Graduation

I thought I’d write a follow-up to my poem 'The Wheelchair'. This follows a jog I took a couple of weeks ago on the beautiful cliff paths near my home.

Graduation

I'm often called 'the wheelchair?
"Mind the wheelchair', not 'the man'!
Yet coming down the steps,
confronted by a string of hikers,
all I heard were calls of 'runner'.
I've graduated!
No longer 'the wheelchair,'
I'm 'the runner'.
Right now my leg screams
my wheelchair beckons
and in my head, I'm a runner.

John Carré Buchanan
09 October 2019

You can read my poem ‘The Wheelchair’ here;

Dorothy's Bench

I wrote this poem on a really bad pain day whilst sitting above Saints Bay on a bench dedicated to Dorothy Mary Harvey. The weather was perfect, the view spectacular and a choir of birds was serenading me and yet depression and despair filled my mind.

I forced myself to focus my attention on my surroundings. I paid particular attention to every detail of the environment and as I did so I drafted elements of a poem in my mind. After a couple of hours I had recovered sufficient strength to walk home and put pen to paper.

I hope you like my poem.
​
Dorothy's Bench

Dorothy's bench is sited well
a refuge from an inner hell.
Last night’s showers
have brightened flowers,
the wind tousles trees
but I can't hear the leaves;
for birds singing mask that sound
as nature's beauty abounds.
I strain to hear the dancing stream
or is it just a wishful dream?
Silent waves on beach
distant memories of joy beseech.
That blue sky with wispy clouds
shines bright above dark thunderclouds.
I wipe my eyes and pray,
that showers could wash despair away.

John Carré Buchanan
09 June 2018

Black Dog

This poem is written on the Open Mic theme; 'Dog'.

​Black Dog

I have three black dogs;

A little one called Loki
a vibrant ball of fun,
then Ame, getting old now
she has a smelly bum.

The third is mean and vicious
it stalks me most the time
its growls are seditious
it's demeanour is malign.

In the end; It will kill me,
a conclusion long forgone.
I wish that I could shake it
but the bastard's name, is John.

John Carré Buchanan
05 July 2017

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.

The Mountaineer

​The last 8 years have been tough, the accident, pain, loss of mobility and the job I loved and the plummet into the depths of despair was all made worse by the guilt associated with the effect it was having on those I loved.

Somewhere in all that darkness I found a spark, faith, that ray of light that gave me the strength to start climbing.

This poem is called the Mountaineer...
​
The Mountaineer

I hated the face in front of me,
the pallid complexion,
puffed up jowls
dark patches under vacant eyes,
that stale unwashed reek
of pain and self loathing
a weak and crumbling vestige.

I stared mercilessly
into its worthless soul,
glaring at the
epitome of everything I despised,
trying to find a merest hint
of strength, courage or drive.

As I searched those dead eyes
pitiful tears started to flow,
my hatred deepened.
I wanted to strike him across the face,
tell him to man up, grow a pair
but more than that;
I wanted to destroy
the sniveling wreck
that stared back at me;
from the mirror.

Deep within,
something fanned a dying ember,
it spluttered briefly,
faltered and dimmed
a mournful sigh breathed life,
made it glow and this time
it stuck.

Fire to fight fire
pain to fight pain
forget hatred, hang it up
put fear and anger aside
and trust, believe, know;
I can, I will
climb the hill.

Looking back down
I see a reflection in a lake,
a tall snow laden mountain
rugged and unyielding
and there, right at the top
a small black speck;
a man standing.

John Carré Buchanan
03 June 2016

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.



This poem is linked to Poets United.

Boxes

Watching the Invictus Games I was inspired by the stories of incredible people who have experienced and continue to experience, horrendous pain and suffering with such determination and dignity.

I have my own challenges, we all do, but listening to the testimonies made by people with PTSD and other invisible injuries spurred me on to write the following poem. I can’t advocate this approach, but it is the approach I used until I realised that I was using cardboard boxes, and they crumble with age. At that point I talked, and found hope…
​
Boxes

Sometimes,
Just occasionally,
a scent,
a shadow in the periphery
let's slip a memory
that leaves me stunned.
Numbed.

Pandora had one box,
I have many;
rubble,
teachers - predators,
torture, beatings, burnt feet,
silent screams in the night
choked back, concealed
and children taught to kill.

