50 is the New Black

Friday, 9 September 2011

The minding curse

Meet up with Cass and Franny for a dog walk on Candlebury Downs. Except I have to leave Dusty at home. She, like her mistress, is unfit for purpose.

I take off my teacosy hat with a flourish, tip my head towards the girls and grimace expectantly.

'Eliza!' Franny is frowning.

'I know!' I wail. 'Meredith made me do it. She said I didn't have to go through life as a mouse and it'll always grow out.'

'It's a classic teenage hair disaster,' says Cass. 'They panic and wash it out too soon. If you'd waited it wouldn't be so orange. And you shouldn't have dyed the roots.'

'But they were so dark, the rest of the hair looked even more fake in contrast.'

'Well, it'll fade,' she says.

'Will it? Surely once it's bleached, you're stuck with it. I'll have this orange band working its way down my head.'

'Mine fades, but then it's Aveda. Vegetable dyes. No, you're probably right if it's bleach. You're stuck with it. Never mind, it's nearly winter. You can wear your teacosy for the next six months.'

We walk in silence, braced against the driving drizzle. I brighten on remembering the marvellous gallstone flush.

'And then you look down the loo, and it's full of little green raspberries,' I finish.

'But how do they come out?' asks Cass. 'Are you sure you're not talking about kidney stones? Because it's the most painful thing trying to pass a kidney stone.'

'No they're definitely gallstones. I suppose they come out in your poo.'

'But how do they get there? If they're in the gall bladder, they can't get out.'

Oh Lord!

We pause to climb over a stile. Wild oats at the field's edge ripple as Dotty and Plum go in pursuit of a rabbit.

'So was Lily happy to go back to school?' asks Cass.

I tell them about the injustice of her being relegated to the top bunk.

'Well what about poor Tilly?' exclaims Cass, the indignation boiling up in her voice. 'She's sharing with a new girl this year. When we got there, the best bed was swathed in Laura Ashley bunting and every square inch of the pinboard was covered with pictures of this girl and her family and the bedside table was crammed with more photos and little knick-knacks, and there was a whole zoo of cuddly toys on the bed, and the girl wasn't even there! She's only boarding two nights a week. So the mother had come in and staked her claim and then they'd gone home again!'

'Like Germans bagging the sunloungers,' sympathises Franny.

'The thing is Lily didn't mind at all,' I say.

'No, Tills didn't either - except for having to share with someone so uncool.'

'I had the same thing with Max last year,' says Franny. 'Just because he's so nice and doesn't make a fuss, he was put in with all the losers. I came home and burst into tears. I rang up the housemaster and sobbed down the phone to him." It's so un-fair-air-air, he's not with any of his friends!" But actually Max was fine.'

'It's such a curse, minding,' I say.

The other two nod in empathy.

The challenge is on

The only card I have features a row of fanciful stilettos on the front. I turn it over and draw a line down the middle. On the right, Uncle Maurice's name and address. On the left:

Highlight disaster
Bleach'ed brassy yellow blonde
O for mouse once more

On with the stamp, on with my teacosy hat, down the road, pop it in the postbox. Ha! Brain sharp as a die.

A haiku a day

A plain postcard arrives from Oxford in Uncle Maurice's spider-hand.

A haiku a day,
brain-sharpening prescription -
new Eliza Gray

Thursday, 8 September 2011

MAADD

Oh my God. YouTube is full of videos of people of a certain age whingeing on about their AAADD. There’s even a stary-eyed bloke with a guitar singing about his Triple A Double D. I can’t tell if they’re doing it with irony or not. They all seem to have wandered through the house on the same trail of undone tasks, which makes it sound like they’re relating an urban myth, rather than telling a genuine anecdote.

Now I’m searching AAADD, I find Michele Hanson wrote a column in the Guardian about it as long ago as January 2006! So AAADD’s been around for years! I just wasn’t in the zone before, although obviously I’ve had Non-Age-Activated ADD for at least a decade, with exactly the same symptoms. Have I been suffering from IAADD (Internet-Activated ADD), CAADD (Child-Activated ADD) or MAADD (Menopause-Activated ADD)?

