A story of a broken health service and back pain with an arthritic ending

My apologies if this seems a long story...

The ending of last weekend has not been my favourite, not by a long chalk.  I, we, have lost one child and the merest inkling of a possibility of losing our other is beyond comprehension.  And so as last weekend ended that was how it felt to me.

[Let me just insert a point here, I am trying to tell this story from my own perspective because this is my blog.  That is not to diminish in any way the equal and great love and concern of my wife and my son's wife and indeed my 8-month old grandson (who was reacting to the escalating emotions and lack of access to his Dad).]

The weekend itself was full of fun and joy, lots of new babies, three generations of friends, lots of happiness and photographs.  And then time to go home.  Except that my son's back pain exploded into a such a state that he could not move.  He had made it upstairs to bed and as Monday unfolded (and other guests disappearing) found that coming downstairs was an increasing impossibility.  Not only that he could make it to the toilet, could not move any which-way without spasms of pain wreaking through his entire body.

A History of My Arthritis

Forty years ago, around the age of 23 one Sunday in spring I went cycling. By the time I got home I felt stiff in my knees.  So I rested up.  By the next morning my legs were like balloons and soon to hospital I went.

Six months of physiotherapy and a diagnosis of Psoriatic Arthropathy was the result. Not just my knees were affected, rather almost every joint in body seemed to have aged another 30 years.

This was followed by 40 years of stability leaving me to work,  play badminton, swim and walk at the weekends.  All I needed was a blister pack of Diclofenac Sodium per year of so.