MARIE: We're back from hospital, now with the duodopa pump. It went well, on the whole. The specialist nurse is an absolute marvel, very knowledgeable and personable and magically available. Most of the others were kind and efficient, though rushed.
On the first day, Jon got a tube stuck up his nose, down his throat and into his stomach. That was, as promised, the nastiest part of the entire experience (especially since the procedure had to be repeated twice for technical reasons). That done, a few days were spent teaching us to work the buttons on the pump and fiddling with the dosages, which can be very finely tuned. There is a morning dose to get Jon started, a background dose throughout the day and evening, and an extra dose that can be taken as needed in anticipation or reaction to anything stressful or strenuous (such as having a shower or going shopping).
That settled, everything when quiet over the weekend, with surgery set for Monday morning. As lots of people were sent home or sent on for the weekend, I managed to get Jon moved to a window slot for an excellent 6th floor view of snowstorms over Copenhagen.
Surgery was to insert the PEG tube through which runs the inner tube delivering drugs direct into the duodenum, which is where L-dopa is absorbed. All went well and Jon was soon back in his room. He was fine a first, but when the local anesthetic wore off, it got pretty uncomfortable. So they gave him morphine for the pain and left a sleeping pill on his bedside table, just in case. The trouble was, he woke up about 3:30 am and took the sleeping pill - far too late, of course. So that first morning was quite scary. His blood pressure was ridiculously low so his legs simply gave way several times, and he talked the most complete nonsense. I was very glad to have both the specialist nurse and my sister, who is also a nurse, there to deal with the situation and assure me it was a passing problem. Indeed, after a very long nap, Jon was entirely himself again.
So after a few more days of pump training, now focused on maintenance and cleaning, Jon was discharged. We were perhaps a bit nervous the first day or two at home, but now begin to feel really quite comfortable about the workings and effects of the pump. It is definitely a relief to just have to handle it mornings and evenings (it comes off at night) instead of having to deal with pills every two hours. And although the dosages may need to be adjusted slightly, the symptom relief is clearly very much better and especially very much more reliable than what Jon got from the pills.
So that's the good news. The bad news is that sorting out the biggest problem, i.e. the physical symptoms of Parkinson's, allows the second-biggest problem, the cognitive symptoms, to be seen more clearly. They've been a big concern for me for some time, and I believe Jon is now getting an inkling of the extent of his impairment. That must be frightening, frustrating, infuriating, intolerable. And what is he to do with those emotions, where is he to direct them? My way, is the answer.
He's been really quite unpleasant to me recently (but fortunately not to anyone else). It's been mostly verbal and mostly of a passive-aggressive nature, but earlier today he actually shook his fist in my face as if to punch me. I didn't think he actually would, but it’s an escalation of frustration and the inability to express it which could conceivably in time lead to worse.
What with the pre-treatment stress, the ten days in hospital and now the holidays coming up, we have spent far to much time grating on each other. I hope that a bit of physical distance in the new year will put us on a more even keel. To that end, I have arranged to borrow an office nearby two days a week for a writing project. With the three days Jon is out at the Oak House or with his "butler" that means we'll get several hours apart every weekday. I hope that's enough.
PS: Jon has seen this post and accepted that I upload it, but does not want to comment.
Showing posts with label mental strain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental strain. Show all posts
23 December 2012
12 November 2012
Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square
MARIE: We went to London last weekend. Jon’s been itching to go to see an exhibition about the computing pioneer (and WWII code breaker) Alan Türing. After the war Türing worked at the same university department as Jon’s dad – Türing was very much the theoretician, while Jon’s dad put theory into practice by writing the very first chess software. Consequently, Jon’s dad got a display case all to himself at the exhibition, which was well worth seeing. (Jon also believes to have briefly sat on Türing’s knee as a toddler, a gratifyingly eccentric claim to reflected fame.)
Anyway, encouraged by the success of our Amsterdam trip (see blog posts past), we set off for London. The old question of whether it is better to travel than to arrive has been decisively answered by the budget airlines. After a long day involving 5 modes of transport with much walking and lugging of luggage in between, we finally arrived Friday night at a hotel near where we used to live in East London.
