Part One and a Half already - the Odyssey!

 

After re-reading part one, I feel altogether more confident than I did a couple of weeks ago about my upcoming Medical Procedure.

How things can snowball!

A fall

leads to

a trip to hospital "just in case".

An angiogram, normally easy peasy,

Cannot be done.

I am put into hospital for a week.

I am told my heart is a "dicky ticker".

I can possibly do nothing at all - in which case in a year or so  I could have a heart attack.

Or, I could have an angioplasty with balloon stents (thought - if you fill them with helium will you float over the rooftops?  

Aagh.  I forgot.  If you can't shove dye up your ar . . .    teries in an angiogram, then you can't shove a drill up there in an angioplasty without a huge risk of unplanned ripping and tearing of arteries.

So it's going to be the whole big, carefully planned six-hour operation.  I shall be fitted with a couple of titanium plates.  How titanic!  I wonder if my chest will be bullet-proof - just a thought!

I'm trying to get a photo of my insides, but in spite of several hints to the surgical team members, I think I shall be unlucky! Shame!  That would be an unusual family portrait!

So, I go into the hospital early on the morning of the 11th August, and the Main Event will be on the 12th August.  In less than two weeks after that, I could be home, though not exactly fighting fit.  Certainly by the middle of September.  By Christmas, I should be able to make plans for 2023, knowing that I'll be a healthier lad.

Wish me luck for the Eleventh.  

If it isn't awful, it will certainly be unusual!

But I've got an uncomfortable feeling it's going to be both!

Is Death Knocking at Your Door?

Is Death Knocking at your Door?

Some people seek solace in smoking a cig.

Some folk get comfort from cider

Some fellows are regaled by reading tall tales

But my fun is just with the writing.

I love writing.  I don't write enough.  I don't have a target, or want to have fame as a writer.

To research a book is definitely interesting, if at times gruesome.   

I write as therapy, a way to get the demons out of my head.

 I've just looked at the statistics for the Battle of the Somme, and they are unbelievable - except you have to believe them because they are true.  The General on the Allied side, Douglas Haig, saw the battle as a shock tactic, to be over in twenty-four hours.

It went on for almost six months.

He became Lord Haig, and was given a lifetime pension.  

Many, many thousands of households did not receive lifetime pensions, 

instead they received a medallion to commemorate the death of sons, husbands, and brothers.  

These were called the "Death Pennies"

Lord Haig's family did not receive a Death Penny.

There were even skirmishes after that six-month "shock attack", when my great-uncle Tom Beesley was killed on January 13th 1917.

Such brave men . . . on both sides.  How must they have felt?

The waiting must have been the worst bit.  Waiting, waiting, waiting, with your heart pounding, just waiting to hear that whistle, as though it were the start of a football match.  At least then, you could do something you were trained to do, even if it was robotic and clinical.  

Even if it was just to be injured or killed for King and Country.

A million troops were killed or injured in six months at the Somme

for just ten miles of territory gained on a thirty mile front.

What must have gone through those troops' minds as they waited in the trenches, calculating the odds of their not seeing the next sunset.?

I recently had an inkling, when I had a fall just over a week ago.  It was just a simple fall, and I got up without any help.  And yet, I thought, for no obvious reason, that I should get it checked out at hospital.  Three hours, and two tests later, i found myself in the Coronary Care Unit, where I stayed for almost a week before I was let out again "on leave" before a return to Hospital for my particular time "in the trenches"

In that week, they examined my "dicky ticker" and came to a number of conclusions.  The team were absolutely wonderful.  I have a surgeon, Dr. Brian Plunkett, who, although, based in Sydney, has worked all over the World.  Canada, the USA, etc.  He was returning from New Zealand before he saw me.

He managed his team, who, day by day, came to see me, with total transparency, to tell me what they could do, what they would like to do, what alternatives they had, why they would advise me to do, - and what my chances were of survival were.  

What were my chances of survival?  Why 100% of course!  I'm never going to die, how could I?  For the last seventy-six years I've been indestructible, so why should that not continue?

