I just opened the microwave, to find that’s where Stella has hidden all the very sharp knives and scissors……

Fair enough really – the chances of me ever cooking something were ever so, ever so slim.

It’s getting out of the flat that I live in which is most essential to me, as a method of distraction ( survival ) I’m typing this from the bed in which I died a week and 6 hours ago. I’m going to a wedding today. I’ve no idea who they are, other than it’s Bengali. I’m a ‘ plus one’ of a lady that I met recently. She’s not Bengali either. I’m wondering whether there’ll be tigers?

Last night I spent at Pia’s house. We watched that film ‘ The Hangover ‘ . Everyone has seen it, I’m sure. The stag party go to Vegas and get into a LOT of trouble.  The thing for me, is that really there is little in that film that couldn’t have happened to me personally – probably other than going to Mike Tyson’s house and stealing his tiger.  That part was a bit far fetched. Those sorts of things really don’t happen to you when you’re paralysed – it’s just impossible.  I do miss the fact that now I’m condemned to never having the possibility of very crazy things happening to me. To most people what I’ve just written might sound ridiculous, but most people haven’t led the life I’ve had, or got themselves into the situations that I have ( repeatedly, over and over )

So I’ve started to write my book, or i should say continued it, since I started a while back, then stopped.

Funny things do still happen to me, but admittedly not as funny as the things that used to. Last night I went to Pia’s house, as I said. I’d been out all day on my Triride attachment and wheeled here and there, before going the 5 miles to Pia’s.

At 11.45 I left her house, knowing that my battery was already at half full, and having 6 miles to go. I had the option of trying to get onto a bus, which would have guaranteed my getting back. Obviously I didn’t do that, instead opting to chance my luck at midnight, on the roads.

With about 2 miles to go, the charge indicator had dropped to the last bar of quite a few bars, and i still had hills to go up. Worse than hills, i had to get over the Hogarth roundabout, one of the busiest entrances into London, and still very busy after midnight. As I approached it, I had the option of going under the subway, or over the roundabout. Had I gone under, and run out of charge, i’d have been stuck underground with no phone signal, and totally unable to push myself up the steep slope to get out.

The traffic lights went red as I neared the roundabout. I didn’t know if the battery had enough power to accelerate me from a standing start, into the roundabout, through 2 sets of lights, and then through to Chiswick, or not…

As I waited for the light to go green, and knowing that if the motor failed I’d be stuck in the middle of the road and almost certain to be run over within a few seconds, a bloke pulled up beside me in the next lane in a white Ferrari. I looked sideways at him, to find him looking at me..

When the lights went green, he did actually tear off. Was he really trying to beat me off the lights? Did it really count as a victory for him? I don’t know…

The motor got me through the first light, but by the time I got to the second it was turning red. Had I stopped, I reckon I’d not have started again so I effectively ran a red light, at past midnight, on the Hogarth roundabout. People were actually beeping me… I don’t know to what effect really – I mean what the f*** was I supposed to do at that point?

To my amazement I made it back the remaining half mile to where I live, where Stella was waiting.

I reckon that’s another life used up?

I went to see Love Actually in the outdoor cinema tonight in Wandsworth Park. I’d ( actually ) never seen Love Actually, other than a few scenes here and there. What a lovely film, with such a true and important theme.

I can verify that without the love that you ( I ) need in my life, that life itself isn’t worth having, and that when you do have it, that it becomes so, again. If you think you  lose the love that keeps you alive, and all is lost, then life itself loses its’ appeal, which is where I found myself on Saturday. I said goodbye on this blog, and subtley elsewhere, and departed this earth…. only to find myself alive several hours later.

The film is about several people that are in love, in proper love, in several different ways, but all equally valid. Some is funny, some is romantic, some is tragic and unreturned, but all is an unstoppable force that comes before anything else.

I’ve been in love several times in my life, and I know how it feels – it’s the most powerful sensation, and it does consume you, conquering all else if threatened.

Today I saw both of my daughters, and they were both worthy of being loved. The thing is that even when they aren’t ‘worthy of it’, it flows from me to them in any case – thats how true love is. You can’t just turn it off.

So if you do love someone, or more than one, or lots of people, then tell them ( today ) that you do. You never know what effect you had on them, by reminding them that you do.

Pia

94.173.39.68
In reply to Stella K.

The amazing Stella- she is definitely the rabbit in that Zootopia sloth scene! The poor woman couldn’t even accompany you to a&e as she was being questioned by the police for hours for suspected assisted suicide… and she’d only been with you since the Wednesday! She’s definitely a keeper! ?

