Let's get serious...

Alright?

It's been incredibly quiet from my end for quite a while, I apologise. I don't know how I've managed it seeing as how I'm an incorrigible chatterbox.

A lot has happened during my hiatus. Hiatus. I sound like I've been in rehab. (I haven't, by the way, so no snidey comments about how I couldn't blog because I've not been on the sauce...) I'm going to hold back on a few details because they're not really any of your business. They must be pretty heavy topics seeing as how I've shared incredibly intimate subjects with you during the life of this blog. I will share this with you though; I'm not a carer any more. Gasp. Certain events transpired that have rendered me almost obsolete and that's as much as I'll say for now.

Oh. I've got a boyfriend. He's very handsome, look:

His name's Adam, we've been together for 11 months and I love him :) I don't know how I managed to keep that one quiet either. I'm a changed person! Again, no rehab quips...

Another exciting thing that has happened to me is that I have been honoured with the appointment of National Ambassador at Carers UK! Remember in my last post about 50 years ago, I said I'd had a surprise through the post? Well, that surprise was a lovely letter asking me if I'd consider the post of Ambassador as a thanks for all the work I've done for the charity. How exciting! So far I have attended a Parliamentary reception, given a speech at the Carers UK Founding Members' lunch at Lambeth Palace, spoken on the panel at the Carers Summit and have lots of equally important events lined up that require my speaking talents. Good job really seeing as I'm rather loquacious... ;)

It does mean that I should now be doing less of this:

And more of this:

Paul Burstow MP (Minister for Care) and I in Parliament - June 2012
 

 

 Making my speech at the Mary Webster event at Lambeth Palace - October 2012
 

 

 Beautiful Lambeth Palace - yes, they did let me in!
 



 

So. Back to my de-carer procedure. Sounds kinda painful and my goodness it has been! It's been a complete roller-coaster. I'm now in limbo between the Carers World and the Real World. There are a few of you that would argue that caring really is part of the 'real world'; seeing that it delivers constant, harsh doses of reality along with regular kicks to the crotch, but I've found it to be more of a microcosm, a bubble if you will. You're so wrapped up in something that you tend to block out the outside world and 'the future' is something you dread thinking about. You'd think that your life would reach a plateau of calm outside this bubble but it really doesn't. You've spent so long thinking about somebody else that you tend not to pay much attention to your own life; your life outside of caring and what you'd do with it once you're back on the scene. I feel as though the Carers World has politely asked me to leave but the Real World is being that bitch who won't invite me to the party.

"But I like to party!"

 

 

I now have absolutely no sense of identity. Most carers feel the same kind self loss during caring; the feeling of being just another slave to the government, but now I'm not a carer, I feel like I've been kicked out of the Carers Club. Even carers on the Carers forum I'm part of don't want to know. I went on to introduce myself and nobody will speak to me; maybe because they can no longer empathise with me. I feel like a leper. Just to validate my existence I'm now referring to myself as 'a former carer' or 'Amy, Formally Known As A Carer', like Prince only with less plastic surgery and a deeper voice.

I'm also now known as a job hunter. I like to use the word 'hunter' because that's exactly what you need to do. Hunt to survive. Weekly visits the Jobcentre have inevitably ensued (cringe) and now I'm no longer viewed as do-gooder statistic, but as a skid-mark in the underpants of society. I'm sorry Mr Government but you need to learn how to wipe your arse properly (Refer to my previous posts. I could help you out.) because no one will employ me. I have “too big a gap” in my employment history. Oh, I'm sorry...I didn't realise that 24/7 caring isn't a work substitute. Silly me, thinking that administrative skills, excellent telephone manner, advanced and specialised vocabulary gained through my carers role could possibly be applied in the workplace. Yes, you should definitely ignore the fact that I've met the Prime Minister, spoken confidently in Parliament and at Lambeth Palace and have an aura of general brilliance. I'll just go and munch on some mothballs in The British Heart Foundation shop and let you call it work experience because I clearly haven't got any...

Yes, I name drop Dave Cameron on my CV...



I've always had a reputation of being a little dippy (I once thought that Milan was in China because it sounds like Mulan and the other day I managed to sew my hair into my trousers. Don't ask..) but I have absolutely no idea why I'm so unemployable? I've got good qualifications, even better life skills and I'm the bloody Ambassador of a UK charity for goodness sake! What more do they want? For me to pull a bunch of flowers out of my hoo-hah whilst singing the National Anthem? Because I could try...

