Life – Page 6 – Nige' Ollis

November 15, 2015November 15, 2015

Dreaming Of Escape

Birds are the epitome of the migratory species; nature’s natural refugees. They wait. They watch. They fly. They are … free.

And then they left …

I wonder where the world might be without politics or, dare I even suggest, intolerance. I see petty squabbles in school playground politics daily. I see the same petty squabbles – with considerably wider consequences – in international politics; essentially these are just older people who you would hope should really know better. The Russians weren’t involved in bringing down an Australian passenger airliner… because they weren’t in Ukraine. And when a Russian airliner is brought down, their foreign minister’s first reaction to the UK stopping flights to Egypt ‘They’re only doing that because they don’t agree with what we’re doing in Syria…’ Barely a day later and Russia had stopped flights, too; but the most important thing, let’s get the petty international knee-jerk political response in first.

Rinse and repeat; until, one day, there’s nowhere left to fly. Unless you’re a bird.

The gates of Europe are creaking. This is the modern world; a mixture of tragedy, aspiration and access to social media. Immigration has become a broadly contentious issue in the European Union [EU] because its open borders policy toward freedom of movement and work opportunities generally only runs one way: in simple terms, east to west. And then the refugee crisis began in Syria. And following one notable, widely reported, tragic death of a little boy drowned in the Mediterranean igniting consciences throughout the EU [in Germany the people were quick to make Welcome banners] … tragedy and aspiration truly combined.

People are now arriving from Iraq, Iran, Eritrea, Libya, Afghanistan, Pakistan and other non-EU European states … the list is almost endless. And the vast majority are heading to … western Europe. And one of the most popular destinations is Sweden. Tragedy or aspiration is well-informed in the modern world. Any reasonably educated search of the Internet will tell you Sweden is an alleged utopia. In the past two weeks alone 18,000 migrants have arrived in Sweden. It’s unsustainable. [Update: Just a few hours after writing this Sweden introduced a ‘temporary’ border control in an attempt to stem the flow of migrants entering the country. Bearing in mind the numbers have increased exponentially, if the present number arriving were maintained at this level for a year it would equate to 5% of Sweden’s population!]

The gates of Europe are creaking. Welcome to the modern, already overpopulated world. And now we have begun to migrate in unprecedented numbers.

***********

Also, since writing this, I heard another story in the week about a Syrian refugee. He had been interviewed on BBC Radio 5Live after arriving in Slovenia. In joyful broken English he told how he was heading for Germany ‘Angela Merkel is our [refugees] mother…’ he exclaimed. He repeated it joyously again. A few weeks later the 5Live team had tracked him down … in Sweden. He was disillusioned following his arrival in Germany. It hadn’t been as he’d expected; not understanding the language he moved on to the alternative utopia, Sweden. And, here again, he was disillusioned – provided with temporary accommodation in a village in the back of beyond and separated from his traveling companions and a family member who had arrived before. Somehow I sense this is only one story of what we likely become commonly held experiences.

The social media and its associated connectivity may’ve been alive with Leave and Come now messages back down the line. But the messages of lingering disillusionment and reality of migration will likely be very different. Migrants at The Jungle encampment in Calais wait to cross the channel “We will be given a house, a job, a car,” said one; seemingly oblivious to the fact that even Londoners are finding it increasingly difficult to live in London; and presumably equally oblivious to the 7,500 homeless living on its streets in 2014/15.

“Everyone deserves a better life.” With this level of migration, the likely reality promises to be something quite different.

November 14, 2015

Escaping Darkness : There Is A Light That Can Never Go Out

I grew up through my formative years in the 70’s and 80’s. A time, here in Britain, when terrorism was marked by the IRA; aside from the sectarian violence in Northern Ireland, it was the IRA that brought the reality to the mainland.

Escaping Darkness : There Is A Light That Must Never Go Out

Their terrorism was, for the most part, marked by disruption and token destruction; bombs were planted, warning telephone calls were made and, relatively speaking, few lives were lost. And no terrorist would either allow themselves to be killed, or intentionally blow themselves up. So, as sometimes tragic and disconcerting as those times – and certainly some significant events – were, the vulnerability felt by the wider public was arguably less terrified and more an uncertain vulnerability.