Highlights and flushes

08:28

No separation anxiety so far. Dusty, however, is keeping vigil by a Lilyless bed. She looks at me furtively as I emerge from my room. Does that mean she has left me a nasty surprise downstairs? Or that she feels she shouldn't be up there without the excuse of Lily to protect? I descend the spiral stairs. Dusty stretches - first the cobra, then the downward dog, just like the old, pre-arthritic/pre-stroke days - and follows gingerly.

'Well done, Dusty. Good control!' I commend her on her steady descent.

Start again with the Endocrine Mending capsules. Forgot to take them on our mini-break, so today is another Test Day.

It's quiet, without Lily.

We take a slow walk to the top of the hill, loitering a while to savour our surroundings. Up here, I can see in every direction. The harvest is in, the land stripped to flaxen stubble. A few straw towers mark the skyline. I take a deep breath. Now Lily's back at school, I can set about getting a job in earnest. Fill my days productively.

An unearthly grunty-shriek interrupts my reverie. Oh God! It's the pig-shagging season. Three of them are lined up. They're as bad as that film I watched last night about the brittle, unstable Barbara Baekeland (Julianne Moore) and her poor, doomed son Antony, where the two of them end up in bed with Hugh Dancy in the middle.

10:05

Before scouring the Candlebury Advertiser, two important things to get underway now that I'm not micro-managing Lily:

1. Home-highlights to get me through the dull autumn, as advocated by Meredith

2. Natural gallstone and liver flush, as advocated by marvellous natural health site ('the most simple way to start curing acne, high cholesterol, eczema, psoriasis, asthma, allergies, gallstones, food intolerance, shoulder pain, abdominal pain, upper back pain, arm pain, gallstones attack, liver pain, gallbladder pain, hypertension, cardiovascular diseases, heartburn, bloating, inflammatory bowel disease IBD, IBS, colitis, constipation, cancer, AIDS, MS, FMS, MSC, CFIDS/CFS, Parkinson's, Alzheimer's disease, epilepsy, seizures, osteoporosis, angina pectoris...' )

10:40

Oh God! I look like a tiger. Meredith promised that natural mouse would go natural blond. I apply more blue foam to the dark stripes. Five minutes. Ten. Quick, wash it off. Oh God! Now I have a full head of tarnished sunshine orange. I look like the brassiest of bottle blondes. All chances of job in smart professional office dashed. Will have to wear hat until it grows out.

14:00

Oh God. Forgotten to take my Endocrine Menders again. However, I'm all set to flush. I've not eaten until 2pm. Now I'm ready to start drinking the apple juice. Better just check that gallstone flush website again. Can't quite remember the timing.

1. For the first five days, drink at least four glasses of apple juice every day. Apple juice softens the gallstones. During the five days, eat normally.

2. On the sixth day, take no dinner (eat breakfast and lunch as normal).

3. At 6 pm, take a teaspoon of Epsom salt (magnesium sulphate) with a glass of warm water.

4. At 8 pm, repeat the same. Epsom salt or magnesium sulphate opens the gallbladder ducts.

5. At 10 pm, take half cup olive oil with half cup fresh lemon juice. Mix it well and drink it. The oil lubricates the stones to ease their passage.

6. After this, sleep or at least lie down and rest. Do not engage in physical activity.

The next morning, you will find green stones in your stools.

Damn! You're meant to not eat after 2pm, not before 2pm. Plus I haven't got any Epsom salts. Plus I haven't been drinking apple juice for five days. OK. Flush is on hold. Will just watch this video explaining the process.

Yeeeuuukkk!

Back to school

Wednesday, 7th September

10:30

Lily and I are on the way home from our mini-break seeing friends and aged family. Both Uncle Maurice and James and Kitty think we should move to Oxford.

Uncle Maurice asks me how it is, living in the depths of the country.

'I love the walks and the wildlife,' I say. 'But it is a little bit quiet and backwatery.'