We're told a peek loosed all evils
yet one remained confined.
With Elpis* tightly locked away
I'll strive to keep my boxes shut,
for,
if I were to lift a lid,
there'd be no hope for me.

John Carré Buchanan
22 May 2016

* In Greek mythology Elpis was the personification and spirit of hope or expectation,

The Glacier

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Chronic Pain often results in sleep deprivation. This leaves me lying alone in a darkened room, long after the rest of my household has retired. These periods of time are when I feel the effects of CRPS the most. The potentially lethal combination of pain, depression and tiredness grate on the very fabric of my soul and survival becomes a major battle, often one I don’t particularly want to win.

I was engaged in yet another round of mindful thinking last night, trying to rationalise the thoughts; ‘why does time always drag so much?’ and ‘can’t I just skip to the end?’ I explored a number of different answers before deciding that the most appropriate answer at that point in time was; ‘because life is shit and no, not yet.’ Not perhaps the most mindful answer, but certainly one that felt closest to the mark at that specific point in time.

I penned a few notes to help me address the questions when I was in a better frame of mind, and these led me to write the following poem.

The Glacier

Seconds drift slowly by.
Layer on tortured layer.
Gradually minutes form
then grate past, slowly.
A relentless, glacial, plod.
Onward, onward, then, on.
Minutes form a solitary hour.
Slowly the mass builds,
each second layered on the last.
A clock's hands glide smoothly,
yet beneath the glacier
immeasurable forces rip and tear.
Ice gouges bedrock and rents
shards from the once mighty granite,
leaving nothing but pulverised till
strewn at its terminus.

John Carré Buchanan
01 February 2014

This poem is linked to Poets United.

Flare Up

The poem below describes what it is like to experience and overcome a flare up in pain. When a flare up lasts for more than two days it is known as a set back. This week has been dominated by a set back. Flare up or set back, neither are pleasant and I thought I would re-post this to help raise awareness of Chronic pain.

If you are a sufferer my thoughts are with you.

Flare Up

The tormenting ache is obscured
replaced by searing agony.
I feel the flesh melt,
Imagine the blisters as they bubble,
blacken and crisp over.
The edges split and retract
to reveal red tissue below.
It blackens and the cycle starts again.

My mind tells me it’s not true,
burnt nerves can’t feel.
but this is no ordinary fire
no water can quench these flames.
Born deep within neural pathways
they burn as intense as
the a charcoal maker’s kiln
consuming all reason and sanity.

Bed covers lie thrown back
the soft linen had burnt;
as its folds crept like molten lava,
and scorched everything in their path.
The mind fights for control
looking to stem the flow
as if closing the sluice on a stream
but the gate valve is stuck

Thoughts are marshalled,
challenged and found wanting.
Well-rehearsed counter points are delivered.
Slowly control is regained.
Unhelpful thoughts rally for a final push
but once again the mind delivers a ‘coup de grace’,
another battle is won
and the leg will bare weight today.

John Carré Buchanan
19th August 2011

The Charioteer

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The Charioteer

People part
as I glide
through the crowd
head at chest height.

Mothers tell children
‘mind the man in the chair,’
the kids turn with a start
and stare.

Yes,
I’m the man in the chair.
The man in the brand new
shiny chair.

Carving through the crowd
like a Roman chariot.
Head held unbowed,
a laureate.

But…. later….
when I’m alone
the beasts will be set free -
and they will rage.

No longer the charioteer
I will play the part
of the condemned.
John - a la carte.

Yet - amid the melee,
secure in the knowledge
that, He has a plan,
I will survive.

John Carré Buchanan
17 January 2013



This poem is shared with Poets United.

The Review

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One of the factors of living with chronic pain is the need to constantly review where you are in relation to Goals, Drugs and Exercises. This week I have been working with my support team to confirm that I am getting the most out of the regimes that I use.

I keep a written record of my pain management which I use on a daily basis to pace myself and then on an ad hoc basis to inform the team. This covers which exercises and stretches I do, my pain levels at start and end of the day, the drugs taken, hours slept and activities undertaken.

This type of record is very useful as it provides hard data against which comparisons can be made, preventing emotion and feelings from getting in the way of what is really happening.

