Wednesday, 1 August 2007


It is exactly a year today since my concrete kissing episode and I find myself at a loss as to how to mark the day.

Its not exactly a day for celebrating something that turned my life on its head and left me ill-equipped to cope with the aftermath...and yet it seems appropriate to mark the day somehow.

It's been a exactly a year since....

Monday, 16 July 2007

Moving on...

I started cognitive therapy today. When the docs finally agreed that this is indeed probably (they added the probably just in case they were wrong of course) as good as it gets, I burst into tears. Not for the first time, and probably not the last (in fact definitely not the last time because I did it again today...several times) but they clearly weren't expecting it.

After brief discussions about depression and anti depressants and their possible uses in 'cases like this' we (I) dismissed the pills - for now at least - and moved on to talk again about learning ways of dealing with what has happened and looking at strategies for living the simple and happy life advocated my the neurology and neuro-psychology teams.

So today I met with the head cognitive therapist. The idea of today was to try to identify the most important areas for me, and to look at ways of managing the problems/difficulties/issues arising out of these.

The therapist - I shall call her Liza (not her name) - was very pleasant... once I got over my annoyance that she kept me waiting for four whole minutes (Did I say I am a little impatient these days?). She stopped every so often and went back over the main points and we agreed what they were and I wrote them down...and we moved on.

At the end Liza asked me to tell her, without looking at my notes, what I would take from the session...and I was forced to admit I couldn't remember what we had talked about. She recapped on the conversations but still I drew a blank. In the end she settled for me agreeing that what she said was a fair representation of the current situation.

Liza now thinks it may take several sessions before we find a way that will actually work because this cognitive rehab/retraining/strategies stuff does need the subject to be able to learn new things...which is problematic when the subject (me) can't remember the content of a conversation five minutes after it took place.

It is going to be a challenge...but if its going to help then I will face this challenge head on...and I may not like it, but I will smile as I go to meet my therapist.

Saturday, 7 July 2007

Decisions, decisions

I can't make them. I am hopeless at deciding and the need to choose is ruining my life. It takes me three times as long to get dressed in the mornings because I stand in front of the wardrobe staring at the contents unable to make a simple choice.

Of course this isn't helped by the fact that I am a hoarder of clothes and I have far too many of every imaginable item. To illustrate this point I counted the number of skirts I currently own...there are 39 of them!

How on earth did that happen? I mean why on earth would anyone need 39 skirts? In fact there are a few more than that but I only counted the skirts that actually fit me and that are fit to be seen in public...I did not include the too tight or the almost obscenely short - especially for someone of my age - leather mini skirts.

Worse still I went shopping with my mother today and almost bought ...a skirt! It was lovely...pale blue and made from pure cotton...but mother dearest said it made me look wide.
I'm not exactly sure what wide means in the context of skirts, but I'm pretty sure its not good. It didn't sound like a compliment to me.

Sunday, 20 May 2007

Still wading through treacle

Two hundred and ninety three days have passed since I kissed the concrete and turned my world to treacle. I know this because I have written them (the days) down and added them up - not because I remember them...which I don't.

Its really weird realising that you have the memory of a dead goldfish. It isn't until you realise how that impacts on almost every aspect of life that the terror starts to creep in. And realisation has taken two hundred and ninety days.

Its funny because I have told lots of people about my accident. Everyone is interested in what happened and how it happened...and what happened next...and so I tell them. What the majority don't realise is that when I say I don't actually remember it, I really don't remember it and all the details I can provide are second hand - every one provided by someone else.
Much of what I know is a matter of medical record. Some is from a witness statement and the rest comes from friends and family and my notes in notebooks and entries in a closed to the public but online diary.

The thing I can't understand is how one simple concrete kissing accident can possibly lead to all this?