The Sydenham Subversives

November 29, 2009

Ok, subversives is maybe taking things a bit too far, but someone is Sydenham has been up to a bit of mischief.

I’ve been indoors for the past two weeks, with an unusual bout of asthma. Now, I’m back. Like Arnie, except with a Salford accent and no muscles.

One of my first ventures was to head over to Ben and Sarah’s for lunch. They texted me; could I pick up some Bisto on the way? But of course. And so I headed to a nearby Sydenham shop. And I was delighted, along the way, to see that someone had defaced all the big adverts at the bus stops. Not in a nasty way, damaging for the hell of it, but in an oddly creative way, simply sticking bits of silver tape over any brand names. I still knew it was an advert for Nivea, but maybe Nivea won’t be too happy. And on another, they’d gone one step further by changing the slogan. I’m all for it. Having said that, I haven’t been getting out much.


The King of Coughs

November 20, 2009

Earlier this year I wrote a (hopefully) humourous piece about having asthma. Oh, that was easy then, when I was on top form, lungs working at 90% of their capacity, a peak flow of 540.

Now my peak flow is down to 200, a day or two ago 100.

So this leads to insane drug abuse. Mainly of steroids. I double my inhaler usage and I get the multi-purpose Amoxicillin 500 mg and then some dinky elliptical maroon pills called Prednisolone that I take six at at time and can lead to such side effects as Moon-Face and insomnia.

If it’s a clear night and you wake in the middle of it, open your curtains and see me smile down at you.

Yesterday I went for an X-Ray at Lewisham Hospital. The results were fine (I think- they don’t tell you anything, but they did let me leave, and my doctor had said they wouldn’t if there was “anything gross”).

So I head to the Radiology Department (next to the Nuclear Medicine Department… I don’t know, and I was too afraid to ask).

There’s a smallish queue at the reception and two or three ahead of me is the King of Coughs. This man’s cough is relentless. It’s not a barking or hacking cough. It does, sadly, have a hint of the death rattle about it. His cough sounds like a cough trying to cough.

He’s seen to and he coughs to a seat.

A few minutes later I hand in my form and I’m given a green ticket. A39. Tickets like you pull out of a machine when waiting at the delicatessen counter in a supermarket.

I sit near the Rothko print, and a few rows away from the King. He looks like me only twenty years older. And really what I mean by that is that we both need haircuts, a shave and a good bath. We’re like Catweazle and Catweazler.

We both get called at the same time to go to our next waiting post. His name is Edward. We’re given shopping baskets (it is like being at the supermarket!) and asked to go into cubicles, strip to our waists, put our clothes in the baskets and to put on thin green cotton robes.

Then we sit next to each other and wait a few moments, smiling at each other.

Edward goes off for his X-Ray and I go off for mine. Then we both come out and wait again. This time we sit opposite each other and say hello.

Edward has chronic bronchitis. Although Edward has a truly awful and worrying cough, he is smiling and he is happy to talk. He rushes things out, in a seemingly random order; he has chronic bronchitis, his wife died a year ago, he worked and rushed, and ate, and drank, and met, family, a brother, all work, all rush, all coughing… random thoughts that made me think he is leading to an understanding of what condition his condition is in. But it isn’t coming and so I try to prompt him.

But Edward, who is me twenty years on, is quite a little deaf. Through the coughs, and the coughs of the coughs, I try to make myself clear, to be heard. And regular readers of my blog will know that this is not something I normally have difficulty with. But I’m in a hospital, and I’m doing my best to be sensitive, already making enough noise with my own heavy breathing and gasping.

I felt the secret to Edward’s condition was his work. He seemed to be driving at that. Perhaps he’d been a baker, spending a lifetime breathing in flour. Or perhaps he’d worked with asbestos.

I ask him what he did, and he hears. “Worked for the council”.

And then the radiologist approaches us both. We can both get dressed. We can both go. Our doctors will get the results soon. Nothing “gross”.

I’m glad. For both of us. Take care Edward.


Sometimes. Look, these trees are the lungs of the earth. Or something.

Jarvis Cocker sang:

Yeah, the trees, those useless trees produce the air that I am breathing.
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees; they never said that you were leaving.

My ‘trees’ are currently working at 90% capacity. I know this because I had to go for my yearly asthma health check. I’ve had asthma forever now. And I’ve taken medication for it all my life. I’ve been on steroids for donkeys years. I’m a body builder, I’m a girl, I have breasts, I am a werewolf.

I’m not too good at going for the check-up, but if I don’t go I guess I don’t get the drugs. I’m meant to go every year but I overshot this time and left it for 18 months.

I go to Woodlands. That’s sweet, isn’t it? And then I am seen by Tog from Pogle’s Wood.

Not really. Woodlands is a health centre, where every room has a forest-themed name. There’s Oak, Palm and Eucalyptus. It sounds lovely, but it’s just a touch Ballardian. I didn’t get into one of the grotto-like rooms. I went into the Practice Nurses’ room. Why she doesn’t get a flora-related name is beyond me… and now I fight, oh so hard, to avoid calling her Marge. She wasn’t Tog but she was lovely. Can I say that? Of course what I mean is she was caring, and nurse-like and she kept touching my arm, as if to reassure me I was not about to die.

So, I’ve got to carry on with the steroids and get my Peak Flow up and beyond 600. Today it was about 540. It’s all a numbers game to me and I am determined to get beyond 600. I’m going to take up running again. Tomorrow. Maybe.