Would you employ this face? I'm even wearing my Carers UK badge!

 

The badge!

This is why I have created a petition to ensure that skills gained through caring are recognised by employers as and when they apply to a role. It's a serious, well worded petition with no swearing. You can have a look HERE. Read it, sign it, share it. Anybody could become a carer, at any point in their lives. You don't have any warning and you certainly don't ask for the sodding responsibility that comes with it. It's a hard task but even harder is the struggle you face getting back on your feet after caring – for whatever reason you leave the 'profession'. And it is a profession, we're good at what we do. Did. Might do. If I can do just one small thing to help people post caring get back into work, then this is it. I don't want you to have to go to the jobcentre all the bloody time because it's a no good hole that smells like weed, desperation and Paris Hilton perfume.

To summarise, I have absolutely no idea in which direction my life is going but I'm 23, the world is my oyster and I'm the pearl. A grain of sand that's been spat on so many times that you have no choice but to shine yourself up and screech to the world: “Crack open this shell, I may not be gold but damn, I'm valuable”.

Love,

Amy x

The Resurrection of a blog, like Jesus but less wholesome...

Bugger it, I’ve not blogged for two whole months! You must have missed me terribly darlings. (Please just humour me and nod…) February and March have passed me by in a haze of near death experiences, concussions and surprises through the post (more to come on that soon...ooh I'm a tease! :p), so I have lacked on the blog front. It does mean, however, that I have a tasty chunk of brain fodder for you to sink your teeth into. 

Yum:

 

 

So, near death experiences. Momma has spent the last 10 weeks in absolute agony with her back. She has three bulging discs that are pressing on her spinal cord. The nerve that controls leg movement and bladder control has been severely compromised so she’s struggling to keep on her feet at all. Next time I find her on the floor in a puddle of her own piss at least there’s a medical term for it… Due the intense amount of pain she was in, mum babes was prescribed some weird and wonderful pills to take the edge off. Unfortunately the tablets not only reduced her pain, but also her responsiveness and reactions. She’d taken her second dose of the day, gone upstairs for a nap and when I went to check on her an hour later, she was unconscious. 

She was probably dreaming about this:

Whilst I was feeling like this:

Now, I can’t speak for everyone who has found themselves in this situation but I’ll say that, for me, it was fucking terrifying. There’s a split second where everything is blank. You know in the movies when it all goes into slow motion? Your own voice sounds like Darth Vader’s, you’re as sober as a judge but you feel like you’ve swallowed a ton of something illegal? All I could think was “Shit, shit. What am I supposed to do? Who’s coming to tell me what to do?” And as soon as the feeling comes, it’s gone again; your sensible subconscious gives you a kick up the arse and cool, calm and collected ‘you’ reigns.

I called an ambulance, obviously, and she was rushed to hospital with blue lights flashing and sirens wailing. God that woman knows how to make an entrance. I sorted out care for Katie, jumped into a taxi and raced to the hospital. I actually said to the driver: “Step on it!” Told you it was like a movie…

When I arrived I was ushered into the ‘Relative’s Room’ by a nurse who told me that the doctor would need to speak to me. Now, I’ve been in that situation once before when momma didn’t come round from an anaesthetic. There are no words to describe that empty ache in your stomach, like your whole world is about to fall from under you and all you have to console you in that dark little room is a Chaplaincy leaflet and a battered bible that has been leafed through more times than Hugh Hefner’s copy of the Karma Sutra. I’m not at all religious but it is in these situations that I find myself beginning to bargain with ‘God’. “Please don’t take my mummy away from me, I’ll do anything. Anything!” I get a little delirious and begin to make bizarre offers of exchange: “Make all of my hair fall out!” “Turn me into a toad!” “Make me grow a beard!” I kid you not; sometimes you just can’t control the shit that gushes out of your mouth in times of duress.

The doctor finally came into me to say that momma had suffered a severe allergic reaction to her painkiller and had two incredibly close calls, nearly losing her life both in the ambulance and again in resus. She was barely stable and the next 12 hours were crucial. It was then that I thought the Relative’s Room could really benefit from a mini bar… I’d have raided the whole thing and still have needed more.

