The weather is unsettled. Summer and winter in the same day, several times over. As I write, I look out of the window and it's hailing. Ten minutes ago it was bright sunshine, and the sky was blue.
I am unsettled. Two family funerals in the past two months. Two house sales in the next two months. We close on ours in May, and my mother completes hers in June.
We aren't going to be at our closing in person ("closing" is the term for the meeting, where the seller, the buyer, the two realtors, and the title company, get together, usually at the premises of the title company, to sign off on the deal). We have the necessary documents, which we are going to sign, next week, in the presence of a US notary at the US Consulate General in Edinburgh. I've made the appointment. I found the act of making that appointment disproportionately stressful, necessitating a phone call to the Consulate General and the careful reading of their website. Anyone who has been through the process of getting a US visa will understand why. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that as I dialled the number, my heart started pounding. It was the memory of previous trips to the US Embassy in London, huge stacks of paperwork, photos rejected for random reasons, dealing with lawyer-speak well beyond the understanding of mere mortals like myself, slightly humiliating medicals and endless vaccinations, all at great expense and all with so much at stake.
My mother is leaving the house she and my father moved into, on 1st April, 1963. I was born in her bedroom. We gathered the family over Easter, to celebrate our family having been in the house for exactly 50 years (Easter Monday was 1st April, if you remember), and we had a lovely time: 3 generations, 16 people, 1 dog. But now it really is the final countdown. Contracts are being exchanged today (unless the solicitors come up with still more items to research), and completion is on 7th June. This really is it. Furniture will go to the local auction house. Belongings will be packed into a removal van. Items will disappear into boxes, to emerge in another house, in another town. Furniture, belongings, items, which I've known all my life. My roots are being severed. I don't like it.
It all makes me feel jittery. My hands and feet are permanently cold. I confess to spending more time than usual in a hot bath at the moment.
Where do I belong? I very nearly drove off on the right hand side of the road yesterday. It gave me a jolt. Don't I know which country I'm in by now? I couldn't find the spices in Tesco the other day. I looked up and down the "Homebaking" aisle where I knew they'd be, but I couldn't see them anywhere. I found the herbs, so I knew I was close. Then I saw them, and I realised why it had taken me so long. I had the wrong search criteria in my brain. I hadn't been scanning the shelves for spices in glass jars. I'd been scanning for spices in little red tins. Little red Kroger tins. Do I still think I'm in Dillons, not Tesco?
I suppose I'm like the spring. She has one foot in winter and one foot in summer. I have one foot in the past and one foot in the future. Blue sky and hail. That's me.
.
Showing posts with label bumpy road of life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bumpy road of life. Show all posts
Friday, April 26, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
My Postsecret - Part II
It was the summer of 2007. We'd been in America for a few months, and I was through the honeymoon period and into the classic low dip that typically occurs 6 - 9 months after you move to a new place. But I didn't know about that dip and its timing, so I was just miserable and couldn't see an end to being miserable. The children had started their 12-week summer holiday - and no-one had told me about THAT. I had no idea how to manage TWELVE WEEKS at home with the children. We didn't know many people well enough to invite them over - I'd have thrown myself into playdate exchanges in the early days a bit more if I'd known about the 12-week vacation to come. It was over 90 degrees every day, and I'm never at my best in the heat. I felt trapped inside the house. I was paranoid about the children getting sunburnt, and there were mosquitoes everywhere. I asked people what they did during the long summer break, but no-one really seemed to have any answer, except "the pool". The children were 10, 6 and 3, and, though I came to love our neighborhood pool in future years, it didn't hit the spot at all for us that year. I had to be with 3-yo in the small pool, and I wasn't confident about the two older ones being on their own in the big pool, so I hovered at the gate between the two, trying to watch all three, feeling hot, worrying about sunburn, and longing for Scotland. And there still remained several hours of the day, long, slow hours, each day, every day, before and after our trip to the pool. Husband was rewriting his PhD into a book, and we'd set aside the summer weeks for him to do that. It was a very lonely time. It was when I started blogging.
We'd already done the museums and other attractions in the city. Several times. In fact, I decided that if anyone said to me "There's a great zoo here. Have you checked out the zoo yet?" I would decapitate them on the spot. Yes, I had taken the children to the zoo already. Full of maternal initiative, me. I'd been more than once, actually. It was hot and dusty and full of sad, enclosed animals. "But thanks for the suggestion", I always managed.
