Hello everyone who has decided to stop by.
I've not yet had a response from Hull Marathon to the letter I sent on Monday evening. I will keep you posted.
In the meantime, I wanted to cut and paste this piece, from a Hull runner, who articulated the issue very well.
Thanks again for the support - I'm blown away. I did a tough 12 miles this morning, and will go out again for another 6 - 18 miles in one day. It might not be quite how Mo trains, but it's all miles on the legs (and us slower runners need to get creative with our time management; slow running takes longer to train for!)
Claire x
_______
Posted by Rachel Anderson:
"I think there are a couple of separate, but intertwined issues here.
The first issue is that the organisation of this race has been far from clear. Claire - you've always stated that you check T&Cs closely and wouldn't enter races with cut-offs that you couldn't meet or that wouldn't allow headphones. I am sure you did the same this time. Races have cut offs, we all know that, and there is no issue with the concept of a cut off, for whatever logistical reasons necessary, per se. Also, many ban headphones. Again, completely valid. I know that you don't disagree with either of these issues. However, the rules of any race need to be CLEARLY stated from the moment the race is advertised. These rules need to be accessible from standard webpages AND mobile sites. Also, the sign up process must make it clear that these rules exist and, in this instance, should not allow someone to select a estimated finish time of over 6 hours. Given that they are allowing 'slower' runners to sign up then they need to have a workable contingency plan for those runners and CLEARLY state what it is. Currently, this contingency plan is confusing. They need to sort this out and then communicate it to those individuals that it might affect. OK - the race is in its first year and mistakes might be made. It may be that allowing people with estimated finish times of over 6 hours to enter has been an oversight. If so then they the organisers cannot bury their heads in the sand over it; they need to do something about it. Change their webpage and also communicate with those individuals that have already entered about how they intend to proceed. Given that the mistake is theirs I would expect what the do to involve some concession on their part. Ideally, a mechanism by which these runners can finish the race.
The second issue is a much wider one regarding inclusivity of running as a sport. It is an important issue and one that extends far beyond the Hull Marathon. It is also one that, I fear, is unlikely to be resolved here. However, that doesn't mean you should stop trying. I, personally, think Hull is the perfect place to raise such issues and that the organisers are, to some extent, missing a trick by not doing so. As you know, I'm not from Hull, but I have taken this city as my home and it has its problems. Issues surrounding obesity, disability and lack of opportunity are rife here. Also, it is a city that is trying to pull itself out of the shadows. This is an opportunity to do so; it is a new event in a city where these are hugely pertinent issues. It is also a city that has a vibrant and close-knit running community. My experience is that the different running clubs within Hull (and surrounding areas) make running accessible to a wide range of individuals and are generally very supportive of each other. I truely believe that, if they asked, the running community of Hull would pull together to make this an inclusive event. One that is set apart from others BECAUSE of its inclusivity. There are plenty of other big city marathons; I'm not sure Hull can compete with those. So, why not make itself different?
The second issue deals with issues of idealism that I don't think will happen. But, that does not mean that these issues shouldn't be raised. The first issue is one that has to be dealt with if the organisers of this marathon want the event to be successful and to continue in future years."
Wednesday, 22 July 2015
Sunday, 17 May 2015
17th May 2015.
I would like to promise you that today's blog entry will be funny, but I am pretty sure that it won't.
On Thursday evening, after the dental debacle, I had a full on snotty cry. My husband was at a school governor's meeting, it had taken me 90 minutes to settle the baby, I was dreading taking my Dad to the Consultant appointment and, well, it just overflowed.There were times when I thought it would overflow as anger, and I tried *so* hard to hold that back. It's just not cool to blow your stack at children or old people, is it? Instead it came as a tsunami of tears - unusual for me.
Friday, as I have reported, was the day that Dad was diagnosed.
Saturday, my period started. This was a bit of a shock, as I have been put through a chemical menopause and, as the name suggests, I kind of supposed that I was done with periods. I have had chronic migraine, PMT, period pain, hot flushes and feeling dizzy, but I thought that was my body getting used to the medication (Prostap - it's also a treatment for Prostate Cancer, so a pretty strong drug) and HRT, which I started at the same time.