The multidisciplinary team discussed how things had been going. We agreed that there was a need to change both the medication and exercise regimes. We also discussed how attitude toward recovery, specifically my determination to minimise drug use and maximise the amount of exercise and activity I was doing, could affect recovery.

During an excellent, month long, pain management course I attended in the UK I was taught the importance of coming off drugs and making every effort to improve my personal fitness. Under normal circumstances this is widely accepted as being the best practice approach toward pain management.

However it would appear that the principles are intended as a guide rather than a set of rules. They are designed for the average man or woman in the street, and not someone with the drive and determination that has served me so well in the past.

Whilst the logic of what was being said was unquestionable, it was very difficult for me to accept. The turmoil it created in my mind drove me to write the following poem, perhaps other pain sufferers might find it interesting.

The Review

Today we talked meds again;
the doctors are giving me more.
They think a higher dose,
will make me happier than before

They haven’t factored in failure
the feeling that I bear;
when my body is so doped up
I feel like I’m not there.

They tell me how impressed they are
with the way that I’ve got on
pushing through the barriers;
but they say that way is wrong.

I learnt the hard way,
success requires hard work.
without pain there is no gain,
for glory you can’t shirk.

I strive to be a person
who will not accept defeat.
Who through sheer determination
This chronic pain I’d beat.

I was taught; to keep my body clean;
To avoid drugs where I can;
that morphine can not cure my pain
so exclude it from my plan.

The doctors say that normal folk
would find these rules so true.
but it’s my determination -
that’s made my plans fall through.

Now they’re going to dope me up
so I will not feel the pain,
but I sense the weight of failure
will drag me down again.

So if I make my next review
it’s likely I’ll be told;
to increase the dose of happy pills;
and they’ll see my world implode.

John Carré Buchanan
07 September 2012

Endurance

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One of the skills I have been working on has been to relax into those moments when my body least feels like relaxing. This is an extremely difficult skill to master, but at the same time it is a skill which chronic pain sufferers need to master if they are to rest or sleep.

I have been taught many different ways of doing this, none of them work every time but my toolbox now contains methods such as; transcendental meditation, Emotional Freedom Technique, distraction, progressive muscle relaxation and breath control. Using a combination of these has helped me through some difficult times.

I would urge any other chronic pain sufferer to learn how to relax. I suspect that most readers will not truly understand this, but fellow sufferers will understand and hopefully be able to follow my advice.

The following poem aims to describe the conflict between pain and the ability to relax.

Endurance

The silence is deafening,
Silently the clock ticks,
The TV and radio lie mute
even the keys on the laptop
remain still.
Time just slips by.
Each exhaled breath
re-enters the world
at its own silent pace
as it slips through taught lips
in a measured, controlled stream.
The pages on his lap don’t turn.
It is as if time itself has stopped.
Yet in his mind a fire burns
The primal scream lodged in his throat
remains unissued, caught as if
it were that of a terrified young child
with a monster under its bed.
The constant cycle of the eyelids
As they contract and relax
betrays the singular effort
of a mind fighting for control,
relax, relax and again.

John Carré Buchanan
23 August 2012

Four Years On

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This post is written to thank all the people who have stood by me during the last four years. Without their love, guidance and support, I would not be here today.

Four years ago I was knocked from my bicycle on the way to work. What followed has been horrendous for both me and my family.

I have lived in continuous and severe pain which has gradually worsened since the accident; my medical support team tell me that it will continue to worsen. What should improve is my ability to live with and manage the pain.

I have lost my Job, the ability to do all the hobbies I once enjoyed, but far and away more important I lost the ability to partake fully in the lives of my wife and our two beautiful, loving young children. The guilt associated with being unable even to ascend stairs to kiss them good night is hard to bear.

I started writing in attempt to give myself something to do; I also conducted a massive soul search and realignment project which aimed to redesign my inner self, my soul, such that it could live in the new, less capable, body.

This uncomfortable and often dangerous journey continues. So far I have become a Christian, found new friends, who are there for me before I need ask. I have plumbed the very depths of despair and surfaced again. I constantly endure pain which despite using powerful Opiates is sufficient in intensity to make me black out at times.

Despite all of this I am still here.