Your account of being released prematurely from hospital – slightly differs to my recollection, which as pretty much most situations you are involved in, has an element of comedy to it (thankfully)…

Stella, Cherie, Mark, Mike and Dan had all been in touch stating that you were saying you’d been given the ok to leave hospital and that you were asking stella to come and get you. Obviously, we all strongly doubted this was true, and thought you were cunningly plotting to somehow get stella to sneak you out of hospital (carry-on film styley).

I decide to FaceTime you, you’re in a hospital bed, in some recovery part of a&e, and you get irritated with me – for doubting you’re about to be released.

So, you ask the mental health nurse who has been sitting in the corner of your room since you came round (supposedly on suicide watch?) to confirm your suggestion. You tell the nurse to speak to me, and add that I am a social worker.

The phone is placed on a flat surface and she speaks to me from above, clearly never having FaceTimed before. A Nigerian voice tells me – ‘if your people say he can be discharged, then he can be discharged’.

I look at her in total bewilderment, from a hotel room in Morocco, and look behind me looking for ‘my people’; Apart from a 13 year old, in a bikini, plugged into her iPad watching a Netflix film whilst successfully multitasking and texting her friends – there is only me in the room.

I ask in a slightly raised, alarmed voice – ‘what people?!’

She says – ‘Doctors and social workers ‘.

I reply, clearly agitated – ‘I’m not HIS social worker! I am a friend, who happens to be a social worker. This is totally crazy! 36 hours ago, he tried to commit suicide. He’s just posted a blog post stating that he regrets being alive! You can’t release him -take that from a social worker who has worked in mental health!’ (Hoping she’d interpret that as -‘trust me, I’m telling you – he’s clearly BONKERS at this precise moment in time! DO NOT send him home!’).

She repeats – ‘if your people say it’s ok, then he is ok to go’…

It carries on for a while, before she sits back down and you look at me and say something like – ‘see?’.

Meanwhile – (behind closed doors)everyone back in the UK is desperately trying to get medical professionals to intervene and keep you in hospital for the foreseeable future…

Needless to say, hours later you’ve somehow managed to blag your way out, and you’re on your way home?!

Good old NHS ?

Ps don’t get me wrong – I’m very appreciative of the NHS, just on this occasion…. wtf were they thinking?!

Xxx

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It’s Wednesday night and I’ve been to the theatre to see that play. Cherie and Stella were my beautiful female companions.

It was a great play. Ever such a lot of swearing… by teenage girls with heavy Glasgow accents. I don’t really remember it very well, as I don’t really remember anything at all very well, since I died temporarily. Maybe that’s brain oxygen deprivation and temporarily being dead, for you? In fact I wrote this bit (‘They declared me ‘ medically fit’ and gave me the option to stay in hospital, or to leave. They didn’t put any pressure on either way. To, I think, everyone’s surprise, ive gone from being dead, to being in an air ambulance, to being in the major trauma unit, to being home again, in 42 hours . I didn’t demand to be released, or anything like that, they simply cleared me to go, after I’d talked to the hospital psychiatrist and his colleague, for an hour or two. I didn’t do a Hannibal Lecter, and deceive my way out, I just talked and answered the questions I was asked. To be honest, I don’t really remember what we talked about, as I don’t really remember much at all of my 36 hours post death.’ )   when i was released, but had forgotten that I’d written it, until i just found it.

I know I ought thank Marky P, Cherie, Jo, Dan, Leigh, Bev, Stella, T, Rick, Mike Smith,  Larry  and most of all, Pia ( who is ultimately responsible for me still being alive, for insisting that Stella keep checking on me after lights out  ) for their humanity and kindness since. Happy birthday to Lily today too; it was nice to see her this morning.

From being dead in this flat, to being in hospital, to being back, all in 36 hours sounds fairly quick really, but time flows strangely for me, so 36 hours can be a long time. It  didn’t seem at all strange being back to doing my ( limited) gym exercises within 48 hours – I mean why not? People seem amazed that I’m even out of bed, but it doesn’t seem strange to me – any more strange than life is usually to me now.

I’m sorry that my actions caused people upset, that I used the Air ambulance, that I made such a mess too. Rick and i  cleaned up my bedroom – it was actually like a murder scene in there. Rick is a policeman, so isn’t fazed I suppose, and other than being initially slightly emotional about seeing it ( for a few seconds only ) I was also unfazed by the amount of red stuff everywhere. It really is no surprise to me that I was dead for a bit.

By the way, no bright lights or floating above my body.

( This post was written on Sunday ay 23rd July, at some point, but I don’t remember when. It’s obviously lucid, as all my posts seem to be, but I only vaguely recall writing it, and I knew relatively little of the events that had occurred since I calmly ended my own life )

I seem to now have a very altered relationship with Death. The prospect of dying, to me, whenever it is, stirs almost no emotion in me.

