Talking at cross purposes

I was listening to an interesting feature on the radio yesterday (link to Radio 4 iPlayer). It was talking about whether we see the world and put labels to what we see, or whether we see the world in a particular way because of the labels that we are given. You know the kind of thing (heck, I did a General Linguistics option as part of my degree in the mid-80s, and they were talking about this - it's hardly a new thought). The example people like to give is about Eskimos having over 50 words for snow, the various kinds thereof. Most of us can't distinguish between 50 different kinds of snow, but the Eskimo need to, so they have the words to do it.

The other example is colours. Do we see the colour spectrum in different ways, because our language chops it up in different ways? Those of you who speak Russian (you know who you are), will confirm that in Russian, there is an extra word for blue, compared to English. This made the presenter wonder if Russian is "a more richer language for describing the world" (sic - Come on Radio 4, "more richer"? Seriously?) But being pernickety aside, it is a rather fascinating question. They think that Homer didn't even have a word for blue at all, which is why he famously describes the Mediterranean sea as "wine-dark". Which makes you wonder how the Ancient Greeks would have started a conversation about the sky on a fine summer's day - but maybe that's just a British thing.

Bear with me. This question of whether language simply describes human experience, or whether it somehow forms it, by giving us categories to think within, has long fascinated me. I've posted about it before, talking about how "mummy guilt" is such a misnomer, because we don't really feel guilty per se. More sort of inadequate, or a little bit sub-standard on this occasion. But the English language doesn't have enough words on the spectrum from generally-a-bit-inadequate-but-let's-face-it-we're-all-human to I've-just-committed-a-murder-in-cold-blood. So we can't differentiate properly, and end up with the phrase "mummy guilt", which makes it sound like a bigger deal than it might otherwise have been (and then we feel even guiltier).

Where I'm going with this, is to ponder whether we feel different emotions, because we have different words for them, and therefore whether emotions are culturally conditioned, because they are linguistically conditioned. For example (and I truly am getting to my point here), I really missed the word "cross" when I was in America. It just isn't used at all. You have to be "mad", or "angry". Those seem rather higher octane than "cross". Do Americans not experience that low level slight aggravation (usually caused by children or pets, here's looking at you Hector, the cocker spaniel puppy who at 6 months old should know better than to pee on the floor)? Do they jump off the deep end, from being emotionally at rest, to being full blown angry? Are we Brits more phlegmatic by nature, simmering away quietly, and needed the word "cross" to describe that? Or - and here's the thing I started with - are we fashioned to feel that way from childhood because of the existence and usage of the word? Does it provide somewhere for us to be emotionally, that Americans simply don't have? That sounds superior and a little offensive, and I really don't mean to be so. I'm just pondering. I mean, trust the Brits to be refined and specific even in their anger! Or perhaps we are angry, and just don't want to admit it.

I did discuss the word "cross" with a friend in America, and she said she would use "frustrated", or possibly "annoyed", if she was looking for a less intense version of "mad". But I think I feel differently if I am cross, or frustrated, or annoyed. Cross, to me, is a definite space that I don't think another word exactly defines. Kind of interesting, don't you think?

Peoples, I am so wasted. There's definitely a PhD in here somewhere, isn't there? (And I meant "wasted", not "wasted" there. Blimey, isn't language complicated?)

Regurgition

OK, so I realise that last post was a bit obscure, but I don't know how much medical detail you want. In a nutshell, I'm on Tamoxifen, which gobbles up the oestrogen in my body which might otherwise go and feed any sneaky lingering cancer cells. Yay, Tamoxifen. Great job. I sometimes visualise it whizzing around my bloodsteam and lymphatic system, looking for little particles of oestrogen, and snatching them away from under the nose of a sole mutant cancer cell. But one of the side effects of Tamoxifen is that it causes the lining of the uterus to thicken. Not so yay, because that raises your percentage chance of developing endometrial cancer. Not by very much. But a little. So that's why, if you're on Tamoxifen, they like to go scanning and poking around to make sure your misbehaving old uterus isn't harbouring anything that shouldn't be growing there.

When you've been through cancer, you have no "it's probably nothing" hidey-hole. Because you know it probably isn't anything, but it might be. So you have to find new ways of dealing with daily life, while waiting for the next event (investigative procedure in Feb, and 3-4 week wait for results, since you asked).