The following poem is - believe it or not - a poem of hope; it serves to remind me that I never was a quitter. I hope you can find something in it too.

Four Years On

The memory is not important
Screech of breaks, shattered glass,
burst of fear, anger, pain;
that is how it started,
she just pulled out.

The loss that’s what truly counts
Feet pound along beautiful cliff paths,
bicycles, kayaks, water skis;
that’s what was lost,
everything I enjoyed.

No, It’s deeper, much worse
The essence of everything loved
Wife, Children, Friends, Job;
all of them suffer,
Torn asunder, shredded.

Self image, destroyed, hated
unimaginable pain, imaginable,
insomnia, tears, vomit;
these unwanted parasites,
devour all joy, never cease.

Every day, a new battle
continuous cycle of pain management,
exercise, therapy, stretches, drugs;
just to stay stable,
the gradual decline evident.

The one desire, end it, end it all
screech of brakes, shattered lives,
pain, despair, guilt;
tortured soul
fight, don’t quit, pray.

Put cares aside, trust the Lord,
true friends lend shoulders and listen,
plan, strive, achieve;
Four years on,
Pain worse, but hanging in.

John Carré Buchanan
08 August 2012

Ode to Narcotic Relief (ONR 20)

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One of the downsides of chronic pain is the need to use powerful pain killers which bring with them risks of unpleasant side effects and even death. Sufferers who have been taught pain management techniques usually try to minimise the amount of drugs that they use. That said even the best of us occasionally need to use drugs.

The type and dosages of drugs differ dependant on the individual and factors such as; the current state of pain, activity levels, state of mind and even something as mundane as the weather or barometric pressure.

I have recently taken a short holiday with my family which involved considerably more movement than I would normally undertake. During the break I had to significantly increase the quantity of painkillers I was using.

Whilst consuming the drugs I became acutely aware of the importance of getting both the dosage and the timing of each dose correct. Making such calculations is extremely difficult when every brain cell is screaming in agony. As if that was not hard enough the added temptation to take follow up dosages early is extremely hard to control.

On completion of my holiday I had to perform a vital task, namely work out a plan to safely come off the increased dosages, without going into cold turkey. Whilst doing this I became aware of just how dangerous these drugs could be in the hands of a sufferer of Chronic pain during a flare up or setback, this inspired me to write the following poem;

Ode to Narcotic Relief (ONR 20)

They bear a mark
ONR 20
and look so innocent
so tiny, so dainty.
Just knock back a couple
sit back, wait a while.
Twenty minutes later
I’m on the junk pile.
For perhaps half an hour
I can raise a smile,
Then the pain’ll be back
and I’ll taste the bile
and start to clock watch
whilst reeling in pain
waiting for the next dose
to relieve me again.
I’ll crave for more
But I have to take care
For these tiny capsules
could answer my prayer
and help me find peace
either up or downstairs.
They bear a mark
ONR Twenty
and as demon or friend
they could help or kill me.

John Carré Buchanan
03 August 2012

Choices

I had an interesting discussion with my medical support team the other day about my use of a wheelchair. The debate basically cantered on two differing points of view, both of which were right.

The Medics saw the wheelchair as a retrograde step which would further reduce my ability to walk, whilst my Psychologist and I argued that the wheelchair was giving me the opportunity to get fitter and perhaps more importantly giving me the opportunity to get out and about with minimal pain.

The Physio has seen it all before, patient saying, ‘but I will only use it a bit’ and then going into physical meltdown. I understood that. At the same time I felt I had already melted down and needed to do something about improving my fitness and lifestyle and most importantly my psychological health.

I left the meeting very demoralised, in fact it took 2 days to get over it. I eventually did this by discussing it with my wife (it just goes to remind me how important communication is when you suffer from any chronic illness). She pointed out that she would be there to help leaver me out of the chair and keep me exercising, whilst at the same time supporting me in using a chair to keep fit and get out and about.

I believe I have a sensible plan laid out which will help me to build fitness using the chair as another tool in my toolbox, primarily being used as a means of getting aerobic exercise and maintaining social links with people beyond the confines of my house. I would be very interested in hearing the points of view of anyone who has been in a similar situation.

Once again I have written a poem on the subject, I hope you like it.

