Gentleman in waiting.

For the next week, my son and I are in limbo. This is not a new state of affairs, we have been in limbo for some months now. So long, in fact, that it has begun to feel normal, which can't be a good thing. Can it?

It isn't something we can control, and that has been the hardest thing to come to terms with. I for one, like to know what's going on, where I am heading. I make plans, basing them on what I expect to be doing in a month, six months, a year. They might change, be amended. But they form a basis for my life, and give me a sense of security.

Well, it's true what they say. God laughs at the person with plans.

The cloud of uncertainty hanging over our lives is courtesy of three things: Social Services, (SS) the National Health Service (NHS), and the British economy. All of them move very slowly, and take no account of the turmoil their inability to hurry may cause in the lives of us mere mortals. And there's nothing we can do to make them move faster. Nothing at all. Believe me, I have tried.

The problem is that my son needs constant care. He has Prader Willi syndrome, a genetic abnormality that has left him mentally and emotionally handicapped, slightly physically disabled and with an addiction to eating that means, if left unsupervised, he would, quite literally eat himself to death. He is also one of the nicest and most wonderful people I know, and he deserves the very best that life can offer.

Three years ago, he went into a residential home for people with PWS. At the time, he was 26 stone + (That's about 360 pounds) and was morbidly obese, so the NHS paid the home fees, which are very expensive. In the home, access to food is restricted, the diet is strict, the exercise regime exacting and in three years, my son has lost half his body weight.

Yup. He's lost 13 stone (180 pounds). And when you consider his addiction to eating is accompanied by a very low metabolism that makes weight loss even harder than it is for most of us, this is an accomplishment above and beyond. I am so proud of him.

Unfortunately, he is now a victim of his own success. NHS, you see, do not pay for preventive care. When he was morbidly obese, he had a health problem that needed treating, so they paid to treat it. Now, he no longer has that health problem (his food addiction is not counted) and so they will not pay the fees of the home.

They passed the problem on to SS. They don't want it, thank you very much. They passed it back, and for the last few months it has been going back and forth like a ping pong ball, each trying to force the other to pay for the care my son needs. All the time they argue, he stays where he is, which is a good thing, but his future is in a state of flux, which is not so good.

We can plan nothing. Should he sign up for a college course for next term? Will he still be in the home and able to access that course by then? Should he buy things for his bedroom in the home, or is he liable to be packing them up soon?

And for me, things are no less uncertain. Like many writers, I could do with an improved income but it isn't easy looking for a job when one has to say, "Well, yes, I am available for work at the moment, but in three weeks I may be caring full time." I can't plan to go to a seminar or an exhibition because I don't know whether I'll be able to take my place.

Six months ago, thinking I was living alone now, I considered moving from my family home to a smaller place. But if he DOES come home, we'll need the room this house offers. So I don't move. If I am to stay permanently, I will decorate, and landscape the garden. But what if I do that and then he doesn't come home and I am to move?

It really isn't good enough. I appreciate they are making sure everything is done properly, but it shouldn't take several months - nearly a year now. When people's lives are on hold, decisions should be made at a greater pace than this.

At long last, after many false starts, they've agreed to meet next week and decide his future. They may not decide what we would have them decide, but at least they will decide something. And finally, we'll feel as if we've reached terra firma once more.

Brave New World

Last night, I attended a talk given by David Taylor of 2010Media, a company that specialises in helping people, companies and organisations improve their communications in the age of social media. It was a fascinating talk, and I learned a lot. Talking with other attendees, I wasn't the only one.

Facebook, Twitter, Linked In, Youtube and all the others have completely changed the world. I already knew that. But I don't think I had realised how that change affected ME. For years, I plodded on, ignoring the inane comments on Facebook ("Had rice Krispies for dinner, lol) and the indecipherable text speak sentences on Twitter: ("R u coming 2 c me L8er 2nite?") I couldn't figure out Linked In, or My Space, and hadn't a clue about Youtube. It was for kids who'd left the age of the mobile phone behind, right?

Wrong.

A few months ago, I realised that if I was ever going to achieve my dream of making a living as a writer, I had to do all I could to raise my profile. Gone were the days of writing a book/script/article and shyly handing it to the publisher/director/editor before scuttling away to anonymity to write some more. Behind us are the times when the publisher's promotion team does all the PR work and leaves you to your art. A writer today has to be prepared to market their work, create interest in it, pitch it.

I worked on the basis of one simple truth: the more your name appears in public, the more people will have heard of you, and if the name is familiar, they're more likely to give you time and space to make that pitch. They're more likely to take you seriously.

So, I started trying to use social media sites more effectively. I increased the amount of traffic I generated, and I tried to make sure that traffic was interesting, entertaining and informative so that readers would enjoy it and come back for more. I tried to make sure the writing was good quality - even within the 140 characters of Twitter. No point telling everyone you're a writer and then leaving a badly written sentence where the world and his wife can trip over it. That'd be like telling everyone you were a chef and then serving up burnt shepherd's pie.

