Tag: CP

I love simple things

Today I’m in a good mood. I’ve just found out I have a job interview next week, I got past the Candy Crush Saga level I was stuck on, I’m listening to You Me At Six and I’ve just had tea. Yes, today is a day for appreciating the little things in life, so that is exactly what I’m going to do. Starting with the really simple mug that means I can carry drinks around the house by myself.

There’s no point in me even trying to deny it. Anyone who knows me will tell how much I love tea. My boyfriend often compares me to a character from the video game The Sims, except he says that instead of having ‘fun’ and ‘social’ moodlets I have one for tea and one for how much sunlight I get because I’m “solar power and tea fuelled”. His words, not mine.

My Thermos Mug
My Thermos Mug

For a long time, having a cuppa was a source of frustration for me as well as enjoyment, and of course hydration. I could make myself a drink (and anyone else who wanted one if I was feeling generous) as long as I didn’t fill the kettle up too much and make it too heavy in one go. But there was a catch: I had to stand in the kitchen to drink it. I couldn’t carry them anywhere because my CP means I have to have a walking aid or something to hold on to to help me keep my balance. This means I can’t carry any liquid in any sort of cup that doesn’t have a lid without bathing myself in it because I can’t concentrate on keeping me and the drink upright at the same time. Really not a good idea where boiling water is concerned. With anything cold I carry it in a bottle, but this doesn’t work with tea. I would go and sit down to wait for it to cool, go and take a few sips, go do something then come back and take a few more. This would be repeated until the mug was empty. Needless to say I ended up giving up on, or forgetting about more of them than I actually finished. This, to a self-confessed tea addict is a very bad thing.

Then, I finally discovered thermal cups, like the one I’ve included a photo of here. The lids mean I can usually take it from room to room without slopping it everywhere (just a waste of perfectly good tea, if you ask me) or scolding myself as long as I hold onto something for support with the other hand and go really slowly. I also have  to make sure there are lots to places I can put it down on safely in case I feel like I’m going to take a tumble on the way to my seat. No brew is worth that. I even have more than one so I can be lazy when it comes to the washing up. (Not that I would ever do that, obviously). So I’m happy and my mum’s happy because she gets out of kettle duty every once in a while and doesn’t have to carry mine all over the house for me as often as she used to. I’ve gained so much extra independence all for the sake of a couple of pounds.

Obviously, these might not be something that everyone can use, and I know that what works for me might not work for everyone else. I’m not a medical professional so I can’t give advice on wheather this is something that would work for others or not, and I can only talk about my personal experience about how they work for me alone.

 

Physiotherapy through my ages

Given that my Cerebral Palsy makes my muscles tighter than they should be I’m supposed to do a fair amount of physiotherapy to keep the stiffness at bay as much as possible.

It’s more than fair to say that my exercise regime and I have had an ever-changing relationship throughout my life. We’ve gone from loving each other to being arch enemies and back again more times than I would like to count. When I was a kid, it was the best thing ever. Most of what I needed to do could be done through playing. My appointments at the hospital felt to me like they consisted of climbing around on a big squishy play area, making things out of play-dough and the odd bit of stretching, but the pineapple juice and biscuits I got at the end more than made up for the last part.

Then, I started Primary School and realised that because I was in a mainstream school that none of my friends had to the boring stretch-y stuff, they only had to do all the playing parts so I refused to do them unless my parents made them more fun.

My mum spent hours making obstacle courses for me to run with a slide and a pot of bubbles at the end, and my dad would run them with me. I’d always win though because he was too big for the slide, but we’d share the bubbles anyway.

Being a 90s-kid I collected beanie babies and my very first one, a white and brown dog called Dippy, would be in charge of counting how many of the dull exercises I did each time by sitting in Mum’s hand. Dad and I did jigsaw puzzles and played hours of Polly Pocket to improve my fine-motor skills and give my left hand some you-will-do-what-I-tell-you training.

By the time I hit my teenage years this kind of magic wore off and I just plain refused to do any. This is something that I still regret to this day because I can’t help but think of how I could be even better than I am now if I’d put all the effort I put in these days while I was still growing.

When I was a kid I had a physio come out to see me once a week but now that I’m grown up and boring I only see someone  whenever I get enough pain to feel like I need it. I look forward to these times of year even if there is usually a fair bit of discomfort that comes with it. Now that I’m old enough to know how lucky I am to still get access to this service I try to grab the chance with both hands, even if the grip with my left one is a bit suck-y. I’m at this stage again (the culprit this time is my left knee). I now have a new list of things to do I don’t mind it because at least I know that I’m still trying to help myself keep walking for that bit longer every time I do. The tasks may not be as fun anymore, but, as far as I’m concerned, you’re never too old for juice and biscuits after all your hard work.

