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Endometriosis. Period!

By Vicki.

In my professional life I work for the Stroke Association. In my spare time, I enjoy spending time with my partner, family and friends, and their children. I’m also slightly obsessed with my cat Betty (pictured below!). I enjoy photography and have recently set up my own Instagram page with photos I have taken and this is something I want to get into and plan to after my operation.

EndoPicI am writing this for a number of reasons, but mainly to raise awareness especially in light of Endometriosis Awareness week. And to help those close to me to understand why I am like I am, to get a clearer understanding of the whole situation myself and I guess, writing things down is quite therapeutic and something I really need right now!

So, since I was ten years old and still at primary school, I have struggled with bad periods – starting my period at primary school in itself wasn’t the best thing in the world, but when that came with excruciating pain, it was a bit of a harsh realisation that this was potentially what I could expect for a good few years, little did I know just what I had in front of me!

I am 35 now, and have pretty much spent the past 25 years struggling nearly every single month. When I was 21, I found out I had Endometriosis.

Endometriosis (en-doh-mee-tree-oh-sis) is a chronic, incurable condition where cells like the ones found in the lining of the womb (uterus) are found elsewhere in the body. It is a debilitating condition that can cause heavy and painful periods, and can also cause infertility, fatigue and bowel bladder problems – it is basically an embarrassing condition, which is literally a pain in the backside!!!

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(Septicaemia, blood poisoning)

John is a local resident from Birmingham, who works with our organisation as a patient partner/representative.

JohnOv3I had one momentary lapse in concentration!

There I was on a Thursday in late June happily boiling spuds for my daughter’s dinner, when the phone rang. I picked it up and in my customary way proceeded to have an animated conversation oblivious to everything around me.

A warm feeling started to climb up my back at which point I politely excused myself from the phone call saying “I will ring you back, I think I am on fire”. Now, this is the point for all the hindsight brigade to come out of the woodwork with a list of “what you should have done” or “if it had been me I would have”, all very well-meaning, but, you know, when an individual is enjoying a somewhat stressful moment, and are up to their neck in Alligators, its often hard to remember, that the objective was to drain the swamp.

So, rather than running like a human torch, through my kitchen, into my dining room, down the hall and into a cold shower, whilst burning my house to the ground, I chose instead to step outside and remove my burning shirt. Somewhat shaken, I returned back to the kitchen finished preparing my daughters dinner (which she thoroughly enjoyed), rang my friend back and suggested that they pop round and take me to Hospital.

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Christmas on my terms

Ted RalphTed Ralph works for the local NHS.

Most people feel pressure coming up to Christmas. It’s a fun time but for many of us it means lots of preparation and work.

It seems like we’re conditioned into wanting that perfect Christmas with copious amounts of food and drink, good company and gift’s a plenty. Nigella Lawson’s glittery vision of Christmas is just one example that’s almost impossible to recreate without a crew of 5 helpers including a hair stylist and interior designer.  

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Living with dementia - a son's tale

iain fulfordOne of the curses of working within healthcare is that people automatically think you know everything remotely medical. I’m not a nurse, I’m not a doctor. There was a time when I was about 14 that I thought about being a doctor, but there was an obstacle – I really didn’t understand biology. What’s the relevance of this you may ask? Well during my somewhat eclectic career, I spent some time working with a well-known private care home provider. In that role, I was very fortunate to meet both people who were living with dementia, and the amazing folks that care for them. I’d written many articles about it, talked to the care homes residents who, on their good days, were the most intriguing characters with some amazing life experiences, and interviewed families about the impact, 

My point is this… I knew about dementia. I knew the signs, I knew the symptoms, and I knew the devastating impact it has.

By Iain Fulford - May 2017

It was the little things I began to notice at first; asking the same question again, the odd repeated conversation, forgetting where she’d put things. Then over the course of a year or so, it became more and more noticeable. She’d appear vacant, or would stop listening. In groups, she seemed to slowly withdraw. Family members brought it up in conversation. My sister and I talked about it possibly being dementia, but I’d find excuses to justify her behaviour. We knew she’d had a TIA a couple of years before, so I’d put it down to that. “Maybe she needs a hearing test?” The results were fine. And then it would settle down for a while and we’d all carry on as if nothing was wrong. That happened a few times, and over the course of a couple of years we just put it down to Mum “being Mum”. We’d occasionally talk about it, behind closed doors, and then change the subject; the prospect too unbearable to give strong consideration to.

One day my Dad met me on the driveway, looking tired and frustrated. “I’m worried about your Mum. She seems to be getting worse. What do you think?”  The question hit me like a blow to the stomach. I could feel myself tearing up. As images flashed through my mind of the people I’d come across during my time with care homes. I had a glimpse into a potential future that, to be frank, I’d denied for a couple of years. I remember saying out load, not meaning to, as I struggled to keep the tears from falling: “Its starting isn’t it. She’s leaving us.” We looked at each other for a second, my father and I, before we both burst into tears and just held each other. “We’ll figure it out Dad, I promise.”

Everything after that happened quite quickly. We talked to Mum about our concerns – not an easy conversation, and one I can’t really remember much about to be honest. But the next thing was to talk to the GP. A family friend, who knew my parents. I think that made it easier – she felt comfortable with Dr A. They went through the normal process, memory assessment clinics etc. And then we had an answer: mixed dementia.

My sister and I were sat on the bed in the consultation room, my parents sat on the chairs in front of the doctor. Mixed dementia? In a style true to my mother’s character, she had to be different, I thought. I knew about Vascular, and I know about Alzheimer’s, but I didn’t know much about that one. This was soon resolved – working in the NHS I have access to fantastic people, and fantastic materials. The next day I arrived home with books, leaflets, essays, you name it. We had a visit from a very helpful dementia advisor who put a lot into perspective. And so began my family’s education in dementia.