But, oh no. I'm sorry for the detail - but I may as well be frank, otherwise there is no point. This is the heaviest and most painful period I have had in my life. Bent double (which reminds me, inappropriately, of Wilfred Owen) gushing with each move, bits of body as well as liquid, and with the type of pain it's hard to explain to someone else. In the last 24 hours I have taken: co-codamol, naproxen, propranolol, HRT (?Livial), diazepam, buscopan - and Piriton - it's hay fever season too, don't you know, just to add the cherry to the cake.
I am trying not to moan at the 2 year old who stands on my belly with her sharp little feet, wanting to bounce, or twiddle my nipples (it helps her sleep and she does it so rarely - a hangover from breastfeeding - that it feels cruel to deny her when she needs the comfort. But OUCH.) I try not to moan when my 9 year old wants me to watch him play Minecraft and I want him to not touch me. I try to keep a brave face on.
I am trying to work out how to handle my in-laws. It's their birthdays this weekend and they want to visit, and they're concerned about my Dad, whom they think has had a stroke. Yet my mother has told me that she doesn't want anyone to know about the Dementia, not even my brother ( - I have refused to keep him in the dark, by the way.) However, morally, I don't know what to do about her request. Mum is of sound mind, so I should respect her wishes to keep my Dad's medical history private, at least for a few days whilst they process the idea themselves. But, am I colluding with her denial? Is this healthy? Is this potentially denying my father the care he needs?
And what about my in-laws? My relationship with them is tense at times, and to be honest I am pretty sure that my husband has been gossiping with them - his support network after all- about what has happened and how he has been left holding the baby. I can't go and tell them myself - I can't get off the bloody sofa. If I don't tell them, they will feel as though I have lied to them, or at least that I didn't trust them enough to let them know what was going on. If I tell them the truth, against my mother's wishes, but explain that she doesn't want anyone to know, well it make it look as though my mother doesn't trust them and, to be honest, I don't really trust them not to say something to her - accidentally - but, even so.
And I lie in my bed, curled around a hot water bottle, thinking about my Dad. The tattoo on his lower arm that he had done on a boys' trip to Blackpool in the 1950s - allegedly a girl wanted her name within, but he (wisely) refused and had 'mother' inked instead (I always wondered what happened next with the girl. Was that the end? I always think it's somewhat ironic too, as my Dad does not seem to have happy memories of his Mum. What was her reaction? Was she touched?)
I think of the birthmark on his left shoulder, that, when I was small, I used to think was a potato. I haven't seen that for years. I remember tweaking his nipples on hot sunny days, when men used to go topless, and him making a different noise for each that made me roar with laughter. I remember sitting behind him in the arm chair whilst he sat on the floor, combing his hair. I think of his expertise in gardening and plants that is being wasted, never to be retrieved. I think of the things he wanted to achieve with his life - opening a garden centre, for example - that he never had the opportunity to do. I think of the things he did do - travel to Norway alone on a freight ship (only to be told, in recent years, it was to see a girl. What a shock! Who was she? What is she doing now? My Dad, the least risk taking person I have ever known, must have either been very different back then, or in love...)
I've know he has dementia for many months. Somehow, being told he has dementia is a whole new ball game. He's going. The train is pulling out of the station and I am finding it hard to shake myself together. My darling, darling Dad.
On Thursday evening, after the dental debacle, I had a full on snotty cry. My husband was at a school governor's meeting, it had taken me 90 minutes to settle the baby, I was dreading taking my Dad to the Consultant appointment and, well, it just overflowed.There were times when I thought it would overflow as anger, and I tried *so* hard to hold that back. It's just not cool to blow your stack at children or old people, is it? Instead it came as a tsunami of tears - unusual for me.
Friday, as I have reported, was the day that Dad was diagnosed.
Saturday, my period started. This was a bit of a shock, as I have been put through a chemical menopause and, as the name suggests, I kind of supposed that I was done with periods. I have had chronic migraine, PMT, period pain, hot flushes and feeling dizzy, but I thought that was my body getting used to the medication (Prostap - it's also a treatment for Prostate Cancer, so a pretty strong drug) and HRT, which I started at the same time.
But, oh no. I'm sorry for the detail - but I may as well be frank, otherwise there is no point. This is the heaviest and most painful period I have had in my life. Bent double (which reminds me, inappropriately, of Wilfred Owen) gushing with each move, bits of body as well as liquid, and with the type of pain it's hard to explain to someone else. In the last 24 hours I have taken: co-codamol, naproxen, propranolol, HRT (?Livial), diazepam, buscopan - and Piriton - it's hay fever season too, don't you know, just to add the cherry to the cake.