But terrorism now – in Europe – is something entirely different. When you’re faced with people prepared to die for their perception of the greater cause; people who hold such a twisted sense of mortality that after sadistically murdering numerous innocent people in cold blood will then send themselves to paradise; there is much to be terrified about. And coupled with the 24 hour news and social media; martyrdom, infamy and terror is complete.

However, I want to close by referring to a comment apparently posted on social media last night, from someone caught in the middle of the carnage. They said they’d seen the worst of humanity last night … and the best. Invited in from off the streets by strangers. Terrified but supportive of one another and resolute.

This is the light that must never go out.

May 7, 2015May 7, 2015

England, My England : Part 2 … uh, my Britain

The Fine Line

After 30+ days of relentless politicking, the relative freedom granted by that of being a floating voter has reached its nadir.

Maybe age has cynically withered me, but laughable headline promises to introduce self-imposed laws not to raise taxes [Conservatives: before 2020] and the erection of a, er, tombstone [it’ll be your tombstone Ed! Labour] aide memoire in the No.10 back garden aside … it’s the relentless negative campaigning that withers me most. [And that being in Opposition is essentially just that: pretty much oppose everything … and then, in the increasingly dense centre ground, produce a slew of policies on education, the NHS, the economy and immigration which all dance around the same tune, sounding superficially sensible, while still attacking the opposition with vague generalisms.] Opposition is easy street. And an easy target. If only it were possible to vote in retrospect!

Thatcher: went mad. Major: went grey. Blair: went mad. Brown: went bust, after infamously promising the End to boom bust. All of them echoing to the ring of ultimately self-serving empty promises.

I think most [sane] people agreed that the 2010 election was a good one to lose; when a boat is lost so far up Shit Creek and paddle-less it prompts a snarky, There’s no money left message, from the departing Labour Treasury minister! But who has been sailing it back toward open water? Something Labour haven’t exactly rushed to acknowledge; funny that, eh? And I even got a Conservative campaign leaflet through the door only yesterday … predictable, perhaps, in its 50/50 split of carefully selected newspaper headlines supporting themselves and denouncing Labour [about as difficult to engineer as a nun shoot in an overcrowded nunnery!] and yet right under the negative attack on Labour’s potential ‘Coalition of chaos’ [something they themselves choose to ignore despite all the virtually guaranteed likelihood] … a photo of one Nick Clegg [Liberal Democrat leader and Deputy Prime Minister for the past five years! Maybe they forgot?!].

I will vote. And I’ve come to the conclusion today I will likely vote for the least arrogant. And, like last time, my vote won’t even count in my constituency. Such is the quirk of this paragon of democracy!

February 20, 2015February 20, 2015

What’s In A Name? : Chronic Research Disease

What’s in a name? as the Very Reverend Roland Fartfinger was once said to infamously remark. Well, if it’s Myalgic Encephalomyelitis [ME] or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome [CFS] or Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome [CFIDS], or at its absolute media derisory worst, Yuppie Flu, apparently quite a lot, as last week witnessed it undergoing yet another suggested name-changing metamorphosis: Systemic-Exertion-Intolerance Disease [SEID].

Twenty-five years ago my life was turned upside-down. In short, I flew to Canada, found myself unexpectedly hospitalised by what was said to be a particularly nasty virus and later flown home. I had no idea what had begun. Five weeks after returning home, and still mysteriously struggling with what was now labeled post viral fatigue, I wrote in my journal: “If someone had told me I would still feel like this after five weeks, I wouldn’t have believed it…” Twenty five years later and I’ve never fully recovered.

Around twenty-three years ago I was finally diagnosed by Dr Stuart Glover [a physician who had been working with HIV/AIDS patients who became curious by this growing subgroup of people, presenting with similar symptoms, but exhibiting no definitive biomarkers in blood tests, etc.] as having ME/CFS. And that conjoined name is an important distinction; essentially refusing to allow the neurological component to be fatefully ignored.