Ive been trying to think about it, and how I felt about it before – I think with fear/dread/a strong avoidance of  – just like normal people, but now I don’t.

I don’t know if that will revert back.

( This post was written in the morning of Sunday July 23rd, after I had calmly ended my life, approximately 11 hours before. I can only vaguely remember writing it, and didn’t know ( by far ) the  full extent of what had happened to me, because I simply couldn’t remember any of the aftermath )

Trust me to employ a carer that has worked in paramedics. When she heard my altered breathing at 1am and investigated, she found me lying in blood sodden bed sheets.

I was apparently taken by the Air Ambulance, but i remember nothing at all.

For better or for worse, I am alive because of Stella’s actions. I certainly didn’t expect or want to wake up, not this time.

Am i glad I’m alive ? No, I’m not, but I do realise that a few other people don’t want me dead.

What rollercoaster I ride.

Im sorry though for taking a few others on the trip with me.

And for wasting such a valuable resource

Russ

( This was posted in the evening of Saturday July 22nd, in the frame of mind of  ‘ more setting of the record straight before I go ‘. 

( This post was written on Saturday 22nd July, perhaps 5 hours before I calmly ended my life. It was written in the frame of mind of ‘ I want to set the record straight before I go, which will be only in a few hours’ time )

I may as well tell a bit more.

Its good to talk, right?

After my third spinal  operation in 2 months , in November, and on the eve of my 4th,  3 staff came  into my room in London Bridge Hospital. They were Jenny, the Occupational Therapist, ANNE- Marie, the physio, and the Ward manager, whose name I forget, but he was Scottish and had previously been blown up in his army days. He should have been dead, for sure, but had endured and carried on, despite appalling injuries, that I can’t detail.

They definitely entered the room quite nervously. The Ward manager did all the talking.  It went something like this –

‘ Look, I really don’t know how to tell you this, but  I need to ask you if you want to hear what your wife has said to me on the phone, before your operation in the morning. This is a completely new situation for me, and I’ve never had to say this to a patient before.

Your wife has just phoned and said that after your operation and your discharge from here, you aren’t welcome back to your family.  She said that if you try, she will have changed the locks so you can’t get in’

I asked him what i was supposed to do? He said that Danielle had said to ‘ put him in a care home’ . He then handed me several brochures for homes that might be suitable for the paralysed.

I was a little bit surprised, obviously, and I thanked him.

I then went online and looked up the legality of this situation. It clearly stated that she would be committing an offence by doing that.  I emailed Danielle and made her aware of the legal situation, at which point I received a ‘ carefully worded’ reply, saying that she thought she was acting in the best interests of my health, and that was all.

A month later I was back in Chiswick, and ‘ allowed ‘ to live in the flat.

Divorce proceedings were  shortly after issued  by Danielle’s solicitors.

It was very obvious from the date of that news that my wife and children were very much against me.

I resolved to carry on and do my best, and now needed a carer to wash and dress me every day, there being no help offered by my wife and children.

As usual, I had the amazing support of Pia, Cherie and Marky P in particular, but too many others to name.

I’ve only seen my youngest daughter twice since then, and my eldest a few times more.  The hostility is very tangible.

On Wednesday it’s my eldest ‘s birthday. I booked a wheelchair ticket and 2 seats in the hope that my daughters would come. They agreed to. Today I got a text saying that they weren’t now coming.  Obviously that was deeply upsetting for me. As they are all going away next week, I wouldn’t see either daughter for ( at least ) another month.  They live about half a mile from me, I should add, but I don’t see them. That’s very hard for me. After my paralysis, I thought constantly of my 2 daughters, and developed a strategy. I thought constantly about suicide, but would force myself to think of my daughters crying at my funeral, which kept me from doing it.

The strategy is no more, sadly – it doesn’t work now, as I’m not sure it’s applicable. I know that I will get texts saying that ‘ of course they care’ but there isn’t much evidence of that to go on.

Anybody in a wheelchair that wants to go to the theatre on Wednesday, to the Duke of York, to see a play called ‘Our ladies of perpetual succour’ with 2  seats for normal people, please go, and just say that you are me.  ( I hope there aren’t a crowd of the paralysed showing up ! )

I’ve written to my solicitor and disinherited my children, and left it all to thé SIA ( Spinal Injuries Association ) . I think that’s a nice legacy, and a ( more ) worthy cause. I’d leave it all to Pia, but I know she’d give it to my children.

Of course, I’ve stated that I’m of sound mind, and not suffering from the mal effects of a UTI – as evidenced by last night’s extremely positive blog post.

I’ll post this last post later on.

Thanks to those that have followed this diary to the end.

A man can only take so much, after all.

x