I've made many new friends and contacts through social media. Some of them are people who enjoy my posts, which is gratifying and boosts my confidence. Some of them share my passion for writing, which eases the loneliness of the work. And some of them have been in positions to help me, giving me tips to improve my chances of success, helping make the work better, advising me of markets and competitions that will do me good, introducing me to people who may be interested in working with me.

None of them are people I would have met in the street of my town. Most would never have opened a letter from me, or even an email. Yet, social media has made them accessible.

The world is shrinking. Opportunities are growing. All we have to do is keep up with the traffic.

When you can't reach the end...

You've been working on your latest project for some time. You've researched, written, plotted and planned, found the weak points and chiselled them out, filled the holes and made it make sense. You're a few thousand words from the end.

And it grinds to a halt.

You know how it ends. You know what you want to say. You even have the wording for the very last line absolutely perfect. But you just can't seem to get there.

If you're not deleting more than you're adding in, and not convincing yourself that every word so far is utter rubbish, then you'll be taking a degree course in procrastination. There is a sudden urgency to bath the dog and clear out the attic, or go back to the beginning and check for weak words like just and very and nice. Anything, ANYTHING, but write those final words.

Something I've found helps is to have another work lined up and waiting to be started. A few tantalising notes in a loose leaf book, a couple of lines about a character, a dialogue quote. What ifs and whys and wheres scribbled, or cryptic sentences spoken into a dictaphone. Pretty soon, a new project is taking shape and demanding to be written, and I am champing at the bit to get to it.

Suddenly, procrastination doesn't seem so enticing. I want to finish this work so I can get started on my new piece, a piece that is going to be the best thing I ever wrote, my great masterpiece, the ONE. At which point, I knuckle down and write those last few pages, and write those immortal words:

The End.

If you have trouble finishing, try it. It can't hurt. And it might just work.

A day at a time

I never know, from one day to the next, how I will feel. Heck, I don't know from one hour to the next how I'm going to feel. One day, I am on top of the world. I have energy, I'm full of life and plans and future and I think I'm healed. Next day, back down and getting up in the morning is an effort.

I've spent most of the summer as a zombie but now I am actually staying awake for about seven hours a day, which is a vast improvement. I walk the dog on the forest every morning, no excuses. It's an effort sometimes, but the fresh air and movement must be doing me good.

And I try to write at least a side of foolscap every day. Some days, I do two or three and am still pleased with them twenty four hours later. Other days, I struggle to fill one side and when I read it back it's rubbish. But I AM doing it.

It helps that I have three projects lined up, so I feel them calling to me and that means procrastination makes me feel guilty. One of those projects actually has a deadline, so that should be a help too.

As a Christian, I felt extremely guilty when I entered this depression. Part of me was thinking, "you believe in God, you should trust in Him and not get upset and worried. Give it to Him." It felt like I was somehow letting the side down.

But then I remembered the utter despair Jesus felt in Gethsemane and on the cross and I realised, if He felt the blackness descending, then it was nothing to be ashamed of. And that realisation is one step towards recovery.

I also remind myself daily that this took a long time to hit. There were many factors, over a long period of time, that led me to this place. If it takes you several years to dig a hole, you won't fill it in in one day.

Patience.

I may not get everything done I would wish to get done each day. But each day, I get a little nearer to being the me I used to be.

I just have to learn patience and take it one day at a time.

Coming back to life

It's been quite a summer. One when I spent most of every day and night tucked up in bed, sleeping. I forgot what mornings looked like. In fact, I forgot what the world looked like.

Worst of all, I forgot what writing is like.

Depression is a dreadful thing. No-one can see you're ill, there's no limb missing or blood gushing, so most people can't see why you're not yourself. And since depression doesn't always have an obvious cause, there is often precious little sympathy.

My situation had been building for years. It wasn't a quick fall, and it wasn't a bolt from the blue. It had built up a head of steam, and when the lid blew off, boy, did it go up! And the whole world ended.

I couldn't go in to my job at World In Need. That made me feel guilty. I kept thinking, these people are far worse off than I will ever be, what is wrong with me? The children are starving, the people in Pakistan are drowning, and I am wallowing in self pity.

My doctor forbade me to go there, and now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see he was right. I could not have coped with the emotions of it all, and I would have added to the burden of my colleagues. Not good.

I also couldn't go to church for several weeks. I couldn't face it. Nor could I face shopping, walking the dog, or even doing the washing up. (And yes, that is one of the best excuses ever.) I went to a friend's wedding, a place where I knew loads of people and had a panic attack about going there. I burst into tears for no apparent reason. I couldn't even read half the time.

But worst of all, was the inability to write. Writing is my life. And every day that went past wordless added to the feelings of failure and misery.

I tried. I really did. I tried starting the next of my romance novels. After several days, I felt it wasn't what I should be writing at this time, so I put it aside till I was feeling stronger. Instead, I started writing a pantomime. It took me three times as long as usual, and I was wracked with self doubt. I didn't think it was funny, it wasn't coherent, it was a mess. But when I showed it to people who would not hesitate to tell me the harsh truth, they loved it. Said it was the funniest thing I had written.

Bit perverse, if you ask me.

And now, I've been asked to write a play. With some trepidation, I sat down yesterday. I was so lacking in confidence, I thought I would try and sketch an outline before accepting the challenge of writing it. By last night, the treatment was done and the director is pleased with it. Maybe the drought is over. At last.

So now, like a seed at the end of winter, I am waking. It's not an overnight process, but then I didn't sink overnight. And if I am writing, at least I have hope.

A shot across the bows

This picture shows me and Harrison Mungai of iServe Africa at Carura Church in Nairobi in May 2009. I think it says it all about my need to change, at least physically.

A week ago, I announced that it was the start of the rest of my life, and I would be endeavouring to change. Boy, was that a prediction! I soldiered on for a few days, trying to lose weight (lost a pound, so was feeling OK about that) writing and lamenting the lack of time to do so. I dearly wished I could have more time to me.

Well, you should be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it.

Tuesday of this week, I had some pains in my chest and side. I thought I had twisted it, or eaten something that disagreed with me. I took things easy and waited for the pain to go away.

Throughout the day, it came and went. Each time it came back it got stronger. I went to bed with ibuprofen and hoped to sleep it off.

No such luck. By 3.30am, I was in agony. Nothing I did would make the pain go away. I felt like someone was crushing my chest under heavy rocks at the same time as stabbing me, hard. I wondered whether to call the out-of-hours doctor. Being me, I decided not to waste his time.

8.15am, I called my GP's surgery. I explained my symptoms to a very unsympathetic and dismissive receptionist, who said the duty doctor would phone me. I gave my mobile number and went to work. Although fat lot of use I was there. I couldn't concentrate, I was tired, ill and in pain.

The doctor phoned and I explained my symptoms. Within ten minutes, an ambulance was outside my workplace, and I was carted away, feeling very foolish and a bit of a fraud. When they discovered this was just indigestion, they were all going to be rather cross with me.

Only it wasn't indigestion. It was my heart. And I am a very lucky lady. Not only am I still alive, but there is no actual damage to the heart muscle. I have the chance to get better.

So, that diet I was sort of kind of doing has become imperative. That one pound a week I was sort of kind of aiming for losing has now become a minimum target. I've cut out cakes and chocolate, sugar and unnecessary fats and salt. I'm taking gentle exercise, and resting when I need to do so. No more alcohol - not that I drank more than a few times a year anyway. Lucky for me, I have never smoked.

My father died of heart disease aged 59. I don't want to join him. I want to see my grandchildren grow up, and reach my goals, attain my dreams. All of which rely on me making sure this warning shot across the bows is heeded.

On the plus side, I am now going to get some time to me, to write. I'm not expected to do so much, I'm not expected to run ragged after my family and friends, I've even got a few days off work. So no cloud is completely without a silver lining.

I just would have liked the lining without the storm cloud, thank you very much.

Watch this space, as I go from death's doorway to fit and healthy in the shortest possible route.

The first day of the rest of my life.

It’s my grandson’s fifth birthday. He’s quite excited by this. Not only is he older than he was yesterday, but he had lots of presents which were “cool!” and “Look what I got!” types. Presumably, the combination of being older and getting great presents is why his parents had to shoo him back to bed at 3.30am.

It’s my birthday at the end of the month and I am slightly less excited than the lad was. I’m quite a bit older – ten times his age to be exact, so when looking for “cool”, a remote control plane designed to smash into the wall is probably not going to do it for me – although I have dropped huge hints about the latest Lee Child book. :-)

But although I may not share his taste in presents, the lad and I do share one thing. Today is the first day of the rest of our lives. What we did yesterday is gone. We can’t change it. What we do NOW is what really counts.

It may hit me harder than it hits the lad, this truth. I’m much more conscious of time passing than he is, and much more aware it isn’t available to me in limitless quantities. If I want to achieve my long term goals, I’d better start working for them, before I find I’ve lost the chance altogether.

Thus, I have decided to make this the official start of the rest of my life. June 9th 2010 is the day I stop messing about, procrastinating, accepting less than my best. No more, “I’ll just have a cup of tea while I plan how I’ll do it.” No more, “I’ll do that in a minute, but I’ll just read a chapter/magazine article/watch the news first.” Those things come when the day’s to-do list is completely ticked, not when some or all of it is still waiting.

So what is on my to do list? Well, there are two lists, a short term and a long term. The long term is easy:

1. Finish my latest work in progress and get it published/produced

2. Make a decent income from my writing so I can continue the lifestyle I enjoy and continue to buy the lad birthday presents in the years to come.

3. Lose (a significant amount of) weight.

4. Regain my health, which is slipping away.

5. Make a difference to the world in which I live.

The short term goals are not always so easy to define. There are what I want to do by today, this week, this month, by Christmas. You start mixing them up, meaning to plan today, then reaching a little further ahead, and suddenly you’re looking long term again. So I am simply going to list today’s goals, what they are, how I want to achieve them, and how yesterday’s attempts turn out.

Gulp!

Starting tomorrow, I will list my goals, and starting Friday, I’m going to be honest and open about how I managed. Hopefully, not wanting to embarrass myself will galvanise me into actually doing what I set out to do.

We shall see.