Musical things and all that jazz....

...someone asked me recently how I got into liking jazz. While the conversation we had about it was short & simple enough (Duke & Louis albums + getting older + living in a huge apartment with no tv so lots of new music=jazz lover learning...!), it left me thinking about not only jazz but music I love in general.

Music has been a huge part of my life. From my childhood years of "borrowing" my brothers tapes - Dead Can Dance, Tom Petty, War of the Worlds - sharing a room with Babs and her love of Michael Jackson, my teenage years of Metallica, Bell X1, Frank Sinatra, Faithless,(oh, and Scooter :D) to my Gran letting me have a key to her house for after school and being able to stick on whatever records I wanted (Hotel California nearly wore the needle out each week!) Then I got a guitar. Ocean Colour Scene, Oasis, U2, Manic Street Preachers were all butchered daily! My friends were all starting into music, either performing or listening and it was through them that I experienced some of my most favourite teenage moments, just sitting in McGarrigles watching bands play, week after week.

 McGarrigles wasn't just a pub with live music. It was a home from home for us music lovers, a place to meet, chill, drink, smoke, talk, watch, listen and learn from everyone else. Many parents worry about their teenagers being out drinking every weekend-I was fortunate enough that mine understood I didn't want to go to the pub for pints, but for the bands. For Legacy, for Petronella, for Trial By Fire, for Indigo Fury, for Snow Patrol, for Turn, for whoever was gonna be setting up and playing that Friday or Saturday night. And on the rare occasions that there was no live music, the music that Mick/Ferghal or any of the gang behind the bar chose was just perfect. The Pixies, Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Stone Roses, Jeff Buckley, Led Zepplin....if it was in any way alternative, you'd probably hear it there.

When I write alternative, I do so for those of you who don't like "that kind of music". I don't mean that in a disdainful way, but to me, those were bands I loved and I just saw them as the norm, not as alternatives. As a teenager, I was once given the moniker "grunger with the wrong boots", and back then, with my sporadic pink hair, my "grungey" boots, my silly tshirts, my gigantically baggy trousers (Madness would've been proud) and the many chains I wore around my waist, I pretty much fitted the stereotype of "alternative".....yet I never felt I, nor the company I was in was alternative, neither in school nor out of it-it was just normal. 

What brought all this back, was reading this fantastic piece about Sir Henrys of Cork. As I read it, I felt like I'd been there, that I'd lived through all those experiences, just in a different venue in a different time. That is both a credit to the author, and to the shared experience of music and performance. Sometimes, it doesn't matter whose playing, it's the actual piece of music that hits hardest. Damien Rice singing "You know when you've found it, there's something I've learned, cos you feel it when they take it away" left an imprint on my young soul that I knew I wouldn't understand until I was much more experienced in the heartbreak life can bring. Wayne O'Connor's "Better Man" still echoes through my head years later,as does Bob Kelly's beautiful rendition of Josh Ritter's "Come and Find Me".

Yet for each beautiful piece that left us captivated (and you knew it was good when the silence from the front row spread to all the way back the room to bar as a song progressed), there were pieces that blew us all wide open with their raw, uncontrollable energy. (Was it Eanna who left a dent in McG's roof when moshing once?!) When a piece of music affects so many, so rapidly, it's like uncontrollable wildfire. Some tunes would start with energetic toe-tapping and head-nodding in amongst us, culminating in mad pogo-ing about the place, arms around each others shouting and headbanging along with the sudden realisation that the previously quiet-looking older dude in the corner is moshing just as hard along with the teenagers.

Live music is a uniquely personal experience shared. To paraphrase Linley Hamilton from last year's Sligo Jazz, music is our religion, the stage is our church and the performance our communion. So many things make a performance special and what's so wonderful is that you and I may sit beside each other in a pub watching the same musician and take something completely different away from it. I have been brought to tears by different performers-on the street, in a pub, in the o2, and in a friends living room. Irrespective of the performer, the location, the performance, live music is usually something special-and it can become more so when it's shared.

It's that something special which keeps me coming back for more, looking for new notes, new beats, new lyrics to fall in love with. Music at times seems to have a soul all of it's own, which is I often say life is nothing without music, and music is nothing without life. This piece does something inexplicable to me, managing to simultaneously break my heart whilst soothing my soul....

a knee by any other name...

(as always, this is a rather long, and oft emotional ramble...you have been warned!)

This made for interesting reading for me recently.
http://safepatientproject.org/posts/4984-guest-post-does-your-joint-replacement-have-a-warranty-by-brian-hatten-m-d
(For those of you too lazy to click the link, or read it all, it's basically an article wondering if replacement joints, i.e. knees/hips etc, should come with a warranty and, if so, how much of a one!)

Having had so much trouble with my knee/kneecap and it's replacement since last year, it set me wondering would it have made any difference to me had there been some form of a warranty with it. Probably not. The same problems would still have happened. The best thing I can say that's come of it all is that because I (and now 5 others) have had problems with it, the company have promised to revise the implant. Whether that's just an idle promise to placate my surgeon, I don't know. I'd like to hope it's not, because I wouldn't wish what this knee and I went through on anyone.