Please, call her Martha

Martha and I
Martha and I

Well, I think it’s about time I introduced you all to me trusty counterpart Martha – AKA my very new, and indeed very blue, Nimbo walking frame. I know what you’re all thinking –pfft, she’s named it, why on Earth would she do that, nutter – well, I’ll tell you.

I’ve always had a frame for as long as I can remember but I haven’t always given them names. That tradition started with my last glamorous aluminium-assistant Betsy who sadly had to go to walker Heaven about three weeks ago after about a year-and-a-half by my side (I’ll tell you more of her life story another time, though).  Her name came about almost by accident. I was given her by the hospital the day before Christmas Eve and I was really excited because the last one was getting so wobbly that I couldn’t wait to get her. In my excitement I decided to announce to the physiotherapist that gave her to me that she deserved a name and that name would be Betsy.  Enough about Betsy for now though, let’s let Martha have her moment of glory first.

After a while, and many confused friends later, I decided that this should be a tradition that I would keep up.  After all, when you are a child you name the teddy bear that you carry about with you all the time and lose on at least sixteen occasions while you’re growing up, so why shouldn’t I do it? And, even though I’m not embarrassed by the fact I need a frame in any way, I think it sounds nicer to ask my parents if they’ve put Martha in the car rather that saying ‘did you remember to bring ‘the frame’”.

Giving her a name is great too because it helps get me out of trouble “Martha didn’t mean to hit your ankles Mum. She’s got PMT today and is very sorry, she won’t do it again”. My mum can’t help but laugh every time I pull that excuse.

It’s a great ice-breaker at parties too. When I say “I’m Nic and this is Martha” they usually look at me like I’ve had one too many, then ponder on it for a minute and offer up what their own choice of name would be in my situation. I think sometimes, it helps people who’ve never met me before relax a bit and realise that they can ask whatever they want about the CP, and that I’m probably not going to mind, as long as they’re polite about it.

As I said, Martha is very new to me but she’s also very special because she is the first walker I’ve ever had with a seat attached which makes all the difference. Now, I don’t have to worry about there being somewhere for me to sit so that I can take notes without falling over if I’m interviewing someone at an event, I can rest if my sister is taking too long to decide if she wants to buy that dress she’s been mulling over for an hour, and I never have to worry if there’ll be a free chair that I can use in the pub. It is these little things that make the biggest difference.

Welcome to my world, Martha. We’re gonna have a blast!

Here goes nothing…

My name is Nic and I think that I’m lucky. Over the years I’ve been called many things: brave, determined, courageous; or freak, lazy and other things depending on whom you speak to. But no one ever seems to call me lucky.

I was born with Cerebral Palsy, a physical disability that effects the way I move – mostly my legs, but more often than not my left arm and I have to have a stern conversation before it will do what I want it to. I usually win that one in the end. Eventually. I don’t know exactly what caused it but I was born fourteen weeks too soon and sometime after that I had a bleed in my brain. Going any deeper than this to find out what caused the bleed doesn’t really interest me. As far as I’m concerned I made it and that’s all that counts. I can still walk, talk and do a lot of things for myself – except tie my own shoelaces – that I’m still working on – but given that I’m twenty four I should probably just give up and focus my time and energy on doing something way more fun and worth the effort, like making endless cups of tea. That I can do, and if there’s one thing in life I love more than the awesome-ness that is chocolate, it’s tea.

Although I can walk by myself around the house I never go anywhere without my trusty walking fame (hence the blog name), or on bad day, my wheelchair. I don’t have the balance to get up curbs by myself and the shock of standing on an uneven bit of pavement would send me crashing to my knees so I choose to play it safe but that’s okay. Falling over isn’t nearly as funny as it sometimes looks. Although, the time I somehow managed to fall into the laundry basket and broke it was pretty funny, or the time I was a toddler reached out to grab the person in front of me to catch myself and ended up pulling the poor man’s trousers down (just his trousers – nothing more, thank you). Well, I’m told that was funny, but really I’m not so sure…

I also make vlogs on YouTube and you can check out my channel here. In the meantime, here’s my channel trailer for you all to have a look at: