The Bars

Image Source: John Buchanan

Living with pain is not easy but I have been given a number of tools which help me to endure it, one group of tools which I use a lot is the cognitive suite. This helps me keep my thoughts, emotions, feelings and behaviours aligned.

During the last month or so I have been kept indoors by a combination of the rain or the pain. I have tried to keep myself as busy as possible, but there are only so many drawings I can draw, poems I can write or times I can watch ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ on the TV.

As I have struggled to keep my feelings in check I have taken to watching what has been going on outside through the window and I have realised that I have felt imprisoned. A few days ago I realised that the rain on the windows has added to the illusion. This realisation was the genesis for a poem. I hope you like it.

The Bars

Staring through the bars on the window
I watch the distant trees sway in the gale.
The three fruit trees in the garden
have lost the blossom that appeared two weeks ago.
Grubby pink petals now wash along the ground
and gather in the corners of the drive;
it looks like there'll be no plums this year.
The grey sky, full of cloud, seems to brush the ground,
its watery mass drives hard at the faces of passers-by.
They dash from door to door trying to stay dry.
Here I sit in the warm living room
a cosy blanket wrapped around my shoulders,
staring out through the rain soaked window,
a prisoner to the rivulets
which trickle down the glass pane.

John Carré Buchanan
12 April 2013

Drizzle

Today I had a meeting in London which unfortunately, I had to attend. Having flown from Guernsey to Gatwick I took the train into central London this meant that I had to stand in the cold drizzle on a station platform for quarter of an hour waiting for a train to arrive.

Three minutes before the train was due an announcement came over the platform speakers telling everyone that there was to be a platform change. With all the escalators bringing people down onto the platform it meant that the only way to change platform was to use the steps. “Whoopee” I hear you say, “big deal”.

Well when tethered to the ground by two walking sticks and having a top speed of a startled tortoise it was going to be a major challenge. Fortunately, being Britain, the train was a couple of minutes late and I managed to change platforms with just enough time to board the train.

Having arrived early for the meeting, I decided to write a poem about a station platform I remember from a dim and distant past. I hope you enjoy it;

Drizzle

The biting cold wind blows the rain in,
not the hard downpour that people sit out
but the incessant drizzle that seeps in.
The tiny irritating droplets that seep through
the most resilient waterproof.
The type of rain that sets in for the day.

Travellers huddle on the platform,
using a closed café as a wind break.
Thick coats, warm gloves, hats, scarves.
are not enough to cheer their grim faces.
With chins tucked low into raised collars
they hide like primeval man in the lee of a stone.

A voice crackles; “The Train approaching….
Heads lift and turn to the right in unison,
Slowly a train rumbles into the station.
Reluctantly passengers move to toe the line
the train stops, doors open to the awkward dance
as passengers tussle to get in or out of the rain.

John Carré Buchanan
8th December 2011

Pacing Plans

Remembrance Sunday is a very important day for me. Even before I became a Christian, I used to go to the memorial service and pay my respects. Nowadays I feel the need to go even more strongly than when I was serving.

This morning I took my son to the local service. As I was one of the few veterans attending we were asked to lay a wreath on behalf of the British Legion. Following the laying of the wreaths we walked a short distance to the church where there was a particularly touching service. In all I stood for about 25 minutes and walk about 400 metres on sticks but it turned out to be too much for me. I spent the afternoon taking things very easily, but all the while I could feel the tell tail signs of a flare up coming on. It finally hit hard at about 4 o’clock this afternoon and despite having taken all the meds and run through the techniques I use to manage such situations I am still sliding.

Fortunately, last Sunday I built the service into my week’s pacing plan and was careful to build in an expectation that the afternoon and tonight would be very difficult. I planned an afternoon of reading poetry and other activities which would minimise my discomfort. I also made sure that I let my family know what was likely to happen so that they would not be fussing around me, something which makes me feel guilty and depressed. In short I prepared myself and my support team physically and mentally for a difficult time.

I also decided that I would post the following poem in the late evening. The poem describes what it is like to have a flare up. It does not make comfortable reading, but I’m hoping that it will demonstrate to other pain sufferers that if you pace yourself and plan how you are going to deal with a flare up it is possible to achieve things you might not normally achieve.

I know this strategy doesn’t help on the occasions when you get caught out but the old Army saying known as the 7 P’s is worth remembering; Prior Preparation and Planning Prevent Piss Poor Performance.

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 Reward

I was chatting with a friend of mine who is working in Uganda at the moment. He had just finished a hard day flying and was settling down to a nice cold Nile. His description of the beer; “Cold and sweet amber nectar, moisture is running gently down the bottles exterior. One takes a thoughtful look into a distant horizon, as it gently flows across ones lips. Ahhhhh” reminded me of a similar occasion 20 years ago when I served in Belize. I was responsible for discharging two “Maintenance ships”. These vessels bought all the heavy equipment the forces required to operate, and returned equipment that was damaged or not required to the UK.

Unloading these ships was both challenging and rewarding. The equipment available to us for the discharge was basic, and on both occasions there was a rain storm which made everything that bit more treacherous and difficult.

Two things I remember most about that job, were this sign on the Port gate;

and the tradition of retiring to the beautiful colonial veranda of number 4 Fort Street after the job was done. There the exhausted Ops team sat and drank ice cold Pina Coladas served in what I can only describe as a glass the size of a small goldfish bowl.

The seed for the following poem had been sown;

The Maint. Ship

Harsh dockside lights illuminate the pier sparkling in the heavy tropical rain.
Stevedores wait patiently as Pilot and Master bring her alongside,
scuppers spewing rainwater.

Heaving lines are thrown and caught, hawsers drawn in and made fast,
the Gangway’s lowered. As the Pilot disembarks he shouts greetings
to boarding Customs and Ship Agents.

The Radio crackles, sparking a flurry of activity as stevedores spring into action.
Hatch covers are raised as chain gangs descend on the cargo to un-lash.
High above crane operators peer through the rain - waiting.

The hold reverberates with the rattles and clangs of shackles, chains, strops, hooks,
As they compete with the incessant drum of the torrential downpour.
A torch summons the hook from above.

The hours pass in a flurry of activity, hooks dip into the hold, their chains dangling
Stevedores clamber over the vehicles and ammunition pallets readying each lift
and vital equipment emerges from the hold.

Shore side, high-viz vests and flashing lights dance an intricate two-step
as vehicles are unlashed and driven off, and stores are loaded on trucks
and all the while the rain pours.

The light changes as dawn passes unnoticed and the crews change shift,
tired grease and rust stained bodies exchanged for fresh eager faces.
But the discharge doesn’t pause.

Tween decks are cleared and the hold’s vertical walls disappear into the depths,
The chain gang finishes un-lashing, in the boot deep rain water,
As they clear the dunnage, the last load emerges.

Down on the pier dented, broken or redundant equipment starts to arrive.
and with hardly a pause the re-load commences, equipment bound for home.
And still it pours.

Finally the job is done, formalities complete, customs and ships agents down.
As the pier’s cleared of debris the vessel slips its berth and heads for home.
Suddenly the rain stops.

The troops head back to camp, exhausted but proud of the job they’ve done.
The boss and his ops team retire to the cool veranda at Four, Ford Street
to savour a ‘Pina Colada’ like no other.

John Carré Buchanan
30 July 2011