The proposed latest name-change has been recommended following the release of a 235-page report produced by the American influential government advisory body the Institute Of Medicine [IOM]. And it gave rise to these headlines in the media…

All the headlines I’ve seen are effectively taking a similar tone. Apparently, the disease that’s torn through my life for 25 years is real; essentially confirming the only thing that’s genuinely evolved in the 25 years of my own journey … a quietly repetitive stasis. The World Health Organisation listed the disease as a neurological condition in 1969. Meanwhile, our own government [UK] has continued to drag its arse, to the extent where it wasn’t fully acknowledged until the turn of the new millennium – in terms of easier access to disability benefits, where appropriate – and was still arguing its relative merits as a genuine neurological condition as recently as 2010. But here we are in 2015 still producing headlines regarding its reality; while the absolute reality of the condition is that it largely lumbers on in thinly researched and poorly funded darkness.

The Washington Post article contains the paragraph: ‘Christine Williams, who has the illness herself and is vice-chair of the board of directors for the advocacy group Solve ME/CFS Initiative, welcomed the IOM report. “I have been sick for six-and-a-half-years, and this is definitely the most encouraging thing that I have seen.” I find it quite depressing to read that. And I wonder how she might feel if she were to exchange 6½ for 25?

In terms of relative timescale, she reminds me a little of me …

When I was first diagnosed, to say ME/CFS was a vast grey area would be to undermine an easy adjective to describe a group-selfie of all the elephants that ever walked the earth! So, I began to educate myself as best I could, and became active in my own way by in turn educating the local hospital [FACTS Information Service] and then into the foothills of the brave new world [instigating and supporting UK-based online CFS newsgroups/forums] and raising awareness. It was an important learning period, but after probably about 6½ years … I stepped away; with it all becoming a little repetitive and exhausting, as well as feeling increasingly like it had begun to define me. I chose to look forward and gain a new focus: rediscovering my passion for photography and teaching [part-time] at high school.

Reading all this now … it’s as astonishing as it is depressing; to feel that in the interim decade and more, very little has really changed. And the significant new development is another suggested name change! Okay, in terms of lazy stigma, it’s welcome; particularly for those severely affected. One mother commented in another article on her own daughter – who sadly committed suicide after 25 years and was predominantly severely affected during the entire time “… calling the disease that ravaged my daughter’s life Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is a little like calling stomach cancer Chronic Upset Tummy.” And, while still lacking those definitive biomarkers, a focused diagnostic criteria is equally welcome – albeit I could’ve predominantly written what’s seemingly now accepted word-for-word … some 20+ years ago! And maybe, instead of wasting all the intervening time worrying about perceived realness, some truly in-depth worthy research were conducted instead.

Personally, I don’t dwell on all this too often these days; it simply began to consume too much of the energy reserves I did possess. So, I now choose to focus on what I can achieve – and can still achieve – rather than the spectre. But, even now, when I do bump up against news like this, I do find it quietly astonishing when I contemplate the numbers … 25 years. Approaching half my life! And, as near as damn it, I’ve spent nearly all that time educating myself as best I can; and managing the condition myself. No real treatment; outside the wonderful, and vitally important, work done by The Optimum Health Clinic; almost in complete isolation from the ‘health service’. I’ve largely educated my own doctor over the years.

When I look at these apparently ‘enlightened’ headlines today, some 25 years down the line, it rings a bit hollow. Albeit I’m more than happy to know that such announcements should at least help new sufferers avoid the indignity of stigma and plain, vague ignorance. And, hopefully, we will soon see further medical progress.

Finally…

ME/CFS has never exactly been helped by remaining poorly understood/researched, and additionally by the majority of sufferers making at least degrees of recovery [usually over a number of years but rarely returning to previous levels of health]; and often ascribing recovery to a prevailing ‘treatment’. So, it’s especially encouraging to see the report from Stanford University [October 2014] produce some genuinely potentially exciting research results, where radiologists discovered that the brains of patients with ME/CFS have diminished white matter and white matter abnormalities in the right hemisphere. I’ve long been convinced, like Dr Stuart Glover, that one day the answer would likely be found to be all in the mind – although not that necessarily espoused by the occasionally ugly, gong banging psychiatric doctors, like Professor Sir Simon “[I] could have been more diplomatic” Wessely … but in the brain.