Saturday morning we slept in, then ambled down the high street breathing the familiar big city fumes. Jon found it more difficult than ever before to deal with the pedestrian dance of sto
p – go – lurch sharply to avoid umbrella – go – run for green light – stop for pram. He was festinating away quite alarmingly, tripping himself up, feeling his feet stuck to the ground at the wrong time. If you don’t know what festination looks like, it’s as if the upper body moves forward as intended while the feet stay behind, and then when a fall is imminent, the feet suddenly come ‘unstuck’ from the ground and rush in many tiny steps to catch up with the body. A bit of a concern around the house, and bloody terrifying in the middle of London traffic.Happily, though, Jon survived long enough to be reunited with his daughter, son-in-law and two lovely grandchildren. We had a long leisurely lunch, then Jon had a little nap while the rest of us played outside, then another meal together, and finally a drink in the hotel bar. A long day, but an intensely enjoyable one.
Sunday was the family excursion to see the exhibition. The Science Museum is right next door to the Natural History Museum, home to dinosaur fossils and stuffed whales, and so of enormous interest to the grandchildren. In we went – Jon’s walking stick and the look on his face got us whisked past the long queue – to a museum where the collection is as spectacular as the building is noisy. Hard surfaces and high ceilings plus thousands of over-excited children was a bit much for Jon, so he and I retired to the café with grandson, where we spent a pleasant half-hour drawing imaginary butterflies and setting them loose to flutter around people’s heads. Then on to the Türing exhibition, which was small and perfectly formed. Granddaughter and I made it a particular point to talk loudly throughout about how famous her great-granddad was.
Then, and this is where we perhaps pushed the boat out a bit far, we were joined by the in-laws who had traveled for hours to enjoy a late lunch with us before getting straight back on the train. Each individual element of the day was perfectly fine, but two exhibitions and a sociable meal out on the same day is just one event too many for Jon. At the end of the meal, we said our goodbyes in the restaurant because I could see that he was just too exhausted to come along and wave everyone off at the station.
And that was basically that. We had another two days in London, but although we spent some more time walking around the old neighbourhood, we never ventured into the centre again, and spent most of our time either in the hotel room or in the blissfully music-free pub across the street. There was just no energy whatsoever left in Jon. It was the combination of the stresses of air travel (by contrast, we drove to Amsterdam), too many activities in too short a time, and (especially, in my view) the relentless sensory onslaught of such a large and busy place.
I have a theory that if you never try something and fail at it, it’s because you’re being too timid. You have to stretch yourself, test your limits, and sometimes you end up over-stretching. We used to love London when we lived there 15 or so years ago, but now we have to accept that London is simply beyond us. Parkinson’s is turning us into small-town folk and nature lovers.
12 October 2008
A good moan
Hello, it’s Marie again. We promised in one of the early blogs to give a bit of background to what came before the blog started. Since this has been a praticularly horrid week, we thought I should take the opportunity to give you a whistle-stop tour of our private Hades, taking it up to date with the latest set-back.
When Jon first got ill, neither one of us had any idea whatsoever what we were going to be faced with. I suppose that’s obvious, really. But we thought, you know, we can deal with this – one step at a time, us together against whatever comes at us, there’s nothing we cannot cope with. We had no idea. It has been so much worse than we imagined, every single bloody step of the way dogged not just by the “normal” disease but by special difficulties.
First there was the 18 months spent trying to get a diagnosis – Jon medicated increasingly aggressively for back pain when in fact the problem was Parkinson’s. Only no-one could see that, because the PD symptoms were believed to be side effects of the pain medication. Which wasn’t even working. Jon was taking higher and higher doses of morphine, and getting more and more difficult to reach with reason and affection. The pills were his only hope of relief and thus his only friends, while I who tried to limit his morphine intake became the enemy, to be at times physically fought off. I knew he was taking a lot of drugs, but I didn’t know how much morphine is too much, so was shocked to be told that towards the end, he was taking as much as is normally given to patients with terminal cancer. My sister, who is a nurse, was horrified to see Jon – still in agony, but now also high as a kite. A deeply unpleasant week of fast weaning off the drugs followed (the less said the better). That was the worst of it, but the period before Jon received the diagnosis of Parkinson’s also featured a failed back pain treatment involving a spinal injection of steroids which managed to make Jon even worse, and a thoughtless colleague of our then neurologist who was happy to inform Jon over the phone one Friday afternoon that his MRI scans showed clear signs of a stroke (particularly unwelcome news as it was multiple strokes that killed Jon’s mother).