Choices

He places the sticks in front of him,
takes the strain on his mighty shoulders
and takes a pace forward.
Pain sears through his skin
as his trousers brush against it.
As the foot is placed, weight transfers
an explosion of pain shoots through the limb
and bile surges upwards.
He’s moves just under a foot.

He thinks back to the old days.
He has time to think, as he gathers
the courage to take the next step.
He’d run up Ben Nevis and Pen y Fan*.
The playgrounds of his youth,
oh those were the days.
Yet here, crippled by pain
he laboriously advances foot by foot
as if climbing Everest with no oxygen.

Every day he walks, and every day
the distance covered in the hour shrinks,
all the while the memories hurt more
and the abyss deepens.
Here a man who would not quit - quits.
Old before his years, crippled, worn out.
The bag of memories contained in a
fat, pink fleshy membrane
stops and salt water seeps from his eyes.

He tries a wheelchair; instant freedom,
powerful shoulders drive him forward.
Mile after mile through the lanes
Stopping at will to seize the moment,
A hedgerow primrose, tricked into early blossom,
Birds singing in the empty branches above him.
The sea like green glass three hundred feet below.
A dog walker offers to push him up a hill,
Proudly he declines, they chat as he struggles on.

Unimpressed the physio warns,
‘the legs will fade if you don’t use them’.
He knows, he’s struggled for years only to be
trapped in a body that’s too painful to move.
The choice she sees is use wheels and lose legs.
The choice he sees is use wheels or lose life.
For what use are legs that hurt too much to use
If the sound, scent and sites
of our beautiful world are unattainable.

John Carré Buchanan
14 January 2012

* Pen y Fan. is the tallest mountain in South Wales, I came to know it very well as a member of the Parachute Regiment in the mid 80's. We seemed to spend a lot of time running over the mountain on a run affectionately called 'The Fan Dance'.

Waiting for Morpheus

One of the issues with CRPS is that it severely disrupts sleep. I’ve spent hours lying in bed racked in pain trying to sleep to no avail. These hours of darkness, when spent alone with thoughts darker than the darkest night, are the hardest to endure.

Recently one of our cats has taken to joining me in the early hours. He too knows what it is to suffer, having lost a front leg several years ago. I sometimes wonder if he gets as much comfort from me as I get from him in the early hours.

In order to improve my chances of establishing a sleep routine, I am now staying up until 03:00 hrs before retiring. I have found that this is giving me a reasonably consistent three or four hours which is a significant improvement on where I was. One of the benefits of this is that when the pain allows I am able to write. This is my latest poem;

Waiting for Morpheus

I lie in the dark, waiting.
Time passes unmeasured,
and here in the pitch black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.

The body craves sleep,
Yet pain forces it away,
and here in the inky black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.

Rapid thuds of paws on carpet,
the cat lands beside me.
and here in the jet black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.

He gently butts me with his head,
then curls in a ball beside me.
Here in the velvet black silence
We wait and wait and wait.

He snuggles in tight,
then begins to snore.
Leaving me to fight black thoughts
as I wait for the arms of Morpheus.

John Carré Buchanan
10 January 2012

Birdsong

Over the last few years the pain in my right leg has worsened to the point where walking, even with the aid of two sticks has become too painful. Despite having worked extremely hard to retain the ability to walk, the distance I have been able to endure has slowly decreased.

Towards the end of December I borrowed a wheelchair from a friend. I was not eager to do this as it could be seen as quitting, but I had the feeling that it might just offer me something I had been missing.

During the last week I have been out for several ‘wheels’ (walks or pushes) and I have learnt that the chair brings me two valuable gifts. The first is the ability to exercise and burn off some of the weight I have accumulated through comfort eating. Secondly and perhaps more importantly the chair gives me the ability to get out and about.

The chair will not be a permanent feature of my life, but rather than another tool I can use to battle the demon that is CRPS.

I wrote this poem to celebrate my return from one such wheel. Please feel free to leave a comment.

Birdsong

Sweet music envelopes my soul
it soothes away tension
and warms a heart, that pain
cooled and hardened.

I sit in a country lane
and listen to birds
as they sing of freedom amidst
the branches of leaf stripped trees.

At home two sticks rest.
Today a wheelchair bore me
to a place I could not reach
and for a while, bought me freedom.

John Carré Buchanan
10 January 2012