Lazy Sundays

Lazy Sundays – what are they?

Good question, but I’m sure everyone has their own version, and if you don’t, what the hell are you doing?!
It’s a chance to do as much ‘nothing’ as possible in one day. I usually end up exercising, having wonderful breakfasts, watching episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, Archer, Supernatural, The Mentalist and other US shows. I read, I write whenever possible, and I tend to occupy either the bedroom or lounge for most of the day.

This week it was Grey’s, Terra Nova, X-Factor, a super awesome dinner, and some physical activity thrown in the mix; at a pace that I’ve grown accustomed to. I worked out to a Linkin Park soundtrack.

I love Sundays and look forward to them ALL week, like its Christmas morning or something.
Much of the appeal is the fact that I’m totally in love with the Butterfly and snuggling on the sofa is enough for me (I like the simple things).

The day before (8^th October) I took my nephew roller skating at the indoor disco I usually go to with my friends. Saturday daytime at The Renaissance Rooms is for kids and I invited a bunch of families to come down.
So ... Sundays are always totally awesome!

Now, I’m the kinda guy who sees a scene and immediately puts a soundtrack to it. If I took the entire weekend and turned it into a montage - the track playing over all the fun, the laughing, the food/drink, families enjoying time together and spending quality time with no interruptions; would sound like this:


 

Thinking about a bunch of stuff worth thinking about

Pic from www.flickr.com

 
I wrote a status update on Studio 30 Plus: "... thinking about a bunch of stuff worth thinking about."  And was inspired to write a blog for their magazine (sometimes it happens like that).

I was at my parents house yesterday afternoon, mum had driven me to a meeting because I'm not allowed to leave my house unaccompanied - no I'm not crazy - I'm still recovering from triple hernia surgery. When it comes to training/working out I'm missing an 'off' button.
I don't visit my folks as much as I should though I've seen them a lot over the last few weeks.
At the house we were getting ready to head out and mum starts play fighting with dad, I mean literally. I used to see them do stuff like that when I was a kid but it's been a while. Dads not very well and mums kinda old but they know how to have fun. The sight sent me back about twenty years. Same house, same people, same love. It made me smile and as always a song started playing in my head (now you can call me crazy). That seems to happen pretty frequently, I'll see something and my mind gives it a soundtrack, then for no reason I'm humming in a formal meeting at work in front of the managing director and his PA. Can anyone say: bad timing?

Mum drove me around for a while after my meeting which wasn't with the managing director, and I gave her some money for petrol (that's 'gas', for any Americans reading this - holla at me, I'M HERE!). She dropped me home, told me she loves me like she always does, I kiss her and watch her drive away.
My parents, though admittedly I see them less and less, are fantastic. The last two years haven't been the greatest for us but we've managed to pull together in a crisis and I really couldn't ask for a better bunch of souls to be related to.

If you're reading this and haven't called your mum, spoke to dad; or can't for any reason. Just tell them you love them, even if they are miles away, passed away or you refuse to see them, it'll make your heart a little brighter.

Cue the song ...

Thursday afternoon soup

Sitting with my dad this afternoon, I half watched a movie and listened to his numerous comments on everything from fruits to the space time continuum. My dad's the smartest smart person I know whilst being sagely and wise at the same time. If they made a movie about him they'd have to use Morgan Freeman to get anywhere near to who he really is.

One of the stand out comments came when he opened a letter regarding TV licensing. He called out to my mum and said: "It'll be free; soon we won't have to pay."
If you've done your research you'll know anyone over 75 years old is exempt from paying. So dad goes on to say: "They wait until you're either blind or dead before they wave the fee."
We sat there and laughed at the irony of it all. Mum was in the kitchen cooking soup that my nephew would inevitably not eat as dad carried on reading out the mail he'd received, every so often making observations on premiums and tax deductibles available to people his age. In the end they both concluded that they were better off saving their own money. Funny thing is my dad doesn't look a day over 50.