When at last Jon got the diagnosis of PD, it felt like a relief, almost like good news compared to what we had feared. Hurra, a diagnosis, a treatment plan, a new set of drugs, clarity and a way forward. At first the PD drugs (and new pain meds) worked well, and the many books we read about the disease led us to believe that Jon would have years and years of excellent quality of life with the help of these lovely pills.
This state of calm did not last, though. Along came another, wholly unexpected, set of adversities when Jon’s employers refused point blank to accept that he was now well enough to work as normal again – despite the fact that there he was in office and lab every day, beavering away exactly as before. At first we thought this was merely some kind of bureacratic mix-up, but it soon became clear that Jon was trapped in a special Kafkaesque hell. First the employers wanted their own doctor’s opinion, which was that Jon was fine. But for some reason that wasn’t good enough for the personnel department, and the doctor had to meet with Jon and his immediate superior to discuss the situation. Again the conclusion was that Jon was fine, and again the employers refused to accept this. Jon was informed that the doctor’s opinion would be of no use unless the doctor had a copy of Jon’s job description – and since no such description had been produced before, the employers drew up a document that contained such obviously unattainable targets that it seemed designed specifically to further a firing squad. Trapped between a rock and a hard place – accept the job description and get fired for failing targets, or reject the job description and get fired for long-term illness – Jon was very much not a happy bunny during this time. In the end, with the help of legal advice, a medical arbitration service and a wife keen to fight a winnable battle, Jon was received back at work after seven months of stressful misery. But let’s be honest: not only did he so not need to have it constantly rubbed in that he was considered damaged goods, the very fact of the fight also soured his former love of his work – and the long drawn-out battle just simply exhausted his mental reserves.
We could both have done with a bit of a break after all that, but no. While the work problems were going on, Jon started sleeping less and less well, with predictably tired days to follow. And after a pretty long period of attempting to ignore the elephant in the corner, we admitted to each other that we were seriously concerned about his cognitive abilities – in a word, the big D of dementia. Jon’s dad had Alzheimer’s, and PD patients have a vastly increased risk of Alzheimer’s. Jon’s physical and mental deterioration also seemed to be much too fast to fit with our reading on Parkinson’s, so we started to worry that he might have one of the so-called PD+ conditions (which includes special kinds of dementia and the delightfully-named multiple system atrophy). So now he’s off work again. The neurologist makes encouraging noises to the effect that all Jon’s current problems could be the effect of yet another adverse drug reaction. However, it takes 6-8 weeks to change drug regimes (slowly decreasing one type of drug and increasing another) – and I don’t know about Jon, but I frankly don’t see as much progress as I had hoped for.
There has been quite a lot said in earlier posts about Jon’s sleep disorder. Yes, (some of) the individual stories about what he gets up to at night can be quite amusing, but in the long run it is so immensely draining – mostly for Jon, of course, but also for me – never to have a normal, unbroken night, and never to know what chaos you will have to clear up in the morning. I suppose in some ways it’s quite like having a baby, and people our age don’t generally have the energy for babies. We had both invested a lot of hope in this sleep registration Jon was going for a few days ago, where he was to be extensively wired up with a range of sensors that could measure in detail his every breath and jerk and brain wave throughout one night in hospital. All went well until Jon actually feel asleep – whereupon he acted out yet another dream and ripped off half his sensors. Night nurses aren’t trained to re-attach these sensors, so he got sent home with just 10 minutes of sleep recorded. It may seem a small thing, but it is yet another set-back, yet another disappointment, yet another delay in finding the true cause and (hopefully) remedy.
And lastly, as I said a few weeks ago, we are ceasing to be a team. There is less a feeling of us against them – or rather, against it – and more of a feeling of him against me and me against him. He resents being ill, resents what the illness does to him, and resents being dependent and needing my help – and so in one easy step he transfers his resentment to me. Likewise, I am angry about what PD is doing to my husband, my marriage and our plans for the future, and I guess I transfer some of that anger on to him. The conflict that has really brought us – or is it just me? – down is that, presumably as part of his campaign of denial, Jon refuses point blank to take any of the advice given by the various experts and therapists who treat him. If I push and plead, he only gets more adamant. If I don’t push or plead, well, I guess then he’s fairly content. But I find it immensely difficult to keep my peace since I can see so much sense in the advice Jon has been given, and I can see how not taking that advice is damaging both his and my quality of life. But so is pushing and pleading, so in some desperation I am now trying my hardest to disengage and concentrate instead on all the practical tasks. Feeling relegated to the role of nurse-maid, providing about as much affection as can be expected of the average nurse or maid.