Sometimes I feel I'm not very good at life. Do you ever feel that? That's not a very helpful way of looking at it, is it? I mean, it's not a competition, or an exam. You can't take a course in "Life: how to deal with its ups and downs" and then get an A or a B. There's not a correct way of going through these kinds of things, is there? There's not a correct way of going through anything, come to think of it.

I used to find it helped to write, so, well, I guess I'll do some of that.

This is what my morning was like. At breakfast, we told the boys that they were going to have to pay for the Xbox Live payment of $99.99 that has been automatically deducted from our credit card. No doubt, at some point in the past, we had a conversation about "if you sign up for this, you have to make absolutely sure that it's not a recurring payment" etc etc, but of course that conversation is long forgotten. They weren't too impressed with our assertion that this is an excellent life lesson for them, that adult life is FULL of having to negotiate your way through systems that you sign up for, that bleed you at any opportunity, and that learning the consequences painfully now will prepare them well for the future. I have a nasty feeling that Husband bestowed the following wisdom on one of them: "This is what life is like; suck it up, kid".

Somehow, the Xbox Live payment conversation segued seamlessly into a voluble expression of my dissatisfaction with the state of their bedroom floors. It seemed logical to me at the time.

12-yo had to be in formal wear (love that kilt), because it's the Burns Supper tonight. This involved a lot of running around, ending in me saying something along the lines of "I've just remembered that last time you wore formal wear, we agreed we'd look it all out the night before, and get up 10 minutes earlier". Great moment to recall that particular jewel of wisdom.

And that is why I HATE the whole cancer journey. Actually, it's the second reason I hate the whole cancer journey. The first reason is that everyone refers to it as a journey, which is a horrible cliche. The second is that it spills over into the whole of life, so that even if you do what you practised with your nice therapist, over months, and acknowledge the anxiety and nervousness and all the other emotions that you're feeling, they still spill over into your everyday life, and you end up giving one of your children a really hard time about a missing kilt pin.

As I was walking the two younger ones to school, I announced that we'd all had a bad morning, and that therefore, I was declaring that today, 24th January, is officially National Rubbish Day. (Except I think I used the word Cr*p.) Every year, we will celebrate National Rubbish Day (Cr*p Day). 12-yo was horrified. "It might be someone's birthday. It must be someone's birthday. That's not very nice for them." I pointed out that our wedding anniversary, 27th January, has become Holocaust Memorial Day, and that's not very nice for us. Life isn't fair. (I may have used that "suck it up" phrase again.)

Which reminds me, it IS our anniversary on Sunday, and I've booked cinema tickets on Saturday night to go and see Les Miserables. Not only is it meant to be a very good film, but I thought it would give me a good opportunity to have a cathartic cry in a dark place. I'll be the one saying on the way out "Poverty? Starvation? Revolution? Imprisonment? Betrayal? Death? I can't believe they made such a fuss about it. I mean, this week, I've been dealing with a LOST KILT PIN."

I'm going to stop writing now.

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Returning reluctantly to an old theme

So I haven't blogged about cancer recently. Those of you newish to my blog might not even know that at one stage in its life, it was a cancer blog. Does that exist, actually? A cancer blog? Do they call them that?

Don't worry. No serious announcement following. Just an "I recommend we check this out. It's usually nothing, but if you have it checked out, then you'll have peace of mind". I hate those. They're too... familiar. That's what it is. It feels like going back into a country you were happy to leave behind. You've been through security checkpoints and passport control, and you're on your way. Then someone stops you in the road and turns you back.

"I've heard so many women say that", said the doctor. "They don't want to go back into it all again."

"OF COURSE WE BL***Y DON'T" I wanted to yell.

But I smiled, because she was so incredibly nice, and sympathetic, and good at explaining everything, and sensible, and had time for me. I smiled, and I said "I agree it makes sense to check it out". And I felt the tears at the back of my eyes, because I always feel those when doctors are kind to me. It's a result of all those times doctors haven't been kind, or had time, or been good at explaining, and have instead quoted percentages (as if percentages mean anything).

I'm not worried. The symptoms aren't even quite right, and the doctor is very clear that the procedure is just to be thorough. It's good to be thorough. She thinks it's nothing. She thinks it's fine. So I'm not worried. Nah. Worried? Me? Nah. Little old Mrs Stoic in the corner? Worried? Nah.

I'm not agitated. That's not why I turned off the Today programme when they were discussing the breast cancer drug Tamoxifen, which I've been on for over 3 years now, and got to the bit about one side effect being an increased risk of endometrial... issues.

I'm not concerned. That's not why I phoned and told my mum, saying "I'm going to tell you something, but you've got to promise you won't worry about me". Because that's a sure-fire way of ensuring she doesn't worry about me.

I'm not anxious. That's not why, when my daughter caught the virus that's doing the rounds, I got into bed with her, and held her, warm and soft, in my arms, wondering whether her headache might in fact be a brain tumour, and imagining...

I'm not jittery. That's not why I'm sitting here with cold hands and feet, browsing websites on relaxation exercises, thinking about making vegetable soup, wondering if I should go to Sainsbury's or perhaps take the dog out, or both, and then reading another blog or two instead.

I'm not allowing myself to get carried away. That's not why I've been on to our realtor in the US, trying to get some movement on our house, so that'd be one less thing for Husband to...

Worried? Of course not. I'm only blogging about this because I thought it would be interesting to write a post about the NHS, and how it compares to my experiences of medical care in the US. A thoughtful, analytic post. Prompted by my visit to that nice doctor. A post about the NHS. Yes. A good topic for a returning expat blog. Don't you think?

I think this is funny

Lazy blogging, isn't it, sharing a random Youtube video. But I do think this is funny. It's like Marmite - you'll either love it and roar with laughter, or hate it and cringe horribly. Leave a comment and tell me which.

It reminds me of those clever Aardman Animations Creature Comforts. Remember those?

If you do love it, there are more to watch. I recommend the one set in a bank, which helps explain why we're in such an economic mess.



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Please, someone, buy our house

Our house in America was on the market from April to Thanksgiving. It didn't sell.

We decided that the starting price had been too high. It was a 10 - 15% above what we'd thought the house would fetch. Our realtor thought we could aim higher. Thanks, realtor.

Of course she might have been right. Maybe we could have been lucky. It looked like the market was picking up. There were comparables.

We reduced the price, month by month, needing a quick sale. Three times. Down to below what the house is worth. People looked round, but no-one came back for a second look.

We had house-sitters living there, when we moved out. They were great. They looked after the house, kept it nice for showings. But they weren't paying rent, and we're still paying a mortgage.

We decided we should rent the house out instead. No point keeping it on the market. A year with a tenant in, and then try again. The rental agent said it should let easily. Well, she would say that, wouldn't she? The rental market is strong at the moment. A month or two, was her estimate. It's been a month or two. We've reduced the asking rent. We've said we don't mind pets. The house-sitters have moved out. The house is empty.

Then, out of the blue, came a couple who were looking to buy, and though our house wasn't technically on the market, they were showed round. They loved it but couldn't afford it. We said we were "flexible" (which sounds better than "desperate"). They put in an offer which stretched the meaning of the word "flexible" to its limit. And asked us to pay conveyancing costs. We negotiated, and accepted a midway point, which felt like a rock in a stormy sea, but better a rock than no rock.

Then we felt happy. We sighed a sigh of relief. We started to get excited about the house, the home, we could buy here. We looked at websites. Don't houses look gorgeous on websites?

And yesterday, the buyers pulled out.

It's a pathetic tale of woe, I know. I can tell myself all the answers. "In the current economic situation, what do you expect? Aren't you lucky to have a house with Husband's job! At least you're not paying rent or mortgage over here. Lots of people are worse off than you. It'll sell in time. Or rent. Just be patient."

But inwardly I'm begging "Please, someone, anyone, buy our house. Or rent it. Something. Someone."

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Name corruptions

Good to know that we're not the only family which has a ridiculous range of names for its dog. Thanks for your comments. Hector is also Hectorious, Hectoroo, What-the-Hec, and probably several others that have slipped my mind.

Over Christmas, and as a result of the influence of my sister, 8-yo got very interested in Strictly Come Dancing. She joined the "Can't Bear Bruce Forsyth" club, and was generally very taken with the glamour and glitz of it all. Hector played his part. She would pick him up, hold him tight, and whirl round the room with him, saying "This is Strictly Come Dogging! This is Strictly Come Dogging!"