I never expected that to happen

You know when a film begins and you see the intro for the studio, then some of the other notable companies involved. The movie (if it's that kind of movie) kicks in with some audio narrative and the voice says: "This is the story of the time I nearly died." - Hasn't that become quite a cliché? Yet I could actually use it for the beginning of this blog because without the hard work from the surgeons working on me a few Mondays ago, I may not have had the chance to write this right now.

So ... This is the blog about the time something simple turned into something unexpected.
I'm sure I've blogged about my impending hernia surgery and commented enough on how much pain I've been in because of my condition. I also thought that I'd be in and out and continue with my brother's funeral arrangements. He passed away on the 14th March and his funeral was scheduled for April 1st, my surgery, the afternoon of March 28th.

Pretty much business as usual at Lewisham Hospital's pre-surgical waiting area. They had me sat with other patients who were awaiting various surgeries other than hernias. I remember thinking that out of all the guys present, I was the only one who looked and moved like there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. Apparently (and I'll convey later), I can take A LOT of pain.
Before surgery you meet with your anaesthesiologist, he/she talks you through their role during the op and gives you everything on a plate in the nicest possible way. Our conversation was a little different, Jay (which is not my anaesthesiologists real name which I'll keep to myself for reasons of confidentiality) let me know that she met my brother in the ICU before he passed and knew how 'cool' a guy he was. We talked a bit about him and she assured me I'd be okay when I asked if there was any possibility I might die. Up until I do anything dangerous I'm not scared until my feet are dangling thousands of feet over the countryside with a crazy guy called Phil strapped to my back (er, I'll explain another time. Another blog). All my fears slightly subdued I went back to the waiting room where my dad was sat and we read together until I was called.
I love my dad.

I'd already stripped and changed into a hospital gown with my own robe over it to cover the flattering opening at the back. In the room with the anaesthesiologists (two at that time) they talked to me, cracking a few jokes that I can't remember but I know I laughed before I drifted off to a sedated sleep.
The next thing that happened I have no recollection of, so you can read this next sentence and play a bit of elevator music in your head, If you're struggling for a tune, try and remember the one from Mr & Mrs Smith (Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie), you know, the scene where they're in the department store.
Can you hear it yet?
Good!

I was supposed to wake up around an hour after surgery; instead I woke up disorientated and unable to breathe on Monday night. I didn't know it was Monday night at the time.
I'm writing this and most of it is contained in fragments of memory that I'm not entirely sure are real or even reliable. In order to piece it together my brain used anything my eyes took in.
When I was around 10 years old I ended up in a similar position after play-fighting with my brother and hitting my head. My heart stopped en-route to hospital and I made it back. The first two people I saw when I woke up were my mum and our next door neighbour. When I woke up on Tuesday, they were the two people at my bedside, like they were when I was 10. I couldn't talk because fluid had entered my lungs during surgery and a ventilator was needed as I couldn't breathe on my own. When it was removed a feeling I refuse to reflect on hit me head-on. My throat was ripped to shreds and the words that I love so much reached my ears as complete gibberish. It took a range of hand signals and sign language from Mars to get what I was trying to say understood. Mum had broken down already and couldn't bring herself to watch her son struggle to talk. She'd been through so much already and this, me being here, was pushing it. I wasn't awake for long and I lost some more time.
I got worse.

After being ferried to the High Dependency Unit I took a turn for the worst and my lungs started to give out. I ended up in the Intensive Care Unit being fed through a tube as well as being plugged into tons of machinery monitoring and pushing me back to health. The volume of pain medication I was under was so intense I remember seeing various people I knew, but was unsure how long they were with me. My girlfriend was there, another neighbour, my oldest brother, a few friends; though not all together or in that order. I was muddling through consciousness trying to find a point of reference to anchor to and failing miserably.
I recall deciding that I was going to get better and get the hell out of here. The funeral was on the Friday of that week and it was Wednesday, my body was still mending in the HDU.
Since Monday I had access to a morphine drip which didn't feel like it was doing any 'pain-killing'. By Wednesday I'd fragmented my way through nights of bad dreams and little-to-no sleep which culminated in a night of cat and mouse with my nurses in order to get a higher dosage of morphine. The problem was the machine was saying it was delivering the medication but I certainly couldn't feel it coming through. I spent that night and the next in pain.