She made it through the night and I didn’t grow a beard, nor did any part of my body gain amphibian qualities. (Have I pulled the wool over God’s eyes?!) It was a tense week that followed but she was incredibly well looked after by the intensive care unit at George Eliot Hospital. She’s awaiting spinal surgery and we’ve made sure that those demon tablets don’t come anyway near her again so it’s just a matter of keeping her comfortable until she gets sorted out.

You’d think that was the end of the drama for two months but no. I swear we go through absolute shite just so I can write about it for your entertainment! You’d all better be bloody grateful. ;) I suffered two concussions. Yeah you heard, two! I am a ridiculous klutz. The first one was due to me tripping over my own feet and falling head first into a wall and the second was caused by a suitcase. I don’t even know how it happened and I’m not going to attempt to explain. So that was two A&E visits for lil old me! 

Concussion #1 - Rocking the neck brace, no?!

 

Then just last week I was admitted into hospital as I had a pretty bad issue with my heart. I had surgery when I was 11 to correct an abnormality and I’ve suffered with it ever since.  C’mon, get your violins going…that’s it! I happened to pick up that nasty norovirus that’s doing the rounds too. (That’s the ‘winter virus’. The one where awful stuff comes out of your two main orifices…) I don’t know, you go into hospital with something relatively simple and come out dead! Ah, I know I’m overreacting ever so slightly but it’s hard to stay realistic when the whole world is falling out of your arse… Ugh!

Anyway, we all seem to be as well as can be at the moment but no doubt something’s going to go tits up soon and I’ll be blogging about a hilarious incident involving a blob of shit and some sort of vodka induced sickness…

Happy Easter by the way..!

Love,

Amy x

Can't cope, won't cope...

Hey darlings! Can I call you darlings? I’d like to give an affectionate name for you; my collection of readers. Ricky Gervais has ‘Twonks’, Tulisa has ‘N-Dublets’ and ‘Muffins’... I’ll have a little think. Suggestions on a postcard?

It feels like an absolute age since I posted last. There are a few reasons as to why and I feel that, to reward your loyalty to my drivel, I’d better explain myself. I’ve spent the last week or so trying to get over a nasty virus (who knew one person could house SO much snot?!) and have been horrendously busy making important phone calls, writing letters, learning to dance this ‘hump’ that Rizzle Kicks keep singing about, researching world wines (read ‘researching’ as ‘drinking’) and digging my way out from under a mountain of paperwork. My mum had a form to fill in the other day so we decided to make a makeshift office in order to motivate us (we sat next to each other at the table and shuffled papers). It was a welcome dose of normality actually. Mum Babes (that’s what I call her...) used to work in an office at the MoD so she said it was quite nostalgic. I made the office environment more realistic by sending out an inter-office memo to my ‘colleague’. Well, I drew a penis on a bit of paper and threw it at her. I really am quite proficient at procrastination... 

My side of the ‘office’. Note the Mickey Mouse straw in the bottle of wine. That’s incongruity if I ever saw it.

Wine tasting. It has to be done...

 Another reason for my absence is that I’ve had the worst case of writer’s block EVER. If Jackie Collins had suffered the same then the literary world would be a better place. I think I’ve been trying too hard to force an idea but have recently realised that inspiration is like the female orgasm; sometimes you just have to accept that it’s not coming... On the subject of acquiescence, I’d like to talk about coping. I’ve been steadfast in my resolve for this blog to be a ‘No-Moan-Zone’ but I also want to be realistic. I audaciously likened myself to Wonder Woman (with smaller tits, don’t forget) but no-one’s superhuman, least of all me. But I do have a mechanism. In times of duress, I shut myself off from the outside world completely. I want to do everything alone because that’s how I’ve been raised; to be strong and independent. And I’ve had the best role model for it. Mum Babes has raised two children alone for 21 years. She’s contended with Katie’s disabilities, my ill health (chronic asthma, heart surgery aged 11, viral meningitis at 15) and her own illnesses. If I was ‘down with it’ I’d say she was a ‘real G’. She’s hot, too.

