS prescriptions, and I have no problem with a little promotion here or a whispered recommendation there. But I'm living on benefits, and I haven't paid for a single prescription since Iosing my job last year. If my pharmacist had had anything resembling the bedside manner one expects from a medical professional, he would have realised that I am not in his target market. There are people in this city, increasingly fewer but still in abundance, who earn a wage, who can pay for prescriptions and who can afford to consider alternatives - lucky, lucky people leading normal lives and wielding disposable income, to whom he should be pitching. Marketing entities are, by definition, indiscriminate in their lack of social conscience, but a little common sense never hurt anyone.
Not to mention service with a smile. That's not too much to ask for, surely?
Sunday, 25 March 2012
Depression
Every day I wake up without a plan, without a routine. I drift through the day, hour by hour, unable to see what lies beyond the next few minutes. There are things I should be doing - in the back of my mind, I know this - but they all seem unimportant, as if they belong to someone else. Yet when someone asks me to do something, I'll do it right away. Pleasing other people, you see, is my priority. And there are seven billion people on the planet, so it'll be a long time before I get around to pleasing myself.
Every day I remember how things used to be, and wonder when it went wrong. I look out of the window and imagine what it might feel like to be unafraid to go outside on my own. I hear parties going on in the houses around me and try to remember, unsuccessfully, the last gathering I attended at which I didn't feel frightened or claustrophobic. I see people getting on with their lives and smiling at each other, and I envy them. I am a drain on all of them, soaking up their hard-earned taxes, and I feel useless and guilty by turns.
Every day ends with the thought that I've wasted yet another one. The light goes out and I lie awake in bed, staring into the dark and willing sleep to come. Most nights it does, but never easily. I used to be scared to sleep without a light on, but lately being alone in the dark seems to be the only thing I get right about my day.
Some days I forget myself entirely. I forget to eat and I forget to sleep. My hair goes unbrushed and my toes are cold all day because I forget to wear socks. My roommates have conversations with me, and I forget them the instant we stop talking. I forget to answer questions. I forget to attend appointments. Worst of all, I forget to take my meds.
Some days I feel close to okay. Items on my to-do lists get checked off. I pay the bills without panicking. I can walk to the shop across the street or the pharmacy round the corner alone and with a smile on my face. My memory starts working, and living my life doesn't seem so difficult after all.
Some days I cannot face people at all. I do not pick up the telephone or answer the door to visitors or log into social networks. I dare not even look out of the window for fear of someone making eye contact with me. I close the blinds and draw the curtains and stay inside where I know it's safe.
Some days I stay in bed and cry all day for no reason.
Some days my head is filled with silence like cold water, and I want nothing more than to die and let everyone else be happy without me to ruin it for them.
I remember how it was to feel happy, to feel normal, but I can no longer summon up these feelings. I used to know what life was and to enjoy it whilst I could. Now, my existence seems like a slow, protracted death. There is only myself for company, and I do not like myself very much at all.
Every day I remember how things used to be, and wonder when it went wrong. I look out of the window and imagine what it might feel like to be unafraid to go outside on my own. I hear parties going on in the houses around me and try to remember, unsuccessfully, the last gathering I attended at which I didn't feel frightened or claustrophobic. I see people getting on with their lives and smiling at each other, and I envy them. I am a drain on all of them, soaking up their hard-earned taxes, and I feel useless and guilty by turns.
Every day ends with the thought that I've wasted yet another one. The light goes out and I lie awake in bed, staring into the dark and willing sleep to come. Most nights it does, but never easily. I used to be scared to sleep without a light on, but lately being alone in the dark seems to be the only thing I get right about my day.
Some days I forget myself entirely. I forget to eat and I forget to sleep. My hair goes unbrushed and my toes are cold all day because I forget to wear socks. My roommates have conversations with me, and I forget them the instant we stop talking. I forget to answer questions. I forget to attend appointments. Worst of all, I forget to take my meds.
Some days I feel close to okay. Items on my to-do lists get checked off. I pay the bills without panicking. I can walk to the shop across the street or the pharmacy round the corner alone and with a smile on my face. My memory starts working, and living my life doesn't seem so difficult after all.
Some days I cannot face people at all. I do not pick up the telephone or answer the door to visitors or log into social networks. I dare not even look out of the window for fear of someone making eye contact with me. I close the blinds and draw the curtains and stay inside where I know it's safe.
Some days I stay in bed and cry all day for no reason.
Some days my head is filled with silence like cold water, and I want nothing more than to die and let everyone else be happy without me to ruin it for them.
I remember how it was to feel happy, to feel normal, but I can no longer summon up these feelings. I used to know what life was and to enjoy it whilst I could. Now, my existence seems like a slow, protracted death. There is only myself for company, and I do not like myself very much at all.
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