'Well then, you're going to die,' he says.

Oh God!

He and James and Kitty enthuse about the stimulating people and interesting jobs in Oxford, and the proximity to London and the National Theatre, where Uncle Maurice is going to see a twelve-part reading of the entire King James Bible over four days this autumn.

Oh God! I am practically half his age. He is alive and I am ready to shuffle.

Which is why Lily and I are now looking in estate agent windows in Summertown. Oh my Lord! City of pipe dreams! The prices are way higher than in London, even. A gust of chill wind whips down the street. Autumn. We divert to a patisserie.

I choose a pain au chocolat, Lily a chocolate chip swirl.

'Let's share them both,' I suggest. I break Lily's swirl in half and offer her the choice. She takes the bigger half.

'I knew it!' I say.

'Well it is mine!' she retorts.

We resume our search. I spot a job ad. 'Flexible Viewing Assistant: evenings and weekends. Organised, well presented, enthusiastic and friendly.' Yes! I go in and, wiping the last flakes of Lily's chocolate swirl from my lips and powder-blue cardy, present myself enthusiastically.

'Seven hours,' states Lily, seeing the office clock. This is the time she has left until school.

The girl looks me up and down. I am aware that I have no make-up and she has lots. Nor have I yet home-highlighted my mousy hair, as prescribed by Meredith. 'You need to speak to Carole, our HR manager, but she isn't here at the moment,' says the girl. 'Can you email her your CV?'

'Yes, yes,' I say brightly. Argh. Still haven't done a CV. 'Could you tell me how much the ...' Oh God! What do you call it? Salary? Wages? Pay? 'Er, how much does it pay?'

'I believe it's £10 a viewing. And if it's two viewings, one after the other, £15. Plus mileage.'

'OK, great,' I say, with my enthusiastic, friendly smile. 'Bye, then!' I add as we head out of the door.

'Nearly as bad as looking after dogs,' I say to Lily, delving into the paper bag and breaking the pain au chocolat in half.

'You choose,' says Lily.

I take the bigger half.

'I knew it!' says Lily.

'Well it is mine!'

'Cor blimey!' she says. 'Hypocrite!'

We laugh and walk on, arm in arm.

By Jericho, she has lost interest in gazing at estate agents' windows and refuses to get out of the car.

'Come on you punk... wallah,' I say, swerving at the last minute from the insult that had first come to mind, 'punk-face'. Not one I have ever thought of or used before, I may add.

'Thanks!' She glares at me.

'Do you know what a punkah wallah is?' I enquire conversationally. 'It's the man who pulls the big ceiling fans in India.' I fan her face with my hands.

Grinning, she gets out of the car and as we fall in step, grabs my arm, throws it in the air and jumps under it. This is Lily and me. Insults and bickering one minute. Harmony the next. Nine weeks in each other's pockets, almost over.

Having exhausted the estate agents' offerings, we buy a take-away pizza for the car.

'Vegetariana?' I suggest.

'No.' says Lily emphatically. 'American.'

'One American,' I order, not quite bothered enough to run with the idea of asking for a vegetariana with extra pepperoni. We hurry back to the car to miss another flurry of rain.

'Oh,' I say, disappointed, when we open up the box. 'It doesn't look very nice.' Just undercooked onion and pepperoni. I pull off a slice and take a bite. 'I don't like it.'

'I do,' enthuses Lily, her mouth full. 'Now you're thinking, why do I always give in to Lily!'

'Exactly!' I agree. 'Why do I?'

'Because I'm so persuasive and sweet,' she suggests sweetly.

I raise my eyebrows sarcastically.

'Hypocrite!' she throws in for good measure.

Soon we're down to the last slice. 'Somehow we're going to have to divide the last one,' says Lily.

'I'm a third bigger than you,' I say, 'so I should have it.'

'I'm growing, so I should have it,' responds Lily.

'You can have this.' I give her an abandoned crust and take the slice.

'Oh you're lovely!' she laughs, grabbing the slice off me. 'Divide it in two, or I'm having it,' she threatens.