I decided I needed to get out of the city. A trip or two. That would raise morale. Part of what I had anticipated would be the fun of moving to a new country was the chance to explore. What I hadn't realised, and what I was finding out slowly, was that truly, there wasn't very much to explore where we were. I don't know if I'd envisaged a few little Cotswold villages, with tea shops and play parks, in the middle of the Great Plains, or what, but I'd expected something, anything, to go and do and see. I mean, wherever you are in the world, you can get to know your surroundings. Can't you? Surely? There's always something to go and visit, isn't there? Well, not so much in the middle of the Midwest. And especially if it's very hot, and you have three small children in tow, and you really don't want to make stopping at McDonalds the treat of the day. And you're sad and lonely and low on internal resources.
I had a great aunt, who was a big traveller. She used to say, if you're in a place and don't know what to visit, go and look at local postcard stands. You'll discover what's interesting nearby. Well, there weren't any shops with postcard stands where we were, but I asked in Wal-Mart, and a rather surprised assistant showed me a very small rack. I realise, now I understand the place and the way of life there so much better, that to find a postcard at all in Wal-Mart in that city was rather amazing, but at the time, amazed is exactly what I was not. I nearly cried. The selection couldn't have been more under-whelming. They were mostly jokey ones about cattle, or tornadoes. Great. There were a few pictures of fields of sunflowers, and yes, you could have a nice day out looking at sunflowers if you were in Tuscany and there was going to be a pretty little village snuggling against the hillside where you could order pizza and San Pellegrino and enjoy watching the waiter chat to your bambini, because everyone knows the Italians love children, but trust me, you can't really do the same kind of thing where we were. Unless you want to end up in a McDonalds, and my kids had already had way too many McFlurries that summer. Anyway, I had 12 weeks to fill. A day of sunflower-viewing wasn't going to make much of a dent.
Then I hit rock bottom. There was a postcard of a grain elevator. Do you know what that is? No? This is what they look like.
Photo credit: walkersquawker.net
They're big, made of concrete or steel, always white or grey, and not interesting. At all. The caption on the back of the postcard said "sometimes known as 'the Cathedrals of the Plains', these majestic structures can be seen for miles around". That was the final insult. Cathedrals of the Plains. I had swapped King's College Chapel, Westminster Abbey, Salisbury Cathedral, St Paul's, for these brutes? The beauty, history, design, and interest of cathedrals for the modern utilitarian ugliness of grain elevators? How could anyone dare compare them?
I bought the postcard.
I wanted to write "I hate living here" in huge, bold capitals on it, and send it to Postsecret. It felt really good, just to think about doing that. Perhaps I'd make it "I really, really, really, REALLY hate living here". But I didn't write that. First, in that irritating way that life has of laughing at you and debunking your most intense moments, the first couple of biros I tried wouldn't even make a mark on a postcard (and I obviously hadn't discovered Sharpies at that point). More significant than the biro issue though, was my pride. I was committed to making a success of our overseas adventure, and I had decided that the foundation of that commitment was the "Not wrong, just different" approach to life that was the title of my blog at the time. To send an "I hate living here" postcard would be to let myself down, and to let my blog down.
The modified version that I came up with, and I think this will make you laugh because it's so very Iota, was "I can't believe I'm living in a place where they make postcards of grain elevators". But I didn't even send that. I don't really know why. I kept the card, though. It lived in the desk drawer, and I used to take it out and look at it, and think how much I hated where we were, and how homesick I was for the land of my family and friends and cathedrals and tea shops.
Time passed. I grew to love my life. I never loved the place, but I loved my life in it, and we found ways of making it work, even though it wasn't Tuscany or the Cotswolds. A highlight was our annual Thanksgiving trip to Colorado, when we would drive for 12 hours across the Great Plains, in search of mountains. I loved those journeys. We got to know the route, and found places to eat on the way that weren't McDonalds. In one cafe, they even recognised us from one year to the next, and opened up for us once when we arrived a few minutes after closing time. I grew to love the Plains, and to cherish the opportunity that life had given me to experience new things in a new place. It would be stretching it to say that I grew to love the grain elevators, but I made my peace with them. You need landmarks to place your eyes on, as you drive across the flat landscape, and there's something about them that's large, solid, and comforting, like lighthouses. "Majestic structures", I suppose. They survive when nothing else does, when a tornado passes through. And actually, if you look at the photo you'll see two grain elevators, an old and a new. So I suppose there is even a historical interest to be found in grain elevators, if you look out for it.
