“You did what?” snapped my Mother over the
phone.
“Wait till you see it. It’s so shiny.”
“Oh God, sometimes you’re so stupid it’s
astonishing. Where are you now?”
“Um……..”
I debated telling Mother the truth. I was,
at the moment, lying prostrate on the floor in our sitting room, strapped in a
neck brace, slipping into a rather comforting medication induced haze, staring
up at the twinkly fairy lights I had painstainkingly wrapped around the 6 foot
1 Christmas tree that had nearly broken my back.
“Um, I’m just in the kitchen making myself
some food!”
“Liar. Are you getting a migraine?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Do I need to come home?”
“Mum, I’m absolutely fine, this is going to
be the best bloody Christmas tree we’ve ever had! You’ll be home tomorrow
anyway, you’ll simply love what I’ve done with the place.”
And with that I hung up with the phone
before Mum could cross-question me further. The packaging of the Zomig nasal spray I had just taken for the “non existent” migraine was digging into my hand,
which was, incidentally, riddled with pins and needles. I lay on the floor,
staring at my beautiful for creation for about another half an hour before
forcing myself to walk/roll into bed. Despite my discomfort (I refuse to use
the word agony in this context) I was ever so pleased with myself. Three days
later, however, I was beginning to see the folly in my festive fervor.
It all began with an ill-fated trip to HomeBase (our local Gardening/DIY center) to buy a bargain Christmas tree.
Before you judge me too harshly you must know that I am obsessed with
Christmas. I nearly cried, aged 24, when my family made the Christmas cake
without me one year (my sister claimed it was because it was convenient for her
3 young children – puh!) I am still obsessed with finding the perfect recipe
for Mulled Wine (by the way I still don’t understand why regular red wine
triggers a migraine but I’m fine with Mulled Wine? Probably sweeter and less
alcohol?) And mainly I’m obsessed with Christmas trees and decoration of said
Christmas trees. They must, absolutely must, touch the ceiling. Else I cry.
Last year, when my migraines were basically
back to chronic state, my parents had gone away to France for a few days, so I
decided to surprise them by decorating our flat and putting up the tree. All by
myself. Now just to remind you I have a bit of a buggered up neck and last
December I was fresh from two out-patient procedures where you to get watch a
lovely needle being stuck into your spine under live X-ray (to treat torn
discs and Cervical Radiculopathy amongst other things.) Here’s a
picture!
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I stupidly watched this happen live! Don't my filling's look lovely... |
At this point I wasn’t even on Topamax yet and hadn’t started the
bi-monthly nerve blocks that have started to also make a real difference to my migraines. I was
also working with a physio getting my neck ready to start a course of
Prolotherapy Injections (which it’s hoped will toughed up the ligaments in my silly neck,
to stop it frequently going into spasm which always send my migraines through
the roof.)
Forgetting all of this, I sauntered off to HomeBase to find the biggest Christmas tree I could find. I shoved caroling
children and arguing couples aside to make sure I got to the front of the line.
This appeared to be the last place in London that was still selling decent trees.
By this point I was already beginning to feel a bit dizzy, but I didn’t care
that my blood sugar levels were dropping, I wanted a tree that would touch the
ceiling. However, when my turn came, I simply pointed to the tallest one I
could see and smiled my sweetest smiled and begged the salesman to put it in
the back of my car. I remember thinking Mum would be so proud of me.
“It’s not gonna fit, luv” grunted the guy.
“Yes, yes it will, young man, just push!”
This young man was clearly an amateur – my giant Christmas tree did not,
obviously, fit into the boot of my car but if one left the boot open and did clever
maneuvering only about a foot would be poking out. Obviously.
I drove home at a snail’s pace but am pretty
sure most of Mum’s golf balls rolled out of the back of the car as I went
round a few roundabouts. I ignored the honks and screeches. It’s a small price to pay. I told myself I’d put some replacements in her stocking.
Once safely home, I got out of the car and
looked up the flight of stone steps which lead to our front door and which I
had, conveniently, forgot exist. Ah. No matter. I would simply drag the tree up
said steps. Dragging was not lifting. I was forbidden to lift anything heavy by
my physio and Doctors, but I was sure dragging items smoothly along floors and
stone steps would be fine. Just fine. It was Christmas, I wanted to surprise my
parents after all with a beautifully decorated tree and flat.
So, I took a deep breath and holding the
stump lent back and eased it out, as if I was pulling a calf out of its
mother’s womb, and the tree plopped out of the back of the car. So far so good.