On Thursday afternoon the doctors (with some prompting from yours truly) decided to let me out of the HDU and onto a recovery ward. My master plan was to endure all the meds and get the hell outta there in time for my brother’s funeral on Friday morning.
Being on the ward meant I had other patients with me. ICU & HDU life is just you and the nurse caring for you. In a strange twist, I missed that. I remained focused on getting better and began urging the nurses on the ward to detach me from the catheter and drips coming out of me. I was obliged early Friday morning, showered and got dressed. My shower felt great, I was able to stand almost upright although the pain of the surgery wasn't allowing me to straighten fully. I coughed up some blood that morning and watched it go down the drain. Was that symbolic? Possibly. That last bit of coughed up blood and bile knocking my system for six. Best shower I've ever had.
A team of surgeons came to by bedside as I was getting dressed. A doctor had told me the day before I could go to the funeral and Friday at 9.10am the surgeon said I was discharged after he checked me over. I didn't halt getting dressed and let him do his thing while I rubbed on a deodorant stick.
My cousin was already downstairs waiting for me in the car.

I'd walked into the hospital on the Monday, and now on the Friday I was walking out ... That last line sounded defiant and after what I’d been through who could blame me for a moment of arrogance but truth-be-told, I was just happy to be alive.

The Nine Night

I'm blogging about something that hasn't happened yet - an idea that I got several hours ago on the phone to a really good friend.
The title 'Nine Night' is a traditional Caribbean function that happens nine nights after the death of a loved one. I'm not going to sit here and blog that other cultures or people in other parts of the world do not do this, but I mostly hear about Nine Nights from West Indian people. As circumstance has it my family is having one for my brother tonight. Ok, so I said I was going to blog about something that hasn't happened, only, there is a stipulation that I should talk about the thing in question as though it has already happened, and my friend who may read this was right, some things you just can't talk about until you get there, but you kinda have an idea of the outcome before you reach. Ahh, to be wise and young eh?

Me and my mum (I've accepted 'me and' sentences now, after much inner turmoil and battles with my resident pedant so I'll be saying it more often - I'm a grammar nazi at heart but I can still be flexible when I need to), so ... me and mum decided to have a joint Nine Night, one at the Hither Green flat and the other at my mum’s house. Naturally younger folk will head to the flat and the golden crew will be at my mums. My parents are secret lemonade drinkers so the alcoho-pops will be consumed in SE13.

I think I covered all the bases in regards to food/drink/accessories, I just have to get a picture of my brother blown up and framed, place it in his room and light some candles at 6pm.
In light of everything, so many people have rallied behind us and it's fantastic how much support we've received - overwhelming amounts of love for the family, so I shouldn't complain about my phone blowing up constantly should I? Nah - people care and they're only doing what they feel is right.

My brother was a fighter, a real one!

I haven't blogged in a hot minute, not because I didn't want to but because I struggled to find the time in light of current events.
I don't think I've ever mentioned I have brothers on here, but I do. I have two, and they are a couple of characters. In our own way I know we all have each other’s backs even though we don't always openly say so. I'm the youngest of the three of us and naturally the tallest. The eldest is bossy and the middle brother is the smallest but the toughest. The fact that he died on Monday 14th March (2011) might raise a few questions as to how tough he was but as far as I'm concerned he was the strongest individual I'd ever met.
Uchenna Damian Jeffrey contracted Systemic Lupus Erythematosus when he was 11 years old. It wreaked havoc with his blood, messed with his immune system, destroyed kidney funtion, damaged skin and hair on numerous occasions, and I haven't even touched the surface of what he really endured. Watching this happen over the years made me wonder how anyone could take that and carry on as though there was hope. Uchenna did just that, right up to the end when it took multi organ failure to finally step in and take him from us. But that's just my point. Multi organ failure - not one specific organ or reason, it took several of his vital organs to shut that little soldier down in the end and if he'd been stronger that Monday, he'd still be here.
I think my brother chose to let go, I don't for one second believe that he gave up or wanted to die. I just think he needed to be somewhere else. This world, this existence, just wasn't up to his standards.