I take the slice and fold it longways. I then hold it sideways and chew along the pizza, up to the centre line. She bursts out laughing. I hand her the scalloped slither.

'Who are we going to spend Christmas with this year, Mumma?' she asks through a mouthful of mozzarella, reverting to her pre-pre-adolescent name for me.

'I don't know, darling.'

She leans over and looks at the clock on the dashboard. 'Six hours! Let's go home!'

19:00

Lily has been put in a cramped dorm with seven other girls. I scan the faces. Esme Etherington. Mattie Butler. Saskia Foley. Yes! She's in with the in crowd! While I tramp back and forth with binbags stuffed with her hockey stick and tennis racket and rollerblades and trainers, she and her pals eat illicit chocolates and thwack each other with a bendy ruler.

'So where are you, darling?' I ask Lily, when I've finished piling up her bags.

'Here!' Lily points to the top bunk bed in the corner. 'First of all I was here,' she laughs, pointing to the bed by the door. 'Then Mattie swapped and I was here,' she points to the lower bunk. 'And then Sassie swapped and now I'm here!' I feel a flush of indignation. Nobody wants the top bunk. I'm not sure why, since it was a prized position in my day, but no, not at the Manor.

She sees my frown and breaks in. 'I don't mind! It's fine!' And she's off, laughing and ragging with her dorm mates, leaving me and Dusty to drive home alone.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

Summer RIP

Feeling a certain fin de saison ennui (fear of dark evenings and autumnal chill/regret over the summer that never was), coupled with mild disgust with self. If I could have today all over again, I would have got Lily and me up and out of the house earlier, delivering Lily to the riding stables before the staff disappeared for lunch, so that she could have spent the afternoon mucking out instead of listening to story tapes in the car and running down the car battery while I was shopping, so that at 5.30pm, we would have been on our way home instead of waiting for the AA, and at 6.30pm the Aga would have been on and cooking dinner, rather than off and there being no dinner to cook, forcing us to decamp to the Coach and Horses, where we ate too much steak and ale pie and lasagne and chips.

Bah.

On the bright side, Dusty seems fine today and my Endocrine Mender has arrived. Will start taking tomorrow. You have to do a Test Day, taking one capsule every hour until you are filled with a sense of well-being and supreme energy. Then on subsequent days you take the same number of pills in one go. Will be marvellous.

Miracle dog

A peaceful night. Dusty raises an eyebrow and gives a couple of wags as I feed her her Vivitonin in a ball of tinned dog food. I tell her to stay while I prepare the Eliza Stannah lift. 1. Put on protective jeans. 2. Put on protective jean jacket. 3. Beat Dusty to stairs. 4. Sit on step below Dusty, who is hovering at the top, ready to launch herself down. 5. Encourage her to step on to my lap, which, gingerly, she does. 6. Down we go.

She trots straight over to her bowl, but has to wait half an hour for the medicine to go down before golloping her hearty breakfast. Sits by door waiting for her walk. I put her on the lead and take her up the track. She is leading me. Pulling. Trotting. There's a barely perceptible Tesco-trolleyish skew to her gait, but I think she had that anyway. She pulls vehemently to go into the river. I deny her this pleasure, given the steep scramble to get out. Home again and she's now snoring at my feet. This is my kind of nursing.

Dusty the Brave

Tuesday, 30 August

23:20
Yesterday evening, Dusty ended her precarious descent of the spiral staircase in a somersault, landing on her back at the bottom. I rushed to her aid and she seemed to recover quite quickly. But it was not the first sign of something wrong. A week or two ago, Lily noticed her swaying and nearly falling over when out walking. She'd perked up and continued as normal. The village vet said she was stiff and arthritic, and that must have caused her to collapse. It happens in older dogs, she said. We put her on arnica and a herbal concoction, which Dusty refuses to eat.