Oh dear. Perhaps she'll have forgotten, by the time next season comes round.
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What's in a name?

It takes a while to adjust to family life with a puppy. We're still in that process. It's very much like having small children. Just as you've got used to one stage, they're on to the next. You can never relax and think you've cracked it (though foolishly, you do). For example, Hector's now getting more adventurous, and likes to wander off on walks, and won't come when I call, not even for a little lump of cheese. Not even for cheese! Cheese has always worked up till now. It's lost its magic overnight.

On the positive side, he managed the 400 mile drive to my mother's house, with only one stop at a motorway service station for food, water and pee, in exemplary fashion. He was in his crate in the back of the car, in total silence. I even wondered if we'd left him in the service station car park by accident. The great thing about travelling with a puppy, is that you don't have to listen to endless nursery rhyme CDs, or play I-Spy.

Hector spent three nights with a home boarder while we were away for New Year (cheaper than kennels, actually, before you think I've totally sold out on the dog comforts front). I think it knocked him into shape a little. He was rather subdued for a day when he came home. There was an older, bigger dog there, and it made him realise his place in the pecking order. I've got this dog psychology down, you can tell.

The woman texted me on the first evening, saying that he'd settled well, and that they'd enjoyed a walk, and how good he was on the lead for a puppy. My owner heart swelled with pride. "Good on the lead for a puppy" - yes!  I deliberately didn't get in touch for the next couple of days (he's a dog, not a child), but when I texted to make arrangements for picking him up, she texted back that he'd been doing fine, that they had loved having him, and that he'd been behaving "just as a puppy should". I thought that said it all. Bless her euphemistic heart.

8-yo was chatting to Husband the other day:

"Hector has lots of names, doesn't he? Mum and I call him Hector or Hectie. 12-yo calls him Heckipoo. 15-yo calls him Li'l Buddy. And you call him Foul Beast."

Here's a picture of him, getting on for 6 months old, in (somewhat uncharacteristic) reflective mood.

And here's the sign that hangs above his crate.

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The hidden nativity character

We know them all so well, don't we? The angels, the shepherds, the wise men. But this year, I became aware of a hidden person, someone who must have been there, I think, but who was never written into the story.

A woman. I sense a woman at the scene. An older woman, a help-meet for Mary in her hour of need. I'm guessing that in the culture of that time, it would be a woman who would be the birth partner. I don't think Joseph could have managed on his own, though I'm sure he'd have tried to prepare himself, quietly seeking out the local midwife in Nazareth, swallowing his embarrassment, and asking her what he would need to do, far from home, in a city of strangers.

No. I don't think it was Joseph cutting the cord. Was it the Inn-keeper's wife? "You put them where? In the stable? She's about to give birth, for heaven's sake." Or another traveler? A woman staying at the inn who would willingly have given up her room, but only found out about Mary when she was a long way past being able to move from her bed of straw. Could it possibly have been Elizabeth, Mary's cousin? Did she meet Mary in Bethlehem, taking her own infant son with her? Or perhaps another member of Mary's family, who traveled the road from Nazareth to Bethlehem alongside Mary and Joseph?

I don't know. I'm guessing it was simply a local Nazareth woman. An older woman. A mother. She knew enough about childbirth to understand that Mary needed someone with her. She was there to hold her, to encourage her, to promise that the pains would pass. She helped ease the baby's head out, delivered his slippery body, cleared his mouth and nose of mucus, held her breath until he had taken his first. Then she wrapped him in the swaddling cloths which she had thought to go and fetch, before hunkering down in the stable at Mary's side. She took care of delivering the placenta, of cleaning up as best she could. She made sure Mary was warm, and as comfortable as possible, before leaving to go and tend to her own family.

I think she came back the next morning. Perhaps she came back several times. I think she helped Mary learn the skill of breast-feeding. I think she shared wise words about how to look after a newborn baby. I imagine they told her about the shepherds, and then later about the wise men, showing her the gifts, and enjoying her amazement. She was a trusted friend, by now, in that way that people become who meet us in the crisis points of our lives.

Did Mary and Joseph manage to get a message to her, when they slipped away urgently to Egypt, no time to linger, no chance to say good-bye? Did she wonder through the years what had happened to them, to the baby?

She has no mention in the Christmas story, but I'm sure she was there. Don't you agree? The Nativity Midwife.