When we were moving back to Britain, I got the postcard out. I was going to write on it "I used to hate living here, but now I'm really sad to leave", and send it to Postsecret. I didn't, though. As I said, Postsecret has changed. Brash sex revelations have replaced the weekly feast that I used to enjoy, of the tiny, sometimes whimsical, windows into the lives of strangers. It was no longer the right place for my secret to be aired.
I can't even remember what I did with the card. (That isn't a very good ending to the story, is it? It's the truth, though.) I vaguely remember ripping it in half and putting it in the bin, bidding it farewell and telling it "you've served your purpose; I don't need you any more". But I also vaguely remember tucking it into a pile of papers, thinking it would be fun to see it again. I hope it's the latter memory that's correct, because when that picture postcard surfaces, it will be like greeting an old friend.
.
We'd already done the museums and other attractions in the city. Several times. In fact, I decided that if anyone said to me "There's a great zoo here. Have you checked out the zoo yet?" I would decapitate them on the spot. Yes, I had taken the children to the zoo already. Full of maternal initiative, me. I'd been more than once, actually. It was hot and dusty and full of sad, enclosed animals. "But thanks for the suggestion", I always managed.
I decided I needed to get out of the city. A trip or two. That would raise morale. Part of what I had anticipated would be the fun of moving to a new country was the chance to explore. What I hadn't realised, and what I was finding out slowly, was that truly, there wasn't very much to explore where we were. I don't know if I'd envisaged a few little Cotswold villages, with tea shops and play parks, in the middle of the Great Plains, or what, but I'd expected something, anything, to go and do and see. I mean, wherever you are in the world, you can get to know your surroundings. Can't you? Surely? There's always something to go and visit, isn't there? Well, not so much in the middle of the Midwest. And especially if it's very hot, and you have three small children in tow, and you really don't want to make stopping at McDonalds the treat of the day. And you're sad and lonely and low on internal resources.
I had a great aunt, who was a big traveller. She used to say, if you're in a place and don't know what to visit, go and look at local postcard stands. You'll discover what's interesting nearby. Well, there weren't any shops with postcard stands where we were, but I asked in Wal-Mart, and a rather surprised assistant showed me a very small rack. I realise, now I understand the place and the way of life there so much better, that to find a postcard at all in Wal-Mart in that city was rather amazing, but at the time, amazed is exactly what I was not. I nearly cried. The selection couldn't have been more under-whelming. They were mostly jokey ones about cattle, or tornadoes. Great. There were a few pictures of fields of sunflowers, and yes, you could have a nice day out looking at sunflowers if you were in Tuscany and there was going to be a pretty little village snuggling against the hillside where you could order pizza and San Pellegrino and enjoy watching the waiter chat to your bambini, because everyone knows the Italians love children, but trust me, you can't really do the same kind of thing where we were. Unless you want to end up in a McDonalds, and my kids had already had way too many McFlurries that summer. Anyway, I had 12 weeks to fill. A day of sunflower-viewing wasn't going to make much of a dent.
Then I hit rock bottom. There was a postcard of a grain elevator. Do you know what that is? No? This is what they look like.
They're big, made of concrete or steel, always white or grey, and not interesting. At all. The caption on the back of the postcard said "sometimes known as 'the Cathedrals of the Plains', these majestic structures can be seen for miles around". That was the final insult. Cathedrals of the Plains. I had swapped King's College Chapel, Westminster Abbey, Salisbury Cathedral, St Paul's, for these brutes? The beauty, history, design, and interest of cathedrals for the modern utilitarian ugliness of grain elevators? How could anyone dare compare them?
I bought the postcard.