During our trip to London, I heard a scrabble and a flump at the top of the stairs and found Dusty lying there, her paws over the edge of the top step as if she'd stopped herself in the nick of time. She looked affronted and bemused. I sat on the step below her, wrestled her 25kg onto my lap and bumped us both down the stairs, step by step. At the bottom, Dusty lay looking confused, eyes darting back and forth, popping and twitching. Next morning, I took her to our old London vet. She looked like she was drunk, I said, and keeled over and couldn't get up and her eyes were twitching like mad. I'm worried she's had a stroke, I said. Of course, she was fine again by the time he saw her, so he agreed with Village Vet, that it was most likely the arthritis causing the collapses and subsequent disorientation.

Last night, she had another episode, this time lasting longer, scrabbling to get up but swaying and falling, lying there looking crazed, head bobbing up in the air to left and right as if desperately seeking something, eyes bulging and threatening to pop out of her head. This morning, I called the town vet. They said come in at 4.30pm. Minutes after putting the phone down, Dusty went into a crazed spasm again. I called the vet back and said she was shivering and convulsing and in distress. Bring her in now, they said.

Lugging a 25kg convulsing dog with popping eyes is not something I'd want to do often. All I could do was grasp her around the waist and waddle along with her like a sack of dog food, her four legs sticking out at right angles. Somehow I transferred her to the back seat of the car. Her head was swaying up to the left, up to the right, as though she were blind and could hear a piercing noise and was desperate to find the source.

Town Vet said immediately she was having what we would call in human terms, a stroke. The darting eyes were a classic sign, he said. She's desperately trying to get her balance. For her, it's like she's had 12 Scotches and her whole world is turning upside down. So much for London Vet. As Town Vet talked me through the options (further investigations... is it worth it... quality of life... 15 years ago we would have euthanized... ), I was getting flashbacks to Dr Death telling us about mother's options as she lay in intensive care, dosed up to the hilt and having intermittent mini strokes. When Town Vet said that her (Dusty's, not mother's) gums were healthy, and her heart didn't sound bad, and she was 'a light dog' (not quite how I would have described her), and she quickly righted her legs when he placed them out of position, I was trying to work out whether this meant that she might recover completely, or that he was offering me a little shred of hope to cling on to in an otherwise hopeless scenario.

He remained equivocal yet encouraging, but kept urging me to call him the next day to let him know how she was. Which reminded me of the doctor who saw Lily when she was running a raging fever and urged me to call him later that evening; he later admitted he'd feared she had meningitis. Is the Call Me treatment a very bad sign? It seems so. When I left, TV handed me just enough Vivitonin for a week, and I said was this a short-term medication then?, and he said no it was long-term but he was being conservative, or some may say pessimistic. It was Dr Death all over again. So he's giving her a week at most. The problem is, Dr Death was correct in his assessment.

But Dusty is fighting back. What she needs now is nursing and TLC, said Town Vet. She hasn't needed anything different from normal so far. Food. To be let out. You may have to bring her food to her, said TV. At suppertime, Dusty was standing over her bowl, waiting expectantly.

And now, as I write, Dusty is trotting up the spiral stairs to her station at Lily's side. I, meanwhile, envisage a second night of broken sleep of the kind I haven't had since Lily was a baby, in standby mode, ready to spring into action when I hear pawsteps on the stairs. I'll have to get there first, to break any potential fall.

Monday, 29 August 2011

Lunch is a triumph!

Sunday, 28 August

05:00

Awoken by pawsteps on the stairs. That can only mean one thing at this hour. Dusty is descending from her night-time station under Lily’s bed to a) be sick or b) poo. I drag myself down the stairs and see a dark mound on the off-white shag pile.

‘Dusty!’ I growl.

Dusty is by the front door, looking mournfully at me.

I turn on the lights to discover it is b) poo.

‘Dusty!’ I scream. ‘How could you! Why did you do it here?!’ I am pointing furiously at the offending b) poo.

Dusty doesn’t answer but lowers her head and shoulders to an appropriately humble level and stares at me meaningfully.

I bag up the poo, throw a jug of soapy water at the pooey patch and scrub until the shag pile is off-white once more. Off being the operative word. I try not to think about all the unsavoury things harboured at the base of the shag.