Tag Archives: sick

Since we last spoke..

I’m not going to apologise for talking about my life. It’s all I actually want to write about right now, and you’re here of your own free will so I’m allowed incessantly babble on about myself.

In my last post I think I talked about me feeling rather poorly and how I hoped to make it to The National in Dublin last Friday evening? Yeah well that didn’t happen. And to put it bluntly, it really, really sucks. Bigstyle. There’s not much I can do about it, I know, but it’s realising how close I actually came to seeing them live is what hurts so much.

I’m probably over-reacting. It’s just music, right? Not really though. To most people, Boxer is a couple of good songs by some indie band from Brooklyn. To me though, The National mean a hell of a lot more. Maybe one day I’ll go into it, but not now.

I remember first hearing the rumours that they were coming to Dublin. I was fucking ecstatic. Delirious. It was unbelievable. I was dancing around the house like a headless chicken while my parents looked on in amusement. They understood though. Highs followed lows as the shows sold out, as I managed to get tickets from a friend, as plans got messed up, as plans sorted themselves out, and then the final devastating low last Friday morning when I couldn’t get out of bed.

It didn’t really hit me then. At the time I just felt so shit the last thing I wanted to do was get on a bloody train and traipse around Dublin in the snow. I couldn’t have done it and I wouldn’t have enjoyed it one bit. Today though, on the way home, Bloodbuzz Ohio was mentioned on the radio and immediately I changed channel. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t listen to The National. I couldn’t sit there and let that recording play knowing that I so very nearly heard it live. That moment killed me.

Then I was decorating the Christmas tree earlier and I couldn’t even consider playing Alligator. It sat there in the pile of CDs, but I just couldn’t put it on. No Age, Holy Fuck and Abe Vigoda made up my decorating soundtrack. Not bad, but The National just shoulda been there..

I’ll see them some day, and I know it’ll be worth the wait.

In other news:

  • I had my Irish oral today. Got an A1 (fuckyeah)!
  • Two weeks yesterday ’til my birthday which is exciting!
  • Christmas exams start Thursday which is not exciting.
  • I have a dental appointment on Monday, which may sound like a mundane fact but it is actually a huge event in the life of a dentophobia sufferer.
  • I put up the Christmas tree this evening but plenty of decorating remains to be done.
  • I am going to go to the library tomorrow with Caroline to study for the day. It has been two weeks since I’ve opened a book at home due to my being sick. (Refer to point about Christmas exams)
  • I also hope to get a pair of shoes tomorrow. Grey or black pumps, but a decent pair.
  • I got a lovely, warm, black parka the other day.
  • I currently have a €50 note stuck inside one of my Uggs. I must purchase a harness for the dog tomorrow and I get to keep the change. The harness costs a tenner.
  • I’m tired and I should go to bed (wearing my new pyjama pants!) Good night.

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What’s this?!

At this moment in time you may be thinking that your eyes are deceiving you. This couldn’t possibly be a new blog post from Niamh, could it? No, not really. It’s just going to say the same stuff that all the others say, but technically it could be considered new content. There’s something for you too all debate amongst yourselves.

I don’t really have the time to write here anymore, so you might find yourself wondering (or at least I find myself wondering if you’re wondering) why I’ve suddenly popped up here with a few words of my infamous (not) wisdom. Well, I’m sick. Sort of. I think. Hopefully not. Anymore.

On Thursday night there I started on the ol’ Biology papers, beginning the long trek through the light and dark phases of photosynthesis. Paul McLoone had this competition on his show where you could win two tickets to The National at Other Voices in Dingle. I got nervous and excited at the same time and hijacked all the mobile phones in the house to enter said competition. Around the same time I began to feel a bit crappy. McLoone announced the winner, and it wasn’t me. Or any of my family members who wouldn’t know a National song if it jumped up and hit them.

I abandoned the charming Biology papers and installed myself in front of Ros na Rún, bowl of Cheerios in hand. I think I’ve watched about three and a half episodes of Ros na Rún, but sometimes you get an idea into your head. Anyway, I thought I was developing ‘sensitivity’: a unique, hard-to-describe affliction that I sometimes develop for a day or two. I guess it’s like the flu, but then again, I’ve never had the flu, so I don’t really know for sure. It only lasts a day or two though, usually cured by two paracetamol and a night’s sleep.

But, on this particular occasion, WE HAD NO PARACETAMOL IN THE HOUSE. I’d like to pause here for a second and say the following: WHAT. THE. FUCK. What kind of house doesn’t have paracetamol? There was a few drops of Paralink in a bottle, so I downed that. It really didn’t taste like the claimed ‘strawberry’ flavour but I didn’t care. Ros na Rún was getting interesting.

I went to bed early and took up where I’d left of with The Secret Life of Bees, that ol’ Leaving Cert novel that I should have read over the summer but didn’t. Next morning I woke up none the better and stayed in bed for the day, awaiting a delivery of Panadol and Lucozade, which seemed to help things alright it has to be said. Within an hour of the sweet, sweet Panadol dropping into my stomach all seemed well again. I ate a bit f pasta, took a shower and went to a friend’s house to eat pizza and caramel slices while watching Tubs on the Toy Show.

Getting out of bed on Saturday morning was a bit of a trek, but I managed it, and off to town I went in my ridiculously stupid outfit of a little vintage cropped blazer, bandage skirt and pumps. It was bloody freezing. Did coffee, went home, went to bed. Felt mank, slept, listened to the radio, worried about my health, etc.

Sunday passed in much the same fashion, just involving Sunday papers and plenty of The Panel on RTE Player. Single Handed and a cup of tea perked me up a bit though. There’s just something about that Garda uniform..