Soul Sisters:

So. Coping. Everyone does it differently; some people don’t do it at all. A relative of mine had a nervous breakdown after her son cut his finger open... If I can give any advice (and you should all know by now that I’m not that good at giving it..!) it would be to find a coping mechanism that suits you. I use humour – you may have noticed! Last week my mum was rushed into hospital with chest pains. (She’s home now and being looked after by Nurse Amy). It was very stressful for both of us but we naturally resort to humour to get through. In this particular instance she made me sniff her armpits to make sure she didn’t stink. You never know who you’re going to meet in the middle of a chest X-ray...right?! We cracked some commode-related jokes, I did a little dance behind the curtains...you get the picture.  When I was 15 I was admitted to Birmingham Children’s with Viral Meningitis. To lighten the mood, mum put on one surgical glove, wore a sick bowl like a hat and Moonwalked around my hospital room. I was sitting on a bedpan at the time. It was so funny that, well, I’m sure you get the picture...

 I also drink and dance to ‘cope’. For me, the hardest part of caring is wanting to sink a bottle of brandy but knowing it’s morally irresponsible to ‘drink on the job’. I will have a little tipple though. When it’s quite I’ll pour myself a drink and dance like a video ho until I can’t remember what I was stressed about to begin with. (I’m not admitting to alcoholism here, by the way! Although, you’ll often see me sneaking back from the corner shop with a carrier bag clanking suspiciously :p). Obviously not everyone will be placated by ‘my way’, but that’s my point. It’s MY mechanism. Do something that makes you feel like ‘you’. Just for a moment. Shut yourself off from the world/shout at everyone/scream into a pillow/ get drunk/do something crazy/ laugh at nothing/dance it out/cry... Do something that provides a release, however short lived that might be.

This is me mid 'tipsy-dancing':

I don’t really know what else to say. I’d better go as there’s a quarter of a bottle of brandy going begging and a sexy bit of reggae has just come on the radio... This ass is popping tonight! ;)

Love, 

Amy x

We found lust in a hopeless place...

Happy New Year darlings! I hope you’ve all had a great Christmas and a good start to 2012. I’d planned on an early night in my snuggie with my Hello Ladies DVD for NYE but ended up dancing around the living room, completely pissed and doing gymnastics in my underwear... If that’s a sign of things to come then I can safely say that this year will be GREAT ;)

Here’s me in my snuggie:

Here I am smooching Steve:

The above quickly turned into this sort of debauchery:

Bottoms up!

Bottoms out!

Fancy a snog?

I’m not a fan of venturing out into Club Land for New Years. I did it once in 2008 and have decided that it’s definitely not for me. Paying a ridiculous amount of gold to get into a club where you’re all crammed in like sardines, awaiting sloppy midnight kisses from strangers? Thanks but no thanks.

NYE 2008 - This guy’s New Years resolution was probably to lure in innocent girls with his Scooby Doo facade, then turn into some kind of modern day Jack the Ripper (He tried to kidnap me shortly after this picture was taken...) We did go out in Coventry though so I suppose I was asking for it:

On the subject of smooches from strangers, this blog is going to be all about the early stages of relationships. I find it very easy to talk openly about love, lust, sex and rock 'n' roll but it’s not all been plain sailing. I know I’m only 22 but I’ve had my fair share of dating dilemmas and I want to share them with you. You lucky sods ;) It’s common knowledge that finding your soul mate is bloody hard but when you’re a carer it’s akin to finding Wally when he’s hiding inside a candy cane – nigh on impossible.

Being a carer has made me incredibly picky as I have to find someone who’s not only tall (no-brainer) handsome and a snazzy dresser but is also understanding, kind hearted, tolerant and as emotionally strong as I am. I am aware that this man probably doesn’t exist but I’ll keep searching, everyone needs a project, right? It’s also difficult because, as a carer, you’re constantly giving upwards of 80% of yourself to someone else as standard. You often don’t have the time or energy to give to someone new, which makes the initial dating such a pain in the arse. In an ideal world, I’d skip the ‘getting to know each other’ side-stepping and go straight into that ‘comfortable’ phase. You know - where you can walk around the house nude, burp like a man or admit that all the orgasms from day one have been faked. (I got a B in GCSE drama, FYI. I’ll leave you with that thought for a minute...) But seriously, it can be a damn ballache laying down foundations of a relationship when you have such time consuming responsibilities. I don’t expect guys to be empathetic (well you wouldn’t anyway would you?!) but it’s hard to establish a ‘date timetable’ when you’re constantly attending hospital appointments, changing NG tubes, being Superwoman etc. It can also be incredibly daunting sharing your life story with someone for the first time, especially when you reveal that you have a moral obligation to put your family (or whoever you care for) first. Just last week my mum had arranged to go for drinks with a friend of a friend of hers. She had fun but the guy admitted that their mutual friend had tried to warn him off her, citing Katie’s complex care needs and mum’s health issues  as a reason for him to back off a bit.  What a shallow bastard. It didn’t deter mama’s date but it made me so mad to think that people could be so heartless. You may think that this is a one off occurrence but you would be wrong. It’s happened to my mum a number of times and, often being consumed by paranoia, I’m convinced that it will happen to me too. How horrendously weak are some men? I am kind of grateful though, I’ve decided it’s my way of sorting the wheat from the chaff.  If you crumble under pressure and can’t cope with adversity then you’re probably shit in bed anyway...