This week I have ordered a book about how to survive life as a caregiver and have made an appointment for the pair of us with a psychologist recommended by a good friend. Fortunately, rather than the long wait I was expeting, the psychologist can see us in just two weeks’ time. Good. We need all the help we can get.
When Jon first got ill, neither one of us had any idea whatsoever what we were going to be faced with. I suppose that’s obvious, really. But we thought, you know, we can deal with this – one step at a time, us together against whatever comes at us, there’s nothing we cannot cope with. We had no idea. It has been so much worse than we imagined, every single bloody step of the way dogged not just by the “normal” disease but by special difficulties.
First there was the 18 months spent trying to get a diagnosis – Jon medicated increasingly aggressively for back pain when in fact the problem was Parkinson’s. Only no-one could see that, because the PD symptoms were believed to be side effects of the pain medication. Which wasn’t even working. Jon was taking higher and higher doses of morphine, and getting more and more difficult to reach with reason and affection. The pills were his only hope of relief and thus his only friends, while I who tried to limit his morphine intake became the enemy, to be at times physically fought off. I knew he was taking a lot of drugs, but I didn’t know how much morphine is too much, so was shocked to be told that towards the end, he was taking as much as is normally given to patients with terminal cancer. My sister, who is a nurse, was horrified to see Jon – still in agony, but now also high as a kite. A deeply unpleasant week of fast weaning off the drugs followed (the less said the better). That was the worst of it, but the period before Jon received the diagnosis of Parkinson’s also featured a failed back pain treatment involving a spinal injection of steroids which managed to make Jon even worse, and a thoughtless colleague of our then neurologist who was happy to inform Jon over the phone one Friday afternoon that his MRI scans showed clear signs of a stroke (particularly unwelcome news as it was multiple strokes that killed Jon’s mother).
When at last Jon got the diagnosis of PD, it felt like a relief, almost like good news compared to what we had feared. Hurra, a diagnosis, a treatment plan, a new set of drugs, clarity and a way forward. At first the PD drugs (and new pain meds) worked well, and the many books we read about the disease led us to believe that Jon would have years and years of excellent quality of life with the help of these lovely pills.
This state of calm did not last, though. Along came another, wholly unexpected, set of adversities when Jon’s employers refused point blank to accept that he was now well enough to work as normal again – despite the fact that there he was in office and lab every day, beavering away exactly as before. At first we thought this was merely some kind of bureacratic mix-up, but it soon became clear that Jon was trapped in a special Kafkaesque hell. First the employers wanted their own doctor’s opinion, which was that Jon was fine. But for some reason that wasn’t good enough for the personnel department, and the doctor had to meet with Jon and his immediate superior to discuss the situation. Again the conclusion was that Jon was fine, and again the employers refused to accept this. Jon was informed that the doctor’s opinion would be of no use unless the doctor had a copy of Jon’s job description – and since no such description had been produced before, the employers drew up a document that contained such obviously unattainable targets that it seemed designed specifically to further a firing squad. Trapped between a rock and a hard place – accept the job description and get fired for failing targets, or reject the job description and get fired for long-term illness – Jon was very much not a happy bunny during this time. In the end, with the help of legal advice, a medical arbitration service and a wife keen to fight a winnable battle, Jon was received back at work after seven months of stressful misery. But let’s be honest: not only did he so not need to have it constantly rubbed in that he was considered damaged goods, the very fact of the fight also soured his former love of his work – and the long drawn-out battle just simply exhausted his mental reserves.
We could both have done with a bit of a break after all that, but no. While the work problems were going on, Jon started sleeping less and less well, with predictably tired days to follow. And after a pretty long period of attempting to ignore the elephant in the corner, we admitted to each other that we were seriously concerned about his cognitive abilities – in a word, the big D of dementia. Jon’s dad had Alzheimer’s, and PD patients have a vastly increased risk of Alzheimer’s. Jon’s physical and mental deterioration also seemed to be much too fast to fit with our reading on Parkinson’s, so we started to worry that he might have one of the so-called PD+ conditions (which includes special kinds of dementia and the delightfully-named multiple system atrophy). So now he’s off work again. The neurologist makes encouraging noises to the effect that all Jon’s current problems could be the effect of yet another adverse drug reaction. However, it takes 6-8 weeks to change drug regimes (slowly decreasing one type of drug and increasing another) – and I don’t know about Jon, but I frankly don’t see as much progress as I had hoped for.