The operation itself is straightforward, if long, (about six hours), and then I have to be revived.  For most people, "waking up" is the normal natural thing to do, but I have a problem.  I only have one working lung.  This cuts my air down to 50% of "normal".  When we walk side by side, you may be walking, but aerobically I am running to keep up.  In practice, of course, 50% is my ideal, but in actual fact that is nearer 35% in reality!  In other words, I shall be on a ventilator and I shall wake up and breathe for myself, and from there on it's onwards and upwards into the sunlight.

Unfortunately . .  . at 35%, it may take a few hours to get me to breathe again by myself.  I inflate my lung by using the diaphragm muscle, as I have ever since I was born.  The ventilator will do the job for me during the operation and immediately afterwards, but at some stage I have to be weaned onto my own breathing.  My lung function is not good, and it may take a few hours to get me breathing again, but the trouble is that for every hour that passes, the diaphragm becomes weaker, and in a frighteningly short time, (a few hours only), it becomes "tired" so that it becomes impossible to breathe unassisted.  If the ventilator is switched off, a few minutes later I die.  Regardless of your ideas of the afterlife, your present life will be ended.  No more Christmas, no more trips to the camera club.  Not even one more cuddle with Marg.  If things go wrong, I will have made my last purchase at the supermarket.  I will never come home again.

It's strange.  I have no (well, a little) fear of death, but I wonder what it will be like for those who know me.  What will it be like to eat your meals and watch the telly on the sofa by yourself?  There are so many decisions to make.  How many people should be at the switching off?  How will Marg or anyone, cope with the decision by themselves?  Might I still be mechanically conscious when the machine is switched off, and gradually lose consciousness and die within a space of up to thirty minutes.

I wonder who will take Marg home from my death.  We will have been married for forty-seven years on October 4th.  It's Marg's birthday on August 2nd.

On the other hand, like the soldier back from no-man's-land and into the relative safety of his trench, I shall probably survive.  In which case, I shall go to the supermarket again.  There will be Christmas.

As Thomas Hardy wrote about the First World War:

"How quaint and curious War is!  You shoot a fellow down, you'd treat if met where any bar is, or help to half-a-crown"

What knife-edges we all exist on!  On what thin ice we skate!

End of Part One.

Wish me, please, a start to Part Two.  

WATCH THIS SPACE

Banging on again about guns!

Back in June 2007 I was holidaying with University friends in Bavaria in Southern Germany.  Bavarians appear to be a religious lot, and every morning at about 7 am I was woken by the local church bells.  They were loud.  I was never late for breakfast.  It was a great Saturday night, much merriment and beer, and I knew I would sleep soundly, and would find it difficult to make the 7am breakfast - after all, it was Sunday.

However. . . It was also June and it was Corpus Christi (The Body of Christ).  Just after 4 am I woke to hear church bells being rung way down the valley.  At precisely 30 minute intervals, the bells were rung closer and closer up the valley.  I could hear the sounds of the bells  pealing and their peals were being reflected by the mountains.  Either that or I was developing musical tinnitus.  I got dressed. At about 6.30, I was asked if I was going to the Corpus Christi celebrations.

At 7 am the Schlierberg bells rang again, and near the church there was a procession.  It was a long procession of clergy, choirboys, ladies laced into their dirndls.  There were also hunters (Jaegeren) who supported a canopy held over the Priests who held the wine and bread.  There must have been over two dozen Jaegeren who were armed to the teeth with rifles, but we felt no fear.

That is, until halfway through the outdoor Mass, as you probably know, the wafer of bread is held aloft, and a bell is rung, and the same happens after the chalice of wine is raised (ding-a-ling).

Not in this Mass!  At the point where the bell would normally ring, there was a giant bang as the shooters fired in unison.  Most of us jumped at the sound of two dozen rifles being discharged when we were expecting bells.  The same thing happened when the chalice of wine was elevated.

But the weird thing was, we were all alarmed, but none of us was frightened.  They had obviously rehearsed, they knew what they were doing and why they were doing it.  It was obviously something that had happened at ceremonies for decades, if not centuries..