Now it’s Monday, and I’m at home. The snow is melting and it’s all disgusting so I don’t want to go out and take photos because it’s frankly quite depressing. I’ve also given up thinking about all the study and homework time I lost over the past four days, and have instead turned my attention towards making it to Dublin on Friday for The National. Which I will. Fuck the Leaving Cert, fuck school, just once I get to listen to that beautiful music LIVE. Excitement is building. And I’d also love if Dublin was all snowy, but I hate slush, okay?

So off you go to cross your fingers, look for 11:11 on the clock, throw copper coins over your shoulder, pray, meditate, whatever you’re into, so that I can make it there.

I’ll bring you back a National badge, like. Now there’s an offer you can’t refuse..

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A crappy end to a good year

Two thousand and nine. I liked it. It was all so, so good up until, I dunno, Stephen’s Day or something. Christmas Eve was the best, but I don’t want to say it started going downhill from Christmas Day. I guess the depression really sank in the day after Stephen’s Day. The mighty 27th of December.

The past few days were horrible. Really, really awful. Our 7 month old German Shepherd had been getting sick for a while and lost a huge amount of weight over Christmas. We had to ring the vet on his mobile and call him in to the surgery during his holidays to have our Zico looked at. He got a blood test on the 28th and we got the results on Tuesday evening. There was no definite illness, but our vet said it could be Addison’s disease, a very rare condition of the adrenal glands, whereby the body does not produce sufficient steroids. It is mostly found in middle-aged female dogs. JFK had it. I found all this information from the mighty Google, and it all looked quite positive, because with proper treatment there is no reason why an Addisonian cannot live a long, healthy life.

On the 30th, Zico was brought into the vet early in the morning. I was sitting in the car, and I watched him walk after my dad, so slowly. And he went in through those doors, and the staff came out and chatted to my dad for a bit. And I saw Richard, the vet, lift poor Zico up, so easily, as though he were a much smaller dog.

My dad came back to the car and told us that Richard wasn’t hopeful. Even in two short days he had seen a deterioration in his condition. They were going to do alot of tests on him, to get a definitive result on the Addison’s, and if that wasn’t it, try everything else. Leaving there, even though it wasn’t extremely hopeful, I knew he was in the best hands, and that there was nowhere else safer for our sick puppy to go.

We went for breakfast in town, as in the rents, my brother, and me. It was fine. I had toast with butter and cinnamon or some shit, and a glass of orange juice. I felt a bit wrecked because I had a cold and after breakfast I left the others and went to Plugd. Albert had a smile and a bitta banter for me, and Jim asked me did I want a tea or a coffee from next door. I was crying in there, mostly from the bitter wind outside and the fact that my eyes are incapable of staying dry in such conditions, but also because I was worried about the dog, and because it was the second last day of Plugd Records, and how Albert still seemed happy, and Jim personally offered me a coffee.

And then I went and got my photo taken for the provisional which turned out crap because I hadn’t had time for a shower and I had a cold. Town was eerily quiet, and I hated it. I waited at the car for over ten minutes as I almost froze to death before the parents came along. And I realised my passport was at home so I needn’t have bothered with the bloody photos.

And as soon as I got through the front door and into my bedroom I took off my coat, threw my bag on the floor and got into bed. I pulled the duvet over me, just wanting to hide from the world. Along with the cold I just felt miserable. I was so worried about the puppy too and I just hated it. I wanted it all to be ok again. I lay awake alot. I slept a little bit. After eight hours in bed, I finally got up at about eight pm. I went into the kitchen where my mum was clearing up. My dad had gone to drop my nana home. I poured a glass of water. I sat on the couch in the kitchen. My mum came over to ask me how I was.

I didn’t care. I asked her about Zico, and she was silent. ‘He died, didn’t he?’ I said to her. Again, she didn’t reply. Then, ‘The vet called. He had to put him down this evening.’ And that was it. Every feeling in my body disappeared. I didn’t care that I had a cold and a fever and a headache. I screamed. I cried. I shouted. I bawled and roared my head off. The tears streamed down my face and I wanted that dog back so, so bad. I couldn’t take it. I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted someone to blame. So I looked.

‘It wasn’t the Addison’s’, my mother said. ‘He developed pouches in his oesophagus so food was getting caught there and never reaching his stomach.’ I knew it wasn’t Addison’s. He was a young, male puppy. Addison’s wouldn’t have killed him anyway. I don’t know how long I moved from room to room screaming and crying. I felt like a part of me was gone. I felt so empty.

Two years ago, on my way into Maths Paper 2 of the mocks, I found my black Labrador dead on the road. Of course I cried, alot, but not as much as I did when I heard about Zico. The Labrador was almost six years old, so you’d think I’d have been more upset having grown more attached to her. That was true, but with Zico, it was this horrific sorrow of losing him. It was because he was so young, and was such an amazing dog. In his short four months with us, he became the most well-behaved dog we have ever seen. He was an absolutely gorgeous German Shepherd, my dad’s pride and joy. When the weather was still fine, we’d bring him to Kinsale and the waiter in the café fell in love with him. He’d always ask for him when we didn’t have him with us, and brought a dish of water for him when he was with us.

I hate thinking about how he suffered, not for long, but he suffered. And it’s awful to think of how I could have spent more time with him, but I didn’t. He was such a beautiful dog and I miss him. I miss him so much. I cry when I think about him and want him back. I want to walk down the road with him and I want to play with him and I want to hug him and I just want him to be sitting there when I go outside. But he won’t be. He’ll never be here again, but he will forever remain in our hearts.

RIP Zico.

Here’s a photo of him on one of his first days with us. More recent photos haven’t made it onto the laptop yet.

Our baby...

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