There has been quite a lot said in earlier posts about Jon’s sleep disorder. Yes, (some of) the individual stories about what he gets up to at night can be quite amusing, but in the long run it is so immensely draining – mostly for Jon, of course, but also for me – never to have a normal, unbroken night, and never to know what chaos you will have to clear up in the morning. I suppose in some ways it’s quite like having a baby, and people our age don’t generally have the energy for babies. We had both invested a lot of hope in this sleep registration Jon was going for a few days ago, where he was to be extensively wired up with a range of sensors that could measure in detail his every breath and jerk and brain wave throughout one night in hospital. All went well until Jon actually feel asleep – whereupon he acted out yet another dream and ripped off half his sensors. Night nurses aren’t trained to re-attach these sensors, so he got sent home with just 10 minutes of sleep recorded. It may seem a small thing, but it is yet another set-back, yet another disappointment, yet another delay in finding the true cause and (hopefully) remedy.
And lastly, as I said a few weeks ago, we are ceasing to be a team. There is less a feeling of us against them – or rather, against it – and more of a feeling of him against me and me against him. He resents being ill, resents what the illness does to him, and resents being dependent and needing my help – and so in one easy step he transfers his resentment to me. Likewise, I am angry about what PD is doing to my husband, my marriage and our plans for the future, and I guess I transfer some of that anger on to him. The conflict that has really brought us – or is it just me? – down is that, presumably as part of his campaign of denial, Jon refuses point blank to take any of the advice given by the various experts and therapists who treat him. If I push and plead, he only gets more adamant. If I don’t push or plead, well, I guess then he’s fairly content. But I find it immensely difficult to keep my peace since I can see so much sense in the advice Jon has been given, and I can see how not taking that advice is damaging both his and my quality of life. But so is pushing and pleading, so in some desperation I am now trying my hardest to disengage and concentrate instead on all the practical tasks. Feeling relegated to the role of nurse-maid, providing about as much affection as can be expected of the average nurse or maid.
This week I have ordered a book about how to survive life as a caregiver and have made an appointment for the pair of us with a psychologist recommended by a good friend. Fortunately, rather than the long wait I was expeting, the psychologist can see us in just two weeks’ time. Good. We need all the help we can get.
29 September 2008
Mind over matter
What we really need to talk about this week is emotions and stuff, which being a bit girlie is better left to the wife who thus gets her first chance to speak directly. And instead of blogging today, Jon gets a well-earned lie-down after huffing and puffing and bitterly complaining his way through a new set of physiotherapy exercises.
The thing is (in the interest of the kind of honesty we have promised in this blog): this past week we have expended an unreasonable amount of emotional energy on obstructing and frustrating each other. It is very natural that this should happen from time to time, seeing that we live under some considerable strain both from the direct effects of Parkinson's and from our fears for how the disease will affect and limit the future we had hoped for. But being natural and understandable doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.
I of course feel that I should be at all times the strong, capable, patient, loving, encouraging helpmeet Jon needs, and I suspect Jon thinks that in return he should be stoic, calm, supportive, resourceful, even fun in a sedentary sort of way. Easy pedestals to topple off. And we are each pressed also by factors outside our relationship that make it hard to keep our elevated balancing acts going. Jon is having an understandably hard time dealing with the loss of status and, more importantly, purpose and structure that comes from being unable to do the work that has formed the centre of his being for as long as I have known him. Meanwhile, I am feeling torn between too many conflicting demands of ramping up my breadwinning activities, acting as carer and enabler to Jon, and managing all the household chores in my spare time.
So the masks slip and our basic, very different, natures shine through. I have a tendency to react to all problems – fear, pressure, uncertainty – with anger, while Jon’s first instinct is to retreat into near-apathy while he waits for whatever hurts or troubles him to subside. So while I am spitting nails downstairs, he is hiding upstairs behind a blank computer monitor, neither of us able to help the other, each trapped in our own private bubble of misery. Normal people – like we were too a few years ago – will ask themselves in the heat of the moment if this is really how they want to spend the rest of their lives, and recklessly sling out threats that “if you’re going to be like that, then I’m leaving”. I know I’ve said it in the past, and I’d very surprised if Jon hasn't thought it. We’ve never meant it for long, but the sheer freedom of being allowed a moment’s angry dream of independence – that too is now lost to Parkinson’s. No exit.