My fellow independent women are probably shouting “why do you need a man?!’’ My answer is: I don’t, not really. Sometimes I use men’s shower gel liberally during my bedtime bath. Then when I’m sleeping I sniff my own armpit and it’s pretty much the same as being in bed with a man - sans the dodgy smells and grunting... Then there’s the other obvious male ‘replacement’. You know the one I mean; I broke mine last year. I will say this to the ladies though; make sure you buy one that will ‘suit’ you. I won’t elaborate further but just to warn you, it can be horrifically embarrassing turning up in A& E because you’re having a severe allergic reaction to a certain phallic ‘rabbit’...  My mum found this out the hard way.  J.H.Christ!! Latex allergies are highly inconvenient. Turns out it’s hereditary. I found out that I have one after a trip to the gynaecologist. I don’t feel we know each other well enough for me to divulge further so I’ll leave this little anecdote for another time ;)

Beware the Rabbit...

I did mention that I have become quite picky. You can blame Disney for adducing my old fashioned outlook on relationships. (In the sense that I expect guys to open doors for me and I don’t really mind baking them a cake whilst they call me ‘the missus’) Here’s a short list of my requirements:

Turn On's

-Understanding, tolerant, kind, patient <insert other soppy qualities here> guys

-Funny guys

-Snazzy dressers

-Glasses

-Tall guys

-Funny guys

-Glasses

-Bit of a beard

-Tall guys

-Well, basically this:

Turn Off’s

-Assholes (No, not THOSE ones...)

-Manipulative, mean, cocky guys

-Small men

-This:

(I'm aware he's wearing glasses, there are exceptions to every rule...)

When you’ve been 6ft and ginger for a long time you stop expecting propositions from guys but recently I’ve been inundated and I’m finding it incredibly strange! The 14 year old gangly geek inside of me keeps shouting “they’re obviously taking the piss” whilst the horny adult argues: “get ya leg over girl!” I’ll admit that it feels a bit weird to say out loud that I have ‘admirers’ but I kinda like it. (Don’t judge me; I’ve never really been able to say “oh, so-and-so fancies me!”) However, I do think that most guys are invariably attracted to this:

...and then back off quite a bit when they realise the realities of care and all that it requires. I am one of the most tactile people you will ever meet and I wear my heart on my sleeve. I can also be incredibly guarded as I’m petrified of getting hurt after laying myself bare. (Emotionally, I’ll have you know! I use the ‘three date rule’ for physical bareness :p) When you’re a carer you really need all of your reserve energy for yourself and you can’t access it if you’re wasting it by snivelling over a break up.  I really am procrastinating here, I haven’t made a point but I think that might actually be my point..? As a carer, you can’t make solid plans. Every day is a surprise whether you like it or not. If you’re single then someone has to fit in with your way of life, like it or lump it.

So there you have it. I have no advice to give to single carers because if I did, I’d have applied it to my situation and you can obviously tell I haven’t... But I’m not really bothered. I’ve won a Carer’s Award, made it into a National Magazine (Reveal) and appeared on National TV (Text Santa & ITV Central News) all as a result of things I’ve done by myself. My mum has managed to raise us alone for 21 years and she’s by biggest role model. The Spice Girls can shove their Zig-A-Zig-Ah up their bleached arseholes because that’s more girl power than they could ever hope to have...

Love,

Amy x

P.S Despite me not surreptitiously seeking a man, if Steve Merchant knocked on my door, well... ;)