I am trying not to moan at the 2 year old who stands on my belly with her sharp little feet, wanting to bounce, or twiddle my nipples (it helps her sleep and she does it so rarely - a hangover from breastfeeding - that it feels cruel to deny her when she needs the comfort. But OUCH.) I try not to moan when my 9 year old wants me to watch him play Minecraft and I want him to not touch me. I try to keep a brave face on.
I am trying to work out how to handle my in-laws. It's their birthdays this weekend and they want to visit, and they're concerned about my Dad, whom they think has had a stroke. Yet my mother has told me that she doesn't want anyone to know about the Dementia, not even my brother ( - I have refused to keep him in the dark, by the way.) However, morally, I don't know what to do about her request. Mum is of sound mind, so I should respect her wishes to keep my Dad's medical history private, at least for a few days whilst they process the idea themselves. But, am I colluding with her denial? Is this healthy? Is this potentially denying my father the care he needs?
And what about my in-laws? My relationship with them is tense at times, and to be honest I am pretty sure that my husband has been gossiping with them - his support network after all- about what has happened and how he has been left holding the baby. I can't go and tell them myself - I can't get off the bloody sofa. If I don't tell them, they will feel as though I have lied to them, or at least that I didn't trust them enough to let them know what was going on. If I tell them the truth, against my mother's wishes, but explain that she doesn't want anyone to know, well it make it look as though my mother doesn't trust them and, to be honest, I don't really trust them not to say something to her - accidentally - but, even so.
And I lie in my bed, curled around a hot water bottle, thinking about my Dad. The tattoo on his lower arm that he had done on a boys' trip to Blackpool in the 1950s - allegedly a girl wanted her name within, but he (wisely) refused and had 'mother' inked instead (I always wondered what happened next with the girl. Was that the end? I always think it's somewhat ironic too, as my Dad does not seem to have happy memories of his Mum. What was her reaction? Was she touched?)
I think of the birthmark on his left shoulder, that, when I was small, I used to think was a potato. I haven't seen that for years. I remember tweaking his nipples on hot sunny days, when men used to go topless, and him making a different noise for each that made me roar with laughter. I remember sitting behind him in the arm chair whilst he sat on the floor, combing his hair. I think of his expertise in gardening and plants that is being wasted, never to be retrieved. I think of the things he wanted to achieve with his life - opening a garden centre, for example - that he never had the opportunity to do. I think of the things he did do - travel to Norway alone on a freight ship (only to be told, in recent years, it was to see a girl. What a shock! Who was she? What is she doing now? My Dad, the least risk taking person I have ever known, must have either been very different back then, or in love...)
I've know he has dementia for many months. Somehow, being told he has dementia is a whole new ball game. He's going. The train is pulling out of the station and I am finding it hard to shake myself together. My darling, darling Dad.
Friday, 15 May 2015
Today
Today is Friday 15th May 2015. I have thought "fuck you" to today, but that's a bit unfair because it's a pretty day. The lilac is blossoming in my garden, the sun is shining, and at least one friend of mine is having a lovely time planning her wedding and enjoying seeing her ex husband's relationship with her ex best friend (the one he left her for, after their illicit affair) falling apart. I'm not so mean as to not give her that pleasure. So today is not all so bad.
Today, Friday 15th May 2015 has not been especially kind to me, though. My 72 year old Dad has been (finally) diagnosed with Vascular Dementia and Alzheimers. He also has an ASD, as he has for the entire of his life.
I have known about my Dad's dementia for some time, but it has been hard to get others to acknowledge it. Everyone has been so polite. My mother has been in denial - understandably - because she nursed her own Mum through dementia so she knows what is coming. She also knows that the man she has been married to for 50 years is dripping permanently away. Also - if she's really honest, and she hasn't been this honest with me - she knows she is a rubbish nurse. She was not cut out for caring. She also does not like spending money, so is left between a rock and a hard place; care herself, or pay for someone else to do it. This is the woman who bought one of my children a hot dog from a dodgy street van and neatly deducted its cost from his pocket money. This is a pretty shitty position for her to be in.
If I take a long hard look at myself, I like to think I am good at caring but my default setting is 'me.' I like quiet afternoons with a book, sewing, knitting, spending time with my husband, running. I become impatient with clinginess. I can smile and be sympathetic for a time. But I am not naturally a carer. I am vomit phobic. I am easily irritable. I am menopausal. I get quickly bored. I am not always a nice person.
My mother, as well as being afraid, has been in denial about my Dad's dementia for months. Right up to her wrinkly, respectable polo neck. "It's just ageing - we're all the same" she'd purr, or "he has a urine infection, it makes older people confused." She overlooked the fact that he repeated the same things, unaware he'd said them before. She excused the fact that he left the handbrake off his car - twice - and dented both their cars moving them around on the drive. She pretended it was normal that they have a big diary on their kitchen table that my Dad checks incessantly every hour, ticking off his medication as the day wears on, giving each coloured pill a nickname.
Just ageing.
I don't know how I feel about my Dad's Vascular Dementia, Alzheimers and ASD. He's still my Dad. He's happier in a lot of ways. He squeezes my hand affectionately (he's never told me he loves me in my entire life.) The scales of bitterness have fallen from his eyes. Yes, he needs me to drive him to several medical appointments a week, where I deliberately link arms with him (much to my mother's annoyance - she thinks it's soppy) as people seem to accept the non-verbal cue that I am his carer, and are more generous to him. He shouts aloud "look at that woman's tattoos!" and worse. I cringe, put on my best apologetic smile, and say "come on Dad" rather too loudly, and too slowly, so they pick up on my hints - understand - that he's not just a rude old bugger, but a sick old man. His ASD has meant he's never been great in social situations; his Dementia means that he has forgotten the social graces that 70 years of life taught him to emulate.
So, why is this blog called 'the butty blog.' It's not about sandwiches, I'm afraid (although I am rather partial to a good one.) It's about being 'the sandwich generation' (although someone had nabbed that URL). You see, as well as my poor dear Demented Father, and my Mother In Denial (whose faculties seem to be running away like someone has pulled the plug. Is it real or imagined? Or learned helplessness? Am I doing too much or too little?) I have the following caring responsibilities. Yes me, the person, who I would like to remind you, has the default setting of "me":
- my husband, who is precariously close to breakdown having been made redundant
- my son, who is sitting his A levels, right now.
- my 9 year old son, who I found out yesterday, to my utter shame, has been lying to me about brushing his teeth and needs FOUR FILLINGS. Four. I feel sick with grief. That's not even hyperbole. The dentist looked at me like I should have my parenting license revoked - and, to be honest, maybe I should. They *are* milk teeth, which is a small saving grace, but even so. FOUR. Ugh.
- my 2 year old daughter. Gorgeous, bright as a button and bossy as hell.
- my brother, who left his abusive wife six weeks ago and came to live with us. He has gone to live in a bachelor pad for a while, but still needs regular support (and, to be honest, I rely on his emotional support too)
and me. Unemployed and unlikely to go back to my profession due to that bunch of spunk trumpets in government. Diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Getting shitter at running even though I am trying harder (well, it feels like I am trying harder, but I am not running as often as I did, which is probably the reason I am getting shitter, but I don't like to admit that to myself). Getting fatter, despite having lost 8 stones (I've put 2 stones back on since I lost my job. I feel like I'm trying hard to be thin, but see reason above). Sufferer of adenomyosis, endometriosis, chronic migraines; going through an enforced chemical menopause and awaiting a decision on whether I will have my ovaries surgically removed, or all my women's bits (what fills up the gap that's left? Do all my insides rearrange?) I am also waiting for my eldest son to leave to go to university and, in all honesty, one seems like a metaphor for the other.
I also keep trying to read books about 40 something women, and they are ALL MISERABLE.
Welcome to the sandwich generation. I don't know if this blog is going to be happy or sad, but I do know it's going to be honest. I set up a blog before - I Instagrammed my life (is that a verb yet?) I took photos of my dinner, and casual shots of my kitchen I had previously spent after afternoon scrubbing and baking in. Why this? Gosh, yes, it's always like this.
Well, balls to that.
Love
Doris
x
Today, Friday 15th May 2015 has not been especially kind to me, though. My 72 year old Dad has been (finally) diagnosed with Vascular Dementia and Alzheimers. He also has an ASD, as he has for the entire of his life.
I have known about my Dad's dementia for some time, but it has been hard to get others to acknowledge it. Everyone has been so polite. My mother has been in denial - understandably - because she nursed her own Mum through dementia so she knows what is coming. She also knows that the man she has been married to for 50 years is dripping permanently away. Also - if she's really honest, and she hasn't been this honest with me - she knows she is a rubbish nurse. She was not cut out for caring. She also does not like spending money, so is left between a rock and a hard place; care herself, or pay for someone else to do it. This is the woman who bought one of my children a hot dog from a dodgy street van and neatly deducted its cost from his pocket money. This is a pretty shitty position for her to be in.