As we’ve said in an earlier post, it helps to talk. We have people who care about us, and although most of them are international borders away, distance fortunately means little today (though hugs are, admittedly, not quite the same by e-mail). We also have very good friends who are unfortunate enough to understand only too well what sort of issues we are struggling with. This mixture of empathy and understanding is immensely helpful, but there is a limit to how much one can lay on friends and family. Jon and I have discussed it before, in the calm waters after one of our (okay, my) storms, but this time we mean it. This whole emotional mess is more than we can really deal with on our own, and since deal with it we must, we will now look to a therapist for help. With luck we will come away with some useful nuggets of self-knowledge and a few tools to help us keep things calm(er).
Another option is one of the self-help groups that all Parkinson’s associations seem to organize. We are a bit language-challenged – all the fault of the Dutch who are so good at English that we foreigners have little incentive to learn to speak their language – but I will at least have a go at finding a group. Jon is less keen on that idea, but could perhaps be converted if it proves a success for me. Whichever way it turns out, it feels right that we should now take the time to focus on improving our emotional health too.
The thing is (in the interest of the kind of honesty we have promised in this blog): this past week we have expended an unreasonable amount of emotional energy on obstructing and frustrating each other. It is very natural that this should happen from time to time, seeing that we live under some considerable strain both from the direct effects of Parkinson's and from our fears for how the disease will affect and limit the future we had hoped for. But being natural and understandable doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.
I of course feel that I should be at all times the strong, capable, patient, loving, encouraging helpmeet Jon needs, and I suspect Jon thinks that in return he should be stoic, calm, supportive, resourceful, even fun in a sedentary sort of way. Easy pedestals to topple off. And we are each pressed also by factors outside our relationship that make it hard to keep our elevated balancing acts going. Jon is having an understandably hard time dealing with the loss of status and, more importantly, purpose and structure that comes from being unable to do the work that has formed the centre of his being for as long as I have known him. Meanwhile, I am feeling torn between too many conflicting demands of ramping up my breadwinning activities, acting as carer and enabler to Jon, and managing all the household chores in my spare time.
So the masks slip and our basic, very different, natures shine through. I have a tendency to react to all problems – fear, pressure, uncertainty – with anger, while Jon’s first instinct is to retreat into near-apathy while he waits for whatever hurts or troubles him to subside. So while I am spitting nails downstairs, he is hiding upstairs behind a blank computer monitor, neither of us able to help the other, each trapped in our own private bubble of misery. Normal people – like we were too a few years ago – will ask themselves in the heat of the moment if this is really how they want to spend the rest of their lives, and recklessly sling out threats that “if you’re going to be like that, then I’m leaving”. I know I’ve said it in the past, and I’d very surprised if Jon hasn't thought it. We’ve never meant it for long, but the sheer freedom of being allowed a moment’s angry dream of independence – that too is now lost to Parkinson’s. No exit.
As we’ve said in an earlier post, it helps to talk. We have people who care about us, and although most of them are international borders away, distance fortunately means little today (though hugs are, admittedly, not quite the same by e-mail). We also have very good friends who are unfortunate enough to understand only too well what sort of issues we are struggling with. This mixture of empathy and understanding is immensely helpful, but there is a limit to how much one can lay on friends and family. Jon and I have discussed it before, in the calm waters after one of our (okay, my) storms, but this time we mean it. This whole emotional mess is more than we can really deal with on our own, and since deal with it we must, we will now look to a therapist for help. With luck we will come away with some useful nuggets of self-knowledge and a few tools to help us keep things calm(er).
Another option is one of the self-help groups that all Parkinson’s associations seem to organize. We are a bit language-challenged – all the fault of the Dutch who are so good at English that we foreigners have little incentive to learn to speak their language – but I will at least have a go at finding a group. Jon is less keen on that idea, but could perhaps be converted if it proves a success for me. Whichever way it turns out, it feels right that we should now take the time to focus on improving our emotional health too.
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