It's kinda hard to describe how this knee and now, new kneecap has affected me, because it's been going on so long. It's now two years since my knee started getting so bad that I figured I should get it checked out properly. Two years of consultants waiting rooms, their offices, x-rays, mri scans, hospital pre-op tests, arthroscopies (x2) minor operations (x2) and major operations (x2).  My knee and leg had barely had time to recover from one operation before it was on to the next. Two years of almost daily pain, of popping painkillers, of constantly trying out new forms of "freeze sprays" and anti-inflammatory creams that promised to take away the pain for a little while. (2-5 minutes pain relief. Averaged about a euro a minute.) Two years of aching to kick a ball, aching to go for a run, aching to go for a long walk up a mountain, aching to go for a cycle, and occasionally, crying my eyes out in a peculiar mixture of jealousy and utter devastation at those folk I saw being able to do all of those simple things in the knowledge that I couldn't.

This gammy knee has become such an entity that even my four year old niece goes out of her way to make up games we can play that don't require me to chase her or kneel down whilst playing. When with her, there's nothing that evokes more disappointment in me than hearing her thinking out loud as to how we can make chasing slow and painless for me, instead of thinking about her own enjoyment. Don't get me wrong, it's awesome that she's so considerate, and so lovely. But I wish she didn't have to be considerate and lovely about me.
I know my way around my physio's machines blindfolded. I know the looks of  "what-the-hell-is-going-on-here-now-why-isn't-this-treatment-working?!" that have flitted across both his, and my consultant's face over the last 2 years as varying things have gone wrong, an undissolved stitch, scar tissue, random pain in unpredictable places. What's more frustrating is a routines that can be fine one session and leave me thinking things are finally coming good, is the same one in the next session that leaves me hobbling in pain and using my physio's name as a swear word-which he doesn't quite deserve!

It's the constant dashing of hope that has frustrated me most. Each time I went under the knife, it was with the hope that *this* would fix things, that this one would be my last. And every time, something else has happened to ensure that it wasn't. The first arthroscopy in 2012 was almost a relief. It proved to me that the pain wasn't psychosomatic, there was damage in the joint, there was "bone debris floating around" from where the kneecap had been occasionally grinding off other bits of bone, a tear in the meniscus and the cartilage was fairly shot. Next stop was cortisone injections.

Having had one done by a consultant in Sligo, I didn't hold much faith in them. Sligo consultant's bedside manner consisted of "this might hurt....there you go....*very worried look on his face as a bump the size of my kneecap appeared at the injection site and I almost passed out with the pain*....umm....your knee shouldn't swell like that....just go home and rest it". The injection left me in utter agony and I had hop down the corridors of the General to the physio dept to get a set of crutches so I could feasibly make my way home.

Cortisone injection in 2012 proved a much more enjoyable experience, in only the way having areas of your body frozen and numbed can be. It gave me about 4 days of painfree movement (I could even do stairs!) before I had to ring the consultant, at which point, he tentatively mentioned replacements and recommended me onto another consultant. A few months later, early 2013, arthroscopy no 2 beckoned, and when I came round after it, he politely informed me that there was an awful lot more damage than he'd expected and that a replacement kneecap, a button at the back of the kneecap, resurfacing of the femur and two titanium screws should see it right. So, 2 months of physio to get over the arthroscopy and to build the muscles for their inevitable decay post-replacement op.

July 28th 2013, the replacement happened. My Aunt Anne was with me throughout, from 6am that Monday morning, looking after me, entertaining me daily and generally, just being the lovely caring Godmother that she was. She drove me home to Sligo on the day I was discharged-her birthday. The new kneecap felt weird, it felt painful, it felt strange, but it felt freer, in only the way that "good pain" can. I don't mind pain if I can rationalise it. Pain after physio = generally good pain, the muscles have been doing work and are tired. Pain whilst just bending my knee to sit down or when walking from one room to another = bad pain. Simples. And yet, there was another kind of pain going on my life at that point.

As the date for my replacement had approached, my brother was admitted into hospital. Sean didn't do hospitals. Sean didn't get sick. Sean was always healthy. Healthy diet, healthy lifestyle, healthy Sean. It was as simple as that. And yet, he was sick. Follicular Lymphoma, an incurable form of a blood cancer. Incurable, but manageable. But still, we came so close to losing him before they started his chemo that the memories of seeing his skeletal face and arms in the hospital bed, memories of seeing him having to be lifted by Mum & Dad from the car one evening he was allowed to come home, hearing all their cries and not being able to help because I was barely a week post-op broke my heart in ways that I've yet to come to terms with.