If I take a long hard look at myself, I like to think I am good at caring but my default setting is 'me.' I like quiet afternoons with a book, sewing, knitting, spending time with my husband, running. I become impatient with clinginess. I can smile and be sympathetic for a time. But I am not naturally a carer. I am vomit phobic. I am easily irritable. I am menopausal. I get quickly bored. I am not always a nice person.
My mother, as well as being afraid, has been in denial about my Dad's dementia for months. Right up to her wrinkly, respectable polo neck. "It's just ageing - we're all the same" she'd purr, or "he has a urine infection, it makes older people confused." She overlooked the fact that he repeated the same things, unaware he'd said them before. She excused the fact that he left the handbrake off his car - twice - and dented both their cars moving them around on the drive. She pretended it was normal that they have a big diary on their kitchen table that my Dad checks incessantly every hour, ticking off his medication as the day wears on, giving each coloured pill a nickname.
Just ageing.
I don't know how I feel about my Dad's Vascular Dementia, Alzheimers and ASD. He's still my Dad. He's happier in a lot of ways. He squeezes my hand affectionately (he's never told me he loves me in my entire life.) The scales of bitterness have fallen from his eyes. Yes, he needs me to drive him to several medical appointments a week, where I deliberately link arms with him (much to my mother's annoyance - she thinks it's soppy) as people seem to accept the non-verbal cue that I am his carer, and are more generous to him. He shouts aloud "look at that woman's tattoos!" and worse. I cringe, put on my best apologetic smile, and say "come on Dad" rather too loudly, and too slowly, so they pick up on my hints - understand - that he's not just a rude old bugger, but a sick old man. His ASD has meant he's never been great in social situations; his Dementia means that he has forgotten the social graces that 70 years of life taught him to emulate.
So, why is this blog called 'the butty blog.' It's not about sandwiches, I'm afraid (although I am rather partial to a good one.) It's about being 'the sandwich generation' (although someone had nabbed that URL). You see, as well as my poor dear Demented Father, and my Mother In Denial (whose faculties seem to be running away like someone has pulled the plug. Is it real or imagined? Or learned helplessness? Am I doing too much or too little?) I have the following caring responsibilities. Yes me, the person, who I would like to remind you, has the default setting of "me":
- my husband, who is precariously close to breakdown having been made redundant
- my son, who is sitting his A levels, right now.
- my 9 year old son, who I found out yesterday, to my utter shame, has been lying to me about brushing his teeth and needs FOUR FILLINGS. Four. I feel sick with grief. That's not even hyperbole. The dentist looked at me like I should have my parenting license revoked - and, to be honest, maybe I should. They *are* milk teeth, which is a small saving grace, but even so. FOUR. Ugh.
- my 2 year old daughter. Gorgeous, bright as a button and bossy as hell.
- my brother, who left his abusive wife six weeks ago and came to live with us. He has gone to live in a bachelor pad for a while, but still needs regular support (and, to be honest, I rely on his emotional support too)
and me. Unemployed and unlikely to go back to my profession due to that bunch of spunk trumpets in government. Diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Getting shitter at running even though I am trying harder (well, it feels like I am trying harder, but I am not running as often as I did, which is probably the reason I am getting shitter, but I don't like to admit that to myself). Getting fatter, despite having lost 8 stones (I've put 2 stones back on since I lost my job. I feel like I'm trying hard to be thin, but see reason above). Sufferer of adenomyosis, endometriosis, chronic migraines; going through an enforced chemical menopause and awaiting a decision on whether I will have my ovaries surgically removed, or all my women's bits (what fills up the gap that's left? Do all my insides rearrange?) I am also waiting for my eldest son to leave to go to university and, in all honesty, one seems like a metaphor for the other.
I also keep trying to read books about 40 something women, and they are ALL MISERABLE.
Welcome to the sandwich generation. I don't know if this blog is going to be happy or sad, but I do know it's going to be honest. I set up a blog before - I Instagrammed my life (is that a verb yet?) I took photos of my dinner, and casual shots of my kitchen I had previously spent after afternoon scrubbing and baking in. Why this? Gosh, yes, it's always like this.
Well, balls to that.
Love
Doris
x
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