A few hundred kilometres to the South West of Bavaria lies the peaceful neutral country of Switzerland, which adopts a policy of armed neutrality.  There are (good pub quiz question, this!) more guns per head in Switzerland, than in any other country in the world, and many, perhaps even most of them are assault rifles.

At the age of 18, all Swiss youths that are fit, have to join the Swiss Army and remain in it until they are in their early 40s.  In those twenty-two years, while they have this obligation - although they are still allowed to do proper jobs - they have to have an army assault rifle locked up in a safe place, and removed only when they are called for regular military training, which continues for as long as they are in the Army.  This encourages many of the Swiss soldiers to like shooting, so they do.  They hire a field somewhere, have a beer tent, a roundabout for the kiddies, and they have lots of fun taking part in gun competions.  A good time is had by all, and afterwards, the guns are locked away in their secure cupboards at home.  They had a good time that day, but it was also yet another practice so that they could keep future enemies out of Switzerland.  

The Swiss have one of the lowest murder rates in the world.

In 2018, I was in Italy.  I don't particularly like Venice, but a photographer friend told me about Burano.  So, I spent a couple of nights in a Venetian hotel.  The first evening I ate in a local Venetian restaurant.  I sat at the same table as an American and his wife and they were on a "four week trip round Yurrup".  Yes, they said, they were having a wonderful time and had I ever been to the US of A? (I didn't think people ever said the US of A in reality!).  So, I mentioned that I had been to several states from New York to Virginia to Pensylvania to Hawaii.  I made the mistake of mentioning the 2016 election.  They were from Florida and they were Republicans, and he added "I yam a TRUMP supporter"  Somehow the subject came round to guns.  I explained the British police policy of not normally carrying guns, and foolishly said that I didn't like travelling to America because of the number of private Americans owning guns.  He leaned forward, opened his jacket, and chillingly said "and not only in America either"  I didn't see a gun, but I did see what I took to be a shoulder holster!  How did he get a gun into the country?  What might he possibly want it for?  Why would he mention it, and show me?

I behaved as an Englishman, should behave.  I gave them "the bum's rush" 

I immediately stood up, and shook his wife's hand.  She stood up..  I shook his hand, and he also stood up.  "I do hope you have a really lovely holiday", I said in my best English accent  "You, too!" he said, and then they paid and left.  The owner of the restaurant asked if I would care for a coffee and liqueur.  He brought me the largest limoncello ever with my espresso.  When I left, he charged me for the coffee only. 

I believe that in the USA, a "mass shooting" is any homicide where four or more people are killed.  Today, as every day, there was another mass shooting, this time in Chicago.

There have in the previous six months of the year, been over three HUNDRED mass shootings.  This is about 1.2 mass shootings (at least five people) killed PER DAY.

A cousin of mine who lives in San Francisco sent me an email:  I won't quote him verbatim, but he sent me a copy of the Second Amendment to the Constitution.  It states something like:-

IN A WELL REGULATED MILITIA, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

If you read it carefully, the Founding Fathers of the United States appear to have wanted a defence based on the Swiss model.  There is no right to bear arms unless they are controlled by citizens being members of a militia.  Can you name a militia?  I can't and that's a deadlier question than that which might be asked in a pub.  But if the American has a right to bear arms, what training does the militia give him, and also what standards have to be met?  Maybe, just maybe, if the full amendment was read and acted on, there would be the same number of mass shootings as Switzerland in six months, i.e. none.

The unpalatable truth is that various organisations do not encourage the full reading of the Second Amendment.  Gun Culture has become politicised, and with a split Senate and Supreme Court this is likely to continue.

HOWEVER . . . The least read part of the Right to Bear Arms is the title.  The Second AMENDMENT to the Constitution.  If it is an Amendment to the Constitution, then the Constitution can be, and has been, amended,. and so, in theory at least, the Second Amendment can itself be amended.

