I found something online yesterday that I feel is important to share with those who are following my progress with the Psyllium. When I saw the consultant he told me not to be tempted to take the capsules and to just stick to the powder. I didn’t for some reason ask him why at the time, probably because I believed his earlier statement that Psyllium is tasteless, which is what made me double check the details of those capsules. From what I have read I strongly advise no one with any neurological condition that has or could have problems swallowing, or anyone with any condition that could also cause swallowing issues to avoid the capsules. It is actually quite logical as the second that Psyllium comes in contact with any liquid, it starts to swell and to solidify. When I say swell this stuff is amazing it is a total sponge and grows in a way I never expected and if there isn’t enough liquid to maintain a liquid state, it sets solid Clearly, if you did get a capsule caught in your throat and it split or started to disintegrate, well the results would quite simply be horrific. Some sites who sell it do warn there is a danger of choking, this is a warning that personally, I don’t think is strong enough, choking would be only the start of the problems it could cause. It is something I for one, will be steering clear of.
As for the powder, well it still tastes no better unless turned into something else, but I am starting to get some signs of change. On Friday night, I did give in again and took a small amount of laxative which on Saturday morning I did pass once again a small amount, possibly a day or so in food value, but I had been in pain for days. My plan at that point was to take more that night, but I had a pleasant surprise in the early evening. This time it was a good quantity and to my total surprise actually looked like a proper stool, not the rubbish my body has produced in the last few months. I found myself so elated by it that I actually felt quite silly but trust me if you had been through the last six months you would have been elated too, especially as the pain in the left side of my stomach had gone. Unfortunately there was not change to the pain, but I knew that I had cleared some and that meant I could hold off taking any more laxative for a couple of days and give things another chance to work. Yesterday afternoon, without doing anything, I passed another couple of days worth. It was an even better feeling, but once again no relief from the pain. I can see clearly that this isn’t the whole answer to my problem but it is a start and it is the first positive thing I have been able to say about my intestine and it’s contents for far too long. Both on Saturday and yesterday, I found myself wanting to tell Adam the good news, but it’s not exactly the sort of thing you want to talk about with your husband. I don’t know why, but I have been quite happy to talk about the pain and constipation, but to say “Good new dear, I have been to the loo and passed such and such”, just isn’t a topic of conversation that comes naturally. The waiting game continues, I just want to see more before I start to celebrate too much as it could all too easily grind to a halt all over again. If I am right about what I felt just before I got up this morning, there is a good chance today will add to my happiness.
It doesn’t seem to matter how long I have been ill, or the fact that Adam has read every word of this blog, I still can’t broach certain subjects with him. I can sit with him and a doctor and I can talk about anything in that situation, but bring us home, back into our environment and suddenly I am silent about all those oddities of my body. There are some things in life that we buttoned-up Brits seem to not talk about, no one hands us a list that says don’t talk about this or that, it seems to be a genetic requirement of our race. I remember one classic example from my childhood, my elder brothers fiance had come to stay, it was just before we moved to Friendsville, so the only place for her to sleep was in the attic. Not as bad as it sounds, it was all floored and had been used as a play room for years, but to get there she had to go through my little brother’s bedroom and through a door to the stairs to the attic. They were all sat around the table having breakfast next morning when I joined them, it was the most informal of meals in our home, still in the dining room but without normal trail of family carrying serving dishes to the table. My mother hadn’t let things slip at that point down to cereal boxes being on the table, but they were just behind her on the trolley, from where filled bowls were passed person to person. With one extra person at the table, I had been moved to sit beside my little brother, rather than across from him, usually they kept us apart for the sake of peace. I sat down beside Brian, who was happily spinning something around on his index finger, like some sideways windmill. I was 11 years old at that time and I didn’t have a clue what it was he was playing with. When I asked, my Mother, I was shut me up abruptly and what I even recognised as an embarrassed silence then hung over the room. My big sister made an attempt to separate Brian, from this white short hard thing, with a looped string sticking out one end, by which he was still spinning it round and round, but he was giving it to no one. Both John and his fiance sat there bright red and saying nothing, I still remember that she ate little and left the room quickly, I don’t remember see her again that day. It was two years before I eventually found out what it was he had such a tight hold of, Margaret had dropped a clean tampon as she passed Brians bed, no one wanted to cause a scene or to have to explain why it wasn’t a suitable toy to either him or me. The British silence of embarrassment and correctness was on display when one simple action could have ended it all without embarrassment required by any, well other than maybe Margaret. It was more acceptable that an uncomfortable air should be permitted to exist than it was to have an upset child sat at the breakfast table. I have never outgrown that stayed reluctance to just say what needs to be said on any subject, there are those taboo areas and husband or not, talking just isn’t something I am comfortable with.
Adam being from a different generation and a totally different open and modern family doesn’t hold the same reserve, but he respects and understands mine. I think he was a little shocked by it at first as I didn’t look like the type of person who would have held such reserve, but you can’t escape you upbringing. I may be covered in tattoos and have purple hair, but there is inside still a victorian lady, in fact, worse than victorian, they may not have spoken in public, but in private there were no holds barred. I know without a doubt that it is that side of me that is going to make the coming years difficult for me. I already thought that I was going to die the day that I couldn’t hold my bladder and wet myself in the kitchen was bad enough, but to find Adam cleaning it up when I left the bathroom, nearly killed me. As my body has fallen apart and the weight from being immobile has piled on, I have done my best to remain covered up and hidden. I know the day will come when I will need his assistance to do things that I would find hard having anyone help me with, but if I can keep my dignity for a bit longer, hide my embarrassment and not talk about what is required or even good news, well I’ll keep every second of it.
Read my blog from 2 years ago today – 8/06/13 – Tagged or Untagged, Welcome
Yesterday it started to cool and I at last really began to feel better, I even managed to stay up until 8:30 without feeling until the last half hour that I was totally forcing my presence on the settee. Adam even commented on just how different I seemed since the start of the week, but back then I was closer to……