As the months passed, Sean got stronger. The chemo did it's trick, we felt would breathe easy a wee bit. My knee started to feel a bit....normal. Not a huge amount of pain, but there was a niggly bump at the top that I wasn't so keen on. Back to the hospital to be told it could be an undissolved stitch, but it should break down. Then the pain started back. A month later, an MRI scan showed it was just bigger and causing problems with my bending and movement. After another month, minor surgery to get it out. Problem solved. Kinda. Towards Christmas, it felt worse. More pain, more stiffness and more uncertainty. Easing back off physio, more consultants appointments, more questions and the diagnosis of scar tissue, with another op scheduled to get rid of it. January 2014 saw an unexpected overnight stay after the "minor" surgery because my body freaked out a wee bit about everything and ended up bleeding for a lot longer than they'd expected. A lot of scar tissue taken out, but a kneecap that could bend freely again....success!

Back to physio, back to home physio, back to work and, inevitably, back to knee pain. Back to the surgeon. Back to surgery. This time, a replacement for part of the replacement. Back to more post-surgery hope, more post-surgery physio, and back to more emotional pain too. My friend Dianne died suddenly at the age of 33, and despite seeing Brian and the girls at her funeral, and knowing she's gone, it still hasn't quite sank in that's gone. At the same time, my Godmother was been diagnosed with a form of cancer, which seemed to be spreading everywhere, including her lungs. That was February. It's now just over 6 weeks since the replacement surgery. It's now just over 5 weeks since I watched my Aunt take her last breath. That has devastated me far more than this knee shite ever could.

If you grew up with Atlantic on your doorstep,and you've surfed or swam in rough waters you might know the feeling of fighting the ocean, and it's waves. You'll know how hard it is to get back up when the pressure and the force of the water is keeping you down, whilst every instinct in you is trying to get you back up so you can breathe. In those moments, you don't know what way up even is anymore, because you've been spun upside down, or done a complete 360 and are completely disorientated.

If, like me, you can see underwater, you can occasionally differentiate between the lighter bluer atmosphere at the top where you need to be and the dull bluey greeny darkness of the sand you're being dragged down toward. It only lasts for a few seconds, but it feels an eternity...and when, just as you break the surface, another wave hits, and you're plunged back into that rushing churning world of breaking bubbles and that salty sea taste running through your nose into your mouth and you find yourself wondering if you can get back up only to be knocked down again, and again, and again..... that feeling of powerlessness, of the loss of hope is one that remains with you for your lifetime. And that's what these last two years have felt like.

I'm re-reading these words and I can't quite believe it's actually two years since it all kicked off. It feels like about 6-8 months. So many things have happened in that space of time that I barely feel I've had time to breathe and comprehend them all. For most of my life, I've been a fairly mellow person-no matter how bad things have been in life, they're survivable. It might not feel like it at the time, but that's where three hugely important aspects of my life coincide and help me through....music & friends & family.
There are so many bits of music I've found comfort in recently, from Fleetwood Mac to Michael Manring to Pink Floyd to Ludivico Eniaudi.....but this is a song I return to all the time. Musically, and lyrically, and visually, this song Tonight, Tonight (www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOG3eus4ZSo) is just one of many that have comforted me over the years, and it's as old as some of my friendships. The line "and our lives are forever changed, we will never be the same" is one that has resonated again and again with me over the last few years with the loss of friends and family.

In my life, I've been amazingly lucky to have found the friends I did over the years. Friends who've gone through their own losses in life, friends who I've witnessed extreme happiness and love with. Friends who know to that it's best to randomly text me because know I'm crap at talking, but will write uber long replies or posts about how i feel. Friends who go outta their way with little things, funny photos, funny texts, lovely pieces of music that they know will make me smile, friends who are just there, even if there is physically a few or hundreds of miles away. Friends who remain the same, despite the passing of the years (and decades in several cases!) They say your friends are the family you choose for yourself, and I consider myself hugely lucky to have such a wonderful family of friends.

My own family are pretty damn awesome too. From the wit and love from my aunts and uncles to the craic from my cousins, from the often maniacal but adorable laughs of my younger nieces to the love and empathy from my oldest niece, from the gentle hugs from my brothers and the constant nose-pulling that my sister insists on doing. (this is why my nose is so long!) From Mum's indecipherable txtspk style texts and her long phonecalls whilst waiting for something to finish in the oven, to Dad's smiley-filled texts and his gentle but evident love in his insistence on trying to help in any situation in any way he can. I cannot emphasise enough just how lucky I was to get the family (and friends!) I got, and how appreciative I am to have so many of them still with me. All of them have known "Ita and her gammy knee" for years....these problems have been around for almost 20 years. I'm still known as Hopalong Callagy to some friends who've known me since due to my recurring bouts on crutches.

So right now, and for the last two years, it's been a headwreck, and I don't believe that bullshitter Lance Armstong's "pain is temporary, quitting lasts forever" crap. Pain is horrible, it's hellish... it's demoralising, it's agonising and it's inadvertently impacted most of my life decisions over the last few years. The only part of that I'll give him credit for is that, in the grand scheme of life, pain is temporary. The longer you live, the shorter that painful time will seem. Weeks, months, years pass, and sometimes, that pain recedes to a dull ache that you almost forget is there. And in some cases, sometimes you discover that somewhere over those years, the pain has gone. My knee isn't there yet, but the hope has finally come back that it's getting there. And sometimes, that hope is all that's needed to keep on going.