All it needs is for America to want it, and to fight a Senate, Rep, and Presidential Election to get it done.  Sadly, some of the nicest people in the World are in danger of becoming  Pariahs, unless they show the Political Will to change.

Banging on about guns!

 Banging on about guns!

This is supposed to be a long rant, addressed to the Editor of an important American newspaper, (any one will do) on the subject of gun control.  Have any of you tried to do that?  This article is too long for Facebook, and tweets are what birds are famous for.  If you try the letters page of a newspaper or press the Editor link, you can read other people's letters, or an article written by the Editor, accompanied by a request to pay for future issues, when all you want to do is rant for some length so that people can read your opinions on some subject or other.

I am genuinely scared by guns.  I was once a Training Manager in a TV factory, and I was sent on a "living rough" management course in the Highlands of Scotland.  We had an activities day.  Some of our lot taught canoeing to deprived youths, others were sent to organise an Orienteering Course.

Muggins found himself, after half an hour's instruction, teaching Clay Pigeon Shooting with a 12 bore shotgun to some unemployed Glasgow youths from Maryhill.  So of course I don't like guns!

Of course, that was then, and this is now, where my opinions are stronger than my legs.

I am very proud to have been fortunate to have been born in Britain 76 years ago, when life was, in many ways simpler, where letters were made up of letters, (think about it!), and America was the land that Cunard pointed the "Queen Mary" at.

British police are wonderful - they really are!  Even in the "Troubles" it was rare to see a PC with a gun.  And yet, when was the last gun massacre in the UK?  There was one in Lockerbie, and one in Hungerford, forty years ago.  It is a fallacy that you can only stop a bad man with a gun by a good man with a gun.  Many Americans carry guns because they believe they will be protected by other Americans who carry guns to protect themselves from other people with - (you get the idea).  Two massacres in forty years!  What a lovely country.  Guns are regulated, licences are mandatory, and guns have to be locked up somewhere safe.

Over thirty years ago, we moved to Australia.  I was a little disturbed by Australian police, as they carried a pistol on their belts.  That didn't seem at all safe.  It was the time of the Irish troubles in the UK, so we were all rather alert (bomb scares we called them).  One day, I saw a policeman sit down in a food court in Bondi.  I didn't think anything of it until a second PC sauntered in and sat down at the same table.  Five minutes later a third and then a fourth, armed with guns, wandered round a couple of times, bought burgers surreptitiously, and sat down with the first two.  By the time eight policemen, all armed, were sat down, I had started to panic.  Eight policeman with a lot of firepower, all in one place.

A police sergeant bought a cheeseburger and a coffee, and sat down at the head of the table.  They had a committee meeting.  Nine guns and an Agenda.

Then, about twenty five years ago we had the Port Arthur Tragedy.  Quite a few tourists were shot and killed by a lone guy with an assault rifle.  In a few months, Parliament, almost unanimously banned assault rifles, and all other guns were severely restricted.  There have been no major incidents, since..  About five years ago, someone shot up a mosque in Christchurch, New Zealand.  Within two months, their Parliament had banned most firearms.

Britain, Australia and New Zealand are three of the safest countries in the world.  There must have been half a million people in the Mall for the Platinum Anniversary of H.M.  How many people didn't feel safe?  How many police were openly armed? I rest my case.

Well, I've gone on a bit, so look out for the armed citizens of the US and Switzerland in a few days time.

The Holly Tree

The Holly Tree

It must have been about the time of the Coronation, sometime in the early Fifties, when I went with my Gran to put some flowers on her husband’s grave in Tewkesbury Cemetery.  I had never known him, because he had died in 1940, from the after effects of a World War One gas attack, six years before I was born.

My grandmother died in 1980, and I moved to Australia.  Nobody visited the grave.

I returned in 2005 and I was shocked to see that the grave had become so neglected that a sizeable holly tree had grown upwards out of my grandfather’s last resting place.  

I looked around at the other graves.  Many of the Tewkesbury families’ names I recognised.  The Sircombes, the Sallises, a Hathaway – even a Shakespeare lay by some Tustins, who were buried near some Hoptons and Warners.  