Since then, from Mums point of view, not much has changed. She takes medication to try and slow down the progression, and does her puzzles and her colouring to exercise her brain. She’s even using a Kindle, something I never thought I’d see. She’s not in any danger, she has good days and bad days, but overall she’s happy. Somewhat oblivious, but happy. And really that’s all that matters. At this stage, she’s fine. It’s the rest of us that struggle.

Dad bears the brunt of it. He lives with the repetition 24/7. And sometimes you can see when he needs a break. To start with he struggled to understand what was happening and how to deal with it, but as we’ve learnt to cope with things, he’s started to handle it better. One example from early on really hit home with him and became like a lightbulb moment. It was Monday, washing day at my parents, and whilst one load was in the washing machine, the other was sat in the lounge waiting to go in. Mum was mithering and kept wanting to go and check to see if the washer was done, so that she could put the next load in – Every five minutes she’d say “I’m going to see if the washing has finished” and Dad was getting more impatient. In the end it bubbled over into a row. Luckily I was nearby and straight away saw the issue – “She can see the next load waiting, Dad, so just move it somewhere else so it’s not reminding her.” Since then, I can see he pauses before he reacts, like you can almost hear him thinking “How should I handle this?”

Getting Dad support has been much more difficult. We’ve tried a few local support groups, As soon as we walked into the first one my Dad looked at me and said “Why are all these old people here?” He was right of course, Mums dementia at 66 means that she (and he) are a lot younger than may other people living with it or their carer’s. The second event was much worse, highlighted by the fact that they were having a Second World War themed party. A lovely concept, and as I looked through the glass door I could see that many of the people in the room had huge smiles on their faces. But that’s not my parents’ era. They grew up with the Rolling Stones and the Beatles. Not Peggy Lee and Vera Lynn. Ten or 15 years ago, when awareness of dementia was growing, then that kind of theme would be perfect, but those at the forefront of dementia care need to start thinking about the fact that the next generation of people living with dementia will not respond to the themes that are currently used. The other thing I’ve noticed is that, besides my immediate family, everyone else has fallen away. Since diagnosis, the friends my parents used to spend their days with, go to the theatre with, and out for dinner etc., have gradually disappeared into the background. It’s like the word dementia has frightened them off. Isolating my parents and in particularly my Dad even more. I’m actually quite bitter about that, because in the past my Dad has been there for people, but when it’s his turn, it’s down to his children to step in. Not that I mind at all – they’re my parents and I’d do anything or them. But just once I’d like one of his mates to call and say “Fancy a pint Poppa?”  Such is the stigma still attached to dementia.

And that’s where we are on our dementia journey, it’s not easy, but we’re muddling through as best we can. I know in my heart that the Mum I knew, that raised me, protected me, guided me, isn’t really there anymore. She occasionally puts in an appearance, and it feels like my heart is going to burst when she does. And for a brief and shining moment, there she is, this fierce, formidable and funny woman. But soon enough, she retreats back into her little bubble.

I go through all kinds of different emotions in any single day. That’s just who I am, but guilt is probably one of the biggest. Growing up it was guilt about not being myself, living some kind of lie. In my twenties it was guilt for the heartache and drama I’d caused by coming out as gay, and the disappointment I must have been. In my thirties, I imagined I’d be guilt free but I’m not. I worry that I should have done something sooner. If I’d spoken up, knowing what I knew, would we be further back in our dementia journey? Who knows? This evil bastard of a disease doesn’t follow a set path, each journey goes to different places and at different speeds. But I can’t help think that I should have done something sooner. If anyone reading this has any doubts or worries about a loved one, the one message I’d like you to take away from my long ramble is this. Do something. Speak up; The help is there. Yes its uncomfortable, yes it’s upsetting. But it could make all the difference.

You may have noticed as I’ve written this, that I’ve been very careful with the language I use. Not once have I said or referred to suffering with dementia. My mother is living with dementia, not suffering with it. One look into her sparkly blue eyes and I know that she’s not suffering. Yes she’s repetitive, yes it’s annoying. But I’d rather repeat the same conversation with her over and over again than never be able to have one again at all.

Natalie Solomon ~ 'proud to work in such an organisation'

Our monthly blog challenge has catapulted me into writing a blog about myself – what a great opportunity to tell you about my role and working for such a people centred organisation over the last 3 years.
I am a Named Professional for safeguarding in primary care within the safeguarding team and have been a registered nurse for 13 years. As a qualified Health Visitor by background, I’ve worked in a wide range of healthcare settings mainly based in the community. I thoroughly enjoyed my role of working with children and families in the community and this led me to an interest in safeguarding.

Natalie Solomon pic

My first year in the world of commissioning was exciting and a real eye opener, both to the wider healthcare system but also to my own self-development; I attribute this to the positive and encouraging people within the designated team, which I have the opportunity to work with daily.

My current role involves working with GP practices within Birmingham, providing support and gaining assurance around safeguarding vulnerable people in the city.

Birmingham South Central CCG has offered me many opportunities, in career development and also to further my self-confidence, facilitating achievement of my personal goals. The ethos of BSC values is something that I feel contributes to the spirit that is embedded within the organisation and I personally feel proud to work in such an organisation.

I will leave you with some words of wisdom which endeavour to sum up my view of BSC:
‘Surround yourself with the dreamers and the doers, the believers and thinkers, but most of all surround yourself with those who see greatness within you, even when you don’t see it yourself’ ~ Liana Liberato




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