Some additional links:

the ME Association [UK]

Action for M.E. [UK]

ME Research UK

Solve ME/CFS Initiative [formerly CFIDS Association of America]

Foundation for Fibromialgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome [Spain]

ME/CFS Society of NSW [Australia]

The National ME/FM Action Network [Canada]

June 28, 2014July 1, 2014

Glastonbury And Trench Foot

Some things are just meant to go together; albeit some are more readily appealing than others. Peaches and cream. Lemon drizzle cake with, uh, taramasalata icing. Glastonbury and trench foot is the classic formula, of course; as well known an equation as E=mc2:

G=rm2

[ Or … Rain + Mud + Music = Glastonbury ]

I honestly couldn’t believe it, though, when the inevitable Glastonbury torrential thunderstorms duly arrived after an entire month of unbroken sunshine and lightly baked earth.

I’ve never been quite unhinged enough to actually attend the legendary Glastonbury Festival, even though I’m only a relative stone’s throw down the road, but its appeal is very close to my heart. So… why aren’t I standing in the proverbial field? Well, I went camping. Once. “Never again”, I told my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder therapist while crying in her lap. Scarred me for life. But that’s another story, for another storm and tempest of an English summer’s day.

However, thanks to the BBC and my newly acquired flat screen television and sound plinth, Glastonbury 2014 still comes flooding into my living room… without the raw sewage. But it just didn’t feel quite right. So, determined to experience it fully, in the relative comfort of my home… I pitched a tent in the corner of the room and began peeing behind the couch.

As Friday evening drew in… I pulled on my wellies, filled up two big buckets with 1 part water, 1 part mud, 1 part bodily fluids, stood in the middle of my room, one foot planted in each, and gazed at the televisual marvels of the digital age. Well, I say gazed at it… To fully realise the authentic atmosphere I planted a few meaningless flags, hoisted an inflatable alien on a stick and erected some cardboard cut-outs of people’s heads who are just a bit taller than me and plonked them right in my eye line… So, in reality, I can only just see the top right hand corner of the screen. Perfect.

Later, after watching Friday night’s main headliners, Arcade Fire [and their one known song about Waking Up or something] – on my smartphone propped against the kitchen window while I stood squinting at it from the bottom of the garden – I grew increasingly hungry. Ideally I would’ve loved something hot, but couldn’t be bothered with imaginary queuing for some cow’s spinal cord in a baguette and still hadn’t quite worked out how to light the camping stove, so plumped for opening a tin of tuna with the rough edge of a stone and eating it with muddy fingers. Mmmm…

I wake up Saturday morning, cold and damp, to find some bastard has stolen my wellie boots from outside the tent! It’s a few minutes later when I realise that my wife has actually put them outside the back door and is wearing a disapproving expression. I thought she was staying at her bother’s for the weekend. She completely misinterprets the presence of the girls in wet T-shirts… It’s been raining! But the fact that I also persuaded them to wrestle in the mud is harder to explain away.

I finally cajole her into getting with the spirit of the weekend over a shared cup of cold tea and some damp bread, and we busily set about building a Solar Powered Wishing Tree in the garden. I hang up a cardboard sign that reads Healing Field and persuade her to give me a massage after spending a bit too much time aimlessly wandering around the house with a ridiculously heavy backpack all Thursday afternoon. Finally, I dig a rudimentary chemical toilet in the greenhouse and fill it with a dozen eggs that have been fermenting in its low heat for the preceding balmy month: the pure odour of authenticity.

And now, as the sun threatens to break through the clouds, and I sit here in my pants having neither shaved nor washed for three days while flicking bits of peanut shell out of my navel with a toothpick, I can only imagine how amazing Metallica will be tonight… singing along to all their classic songs. You know, the one about Nothing Mattering and, uh,… the other one.

I can think of no other place I’d rather be.