They were all Tewkesbury people, (I recognised their family names) but I knew none of them, because they had all died before I was born.  It was then that I realised that my grandfather would have known almost every one of them.  He’d known where they worked, where they lived, who he would have met up with in a local pub.  They might have been in the Abbey Choir, or played in a made-up cricket match in a local street.
Many of his friends left Tewkesbury by train to fight in the Great War.

The holly tree was growing out of my grandfather’s grave.  
It had grown from my grandfather.  It was my grandfather.

It was then that I realised that he was sheltering his friends from the storms of winter and shading them from the summer sun.  Who could say his grave was neglected?
May he live on for generations to come.

The Holly Tree

 It must have been about the time of the Coronation, sometime in the early Fifties, when I went with my Gran to put some flowers on her husband’s grave in Tewkesbury Cemetery.  I had never known him, as he had died in 1940, from the after effects of a World War One gas attack,  six years before I was born.

My grandmother died in 1980, and I moved to Australia.  Nobody visited the grave.

I returned in 2005 and I was shocked to see that the grave had become so neglected that a sizeable holly tree had grown upwards out of my grandfather’s last resting place.  I looked around at the other graves.  Many of the Tewkesbury families’ names I recognized, the Sircombes, the Sallises, a Hathaway – even a Shakespeare lay by some Tustins, who were buried nearby to some Hoptons and  Warners. 

They were all Tewkesbury people, and I knew none of them, because they had all died before I was born.  It was then that I realised that my grandfather would have known almost every one of them.  He’d known where they worked, where they lived, who he would have met up with in a local pub.  They might have been in the Abbey Choir, or played in a made-up cricket match in a local street.

He would have known the friends of his who left Tewkesbury by train to fight in the Great War.

The holly tree was growing out of my grandfather’s grave.  It was made from my grandfather.  It was my grandfather.

It was then that I realised that he was sheltering his friends from the storms of winter and shading them from the summer sun.  Who could say his grave was neglected?

May he live on for generations to come.

Building 75

 

BUILDING 75 - Keep Out

This is a horror story.  It is often true.  

Do not read further as it contains disturbing material!

Every day, on his way to work, the young man passed a large grey building in an even larger field.  It was a bit like a hangar on an airfield, but it wasn't quite that.  There was a feeling of menace about Building 75, but the young man, and indeed, all the young men from nearby did not know what it was.  There were all the usual rumours, but no-one knew, nor what had happened to Buildings 70 to 74.

Ivy clad and lonely at the top of the hill, very few people entered, and he couldn't recall seeing anyone come out.

He told his friend about it.  His friend laughed it off, and asked why the young man thought that there was something special about the building.  

"Would you like to look around it?" 

"I think I've just found an ideal 40th Birthday present for you." said the friend.  

"You see, I'm one of the very few keyholders of the place.  I can't tell you who owns it, or what's inside.  It's beyond Very Secret, and past Immensely Secret.  I've never been in there myself and so I don't know what is in there."

The young man was curious.

"Who gave you this key?"  

"I told you, I don't know"

"You must have some idea of what's inside!" 

"I have no idea."

"You still want to go into Building 75?"

"You bet!"

On his birthday, the young man went with his friend, and his friend took his key and opened the door.  The young man noticed the floor was uneven, and he stumbled  a couple of times.  The air was thick and he found breathing difficult.  He no longer could tell the time.  It was more and more difficult to catch his breath.  He'd had enough.  This wasn't a fun birthday present at all.  He tried to run for the door and he fell over on the uneven floor.  He could see old men in the distance.  They were all dead, they were just piles of bones.

Breathlessly he went round all the walls to find the door.

There was no door.

Anywhere.

Thirty five years have passed by in a flash.  The building is darker now, and quieter.

I am that young man.

I have not found the door in thirty-five years, but one day, someone will come through that door, and I must somehow get out.

But if you read this, you won't have found the door either.

And you, and I, and all the others, will all be piles of bones.