My brain hurts from all the reading I could do; firstly the Cochrane Review that I interpret to mean we with ME should all join gyms and sod the consequences, and then, hot-off-the-press, what Simon says about data sharing.* So, I'll rest the brain and side-step to something lighter.
My visit to my aunt and uncle the other day (blog 6) made me realise how precious the balance of time and energy is. The basis of pacing oneself.
Conversation turned to family history. My aunt told of a bomb that dropped during the war on an area of Edinburgh called Craigentinny where she and my mum grew up. Their father, a Fire Warden, was out on duty while they and my grandmother joined community singing in the air-raid shelter. Craigentinny has an old tower dating from the 16th Century (witch burning time? See earlier blogs.) The tower took a hit. On exiting the shelter my grandmother was told that her husband had been killed in the bombing of the tower so she was astonished when he appeared walking jauntily along their street five minutes later. He knew nothing about it but was given a terrible row for giving her such a fright. Turned out that the caretaker of the tower had the same name and there had been a mix-up. For days neighbours passed their condolences to my grandmother. Such a shame for the caretaker to be caught up in a random dropping of left-over bombs after a more targeted bombing campaign over the shipbuilding area of Clydebank.
My uncle, who lived next door to my aunt as a child - they've known each other for nearly 90 years - described what it was like to emerge from the shelter to see blocks of flats and part of the tower lying in rubble and how readily people accepted the sight without any histrionics.*
I've been guilty in the past of not stopping to listen to the family stories... from relatives who are no longer around to tell them. Work and present day family matters intrude and then it's too late; my father's sister lived near Stirling at a time my mum had dementia and the kids were little. I'm very grateful that I found myself in Dunblane (home of Andy Murray) for a work conference one day and although tired I stopped at my Aunt's house near Stirling. It ended up being a long visit because she started a story I'd heard fragments of over the years. With the fragments pieced together the story had become a bit misshapen but my aunt reassembled it with the names in the right places and the outcome clearer if a little unnerving. I wrote the story down at the time so will try to unearth it from an old computer and add it to the blog.
Many people with ME/CFS find pacing to be a technique that is crucial to keeping going. Pacing, the balance between activity and rest, means prioritising. May I learn to prioritise wisely.
My visit to my aunt and uncle the other day (blog 6) made me realise how precious the balance of time and energy is. The basis of pacing oneself.
Conversation turned to family history. My aunt told of a bomb that dropped during the war on an area of Edinburgh called Craigentinny where she and my mum grew up. Their father, a Fire Warden, was out on duty while they and my grandmother joined community singing in the air-raid shelter. Craigentinny has an old tower dating from the 16th Century (witch burning time? See earlier blogs.) The tower took a hit. On exiting the shelter my grandmother was told that her husband had been killed in the bombing of the tower so she was astonished when he appeared walking jauntily along their street five minutes later. He knew nothing about it but was given a terrible row for giving her such a fright. Turned out that the caretaker of the tower had the same name and there had been a mix-up. For days neighbours passed their condolences to my grandmother. Such a shame for the caretaker to be caught up in a random dropping of left-over bombs after a more targeted bombing campaign over the shipbuilding area of Clydebank.
My uncle, who lived next door to my aunt as a child - they've known each other for nearly 90 years - described what it was like to emerge from the shelter to see blocks of flats and part of the tower lying in rubble and how readily people accepted the sight without any histrionics.*
I've been guilty in the past of not stopping to listen to the family stories... from relatives who are no longer around to tell them. Work and present day family matters intrude and then it's too late; my father's sister lived near Stirling at a time my mum had dementia and the kids were little. I'm very grateful that I found myself in Dunblane (home of Andy Murray) for a work conference one day and although tired I stopped at my Aunt's house near Stirling. It ended up being a long visit because she started a story I'd heard fragments of over the years. With the fragments pieced together the story had become a bit misshapen but my aunt reassembled it with the names in the right places and the outcome clearer if a little unnerving. I wrote the story down at the time so will try to unearth it from an old computer and add it to the blog.
Many people with ME/CFS find pacing to be a technique that is crucial to keeping going. Pacing, the balance between activity and rest, means prioritising. May I learn to prioritise wisely.
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