Nothing appeared to be broken, on either myself or the tree. All I had to do
now was mount the steps, which seemed to have doubled in length. I realized I’d
have to lift the tree a little, so I turned on my abs, clenched my buttocks and
went for it. Glide, I told myself, you’re simply gliding uphill. The bloody
tree left a green wake of needles behind it. Traitor. If I was writing a film
script of this moment you’d see me laboriously clamber to the top of the steps,
precariously balance the tree on the top step, only to realize I’d left my
house keys in the car, drop the tree down the steps and have to repeat the
whole procedure all over again. But that didn’t happen….. ahem.
Once safely inside with a now half bare
tree, I realized the battle was only half won and why Mum always had Dad, or
whoever else was around, help her right the tree in its stand. They’re bloody
heavy and bloody tall. But I was not one to be daunted by such antiquated gender
stereotypes; I did not need a man to help me put up a Christmas tree. Oh no.
I knew I could not physically lift the
thing up any more, my back was nearly gone and it was just too heavy. What to
do? Well, dear reader, cleverly maneuver it onto a chair, putting the stand in
just the right place so that you can stand on the stump and, in essence lever
it into position! Genius! Yes! That is until it topples over in the wrong
direction nearly smashing into smithereens your families antiques - meaning you have to catch it, hear
something go crack and you’re pretty sure the crack is something in your
back/neck.
Anyway, to get to the pine needle point: I
got the bastard tree up. The stump hadn’t been cut smooth so I had all our
kitchen chairs wedging it up while I screwed it in...needless to say I was in
tears by the end. Yes, I am quite stupidly stubborn. And then, to make matters
worse, once I took off the netting, it appeared to be missing a layer of
branches, have two heads and a twisted spine!!! So I decided to make myself a batch of mulled wine and take some
pain meds (NO THIS IS NOT WHAT I ADVISE YOU TO DO!!!! THIS WAS A MEDICAL
EMERGENCY!)
![]() |
Bugger tree's best angle! |
I could feel my back and poor neck
beginning to seize up but for some ungodly reason I wasn’t going to let the
tree beat me. I was going to decorate it. So I dutifully clambered up a ladder
and put up the fairy lights. I knew this would cheer me up. I turned on the
power. And nothing. Black. Like my mood.
I wept anew.
Still, undeterred, I decided to continue. I
think I was now in some kind of trance. In place of branches I put some fake poinsettia’s
and managed, even though I say so myself, to make the bastard tree look pretty
damn good. I couldn’t feel my hands and my head was beginning to thump but I
had managed to save Christmas! Or so I told myself. And then I collapsed on the
floor and Mum rang.
Dodgy Photo - but you can see wonky/missing branch |
My physio recently reminded me of this festive
escapade. She said she had a whole page of notes about ‘the Christmas tree
incident’ in my folder. She advised I get a fake, mini tree from Marks and Spenser.
I told her I’d rather die. However, much to my horror when I returned from my
appointment yesterday, in the corner of our sitting room was a LITTLE Christmas
tree. Already in its stand.
“It doesn’t touch the ceiling, Mum”
“It cost £42 and it’s rather lovely.”
“Hmmm.” I sat down and eyed it suspiciously
while Mum got out the decorations. This morning I can report that I have no
migraine a very cute little tree.
THIS
IS A CAUTIONARY TALE – DO NOT BE LIKE ME. DO NOT LET YOUR STUBBORN LOVE OF
CHRISTMAS AND THE FESTIVE SEASON BUGGER UP YOUR BACK AND TRIGGER 3 DAY
MIGRAINES. THE END.
Next
Week:
How to Avoid Christmas Migraine Triggers:
Last Christmas I spent Most of the day in
bed – How I hope to Avoid triggers this year…..
Haha, where is a picture of this years tree? Also, does your mum read this blog? :-D
ReplyDeleteDropped you a quick email about friday.
Hey lady! Mum realised my foolish ways when she got home and found me imobile in bed for 3 days but grinning at my 'genius'!!??? And yes, she occasionally reads this. Just writing back to you!!! Will be thinking of you tomorrow!!!! xx
Deletethats homebase for you!! if you go to john lewis they give you the migraine free treatment and install it for you!!
ReplyDeleteGood old John Lewis, never knowing undersold.... maybe they can sponsor me next year...!
DeleteOh lordy, my husband is just like you and your epic quest for huge trees and your love of Christmas. We normally go together to get our Xmas tree, but last year I was in bed with a killer migraine. After he came home he came upstairs to wake me up so I could behold the wonder of the tree and all his manly work. After he woke me up he said, "I just want to say...I'm sorry about the ceiling."
ReplyDeleteI didn't even bother to patch the ceiling because he does this every year. I just keep the lights in the living room dim and my guests drunk. Works like a charm.
Maia
I think your husband and I would get on very well! Hope you're well today!
Delete