I wanted to write "I hate living here" in huge, bold capitals on it, and send it to Postsecret. It felt really good, just to think about doing that. Perhaps I'd make it "I really, really, really, REALLY hate living here". But I didn't write that. First, in that irritating way that life has of laughing at you and debunking your most intense moments, the first couple of biros I tried wouldn't even make a mark on a postcard (and I obviously hadn't discovered Sharpies at that point). More significant than the biro issue though, was my pride. I was committed to making a success of our overseas adventure, and I had decided that the foundation of that commitment was the "Not wrong, just different" approach to life that was the title of my blog at the time. To send an "I hate living here" postcard would be to let myself down, and to let my blog down.
The modified version that I came up with, and I think this will make you laugh because it's so very Iota, was "I can't believe I'm living in a place where they make postcards of grain elevators". But I didn't even send that. I don't really know why. I kept the card, though. It lived in the desk drawer, and I used to take it out and look at it, and think how much I hated where we were, and how homesick I was for the land of my family and friends and cathedrals and tea shops.
Time passed. I grew to love my life. I never loved the place, but I loved my life in it, and we found ways of making it work, even though it wasn't Tuscany or the Cotswolds. A highlight was our annual Thanksgiving trip to Colorado, when we would drive for 12 hours across the Great Plains, in search of mountains. I loved those journeys. We got to know the route, and found places to eat on the way that weren't McDonalds. In one cafe, they even recognised us from one year to the next, and opened up for us once when we arrived a few minutes after closing time. I grew to love the Plains, and to cherish the opportunity that life had given me to experience new things in a new place. It would be stretching it to say that I grew to love the grain elevators, but I made my peace with them. You need landmarks to place your eyes on, as you drive across the flat landscape, and there's something about them that's large, solid, and comforting, like lighthouses. "Majestic structures", I suppose. They survive when nothing else does, when a tornado passes through. And actually, if you look at the photo you'll see two grain elevators, an old and a new. So I suppose there is even a historical interest to be found in grain elevators, if you look out for it.
When we were moving back to Britain, I got the postcard out. I was going to write on it "I used to hate living here, but now I'm really sad to leave", and send it to Postsecret. I didn't, though. As I said, Postsecret has changed. Brash sex revelations have replaced the weekly feast that I used to enjoy, of the tiny, sometimes whimsical, windows into the lives of strangers. It was no longer the right place for my secret to be aired.
I can't even remember what I did with the card. (That isn't a very good ending to the story, is it? It's the truth, though.) I vaguely remember ripping it in half and putting it in the bin, bidding it farewell and telling it "you've served your purpose; I don't need you any more". But I also vaguely remember tucking it into a pile of papers, thinking it would be fun to see it again. I hope it's the latter memory that's correct, because when that picture postcard surfaces, it will be like greeting an old friend.
.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Finding my new normal - Part II
So why is there a Part II to this? It's because I want to share with you one of the things I learnt, through having cancer. There is no normal.
Of course there is, in one sense. As I said at the end of the previous post, I like being normal. "Normal life" is something we all take for granted... until it's wrenched away from us.. and then it seems like a golden blessing. As I write, I can see the buses going past my window, full of people going about their daily lives. Jobs, shopping, visiting. Who knows what they're up to? Most of it not very important, probably, but all of it part of a big whole. Each day, each element, is like a stitch in a tapestry, contributing to a picture.
Most people come through a major illness with a desire to appreciate the little things of life more, a determination to live every day to the full. I think that's wonderful. But it's also a bit exhausting. You can't do tapestry on speed. Tapestry is often a slow, plodding, meticulous task, and you can't fall down in admiration at every stitch. So yes, I do appreciate life and I do want to live to the full, but I do also have grumpy times (yes, really), and get fed up, and I don't remember to live each day as if it were my last.
The change I notice in myself, is the change of understanding of how life unfolds. Before cancer, I thought life was a line. I might deviate from the line, but then the task was to get back to it. For example, I battled with the idea of living abroad with the children for too long. I was happy for them to have an American experience, and I'd have talked about "broadening their horizons". But really, I looked on it as a deviation. Their real life was somehow hidden away in a cupboard in Britain, and I'd get it out and polish it up when we got back. But I now see how life exists in the deviations, because they're not deviations. They are the very stuff of life. And it's not just the visible. I think I'm able to accept change and disruption at my very core, in a way that I didn't used to. If I was a cake, having cancer wouldn't be a bit of the icing that's gone a bit wrong, that I can scrape off, and cover over with new icing. No. It's one of the ingredients, in the mix, in the baking, in every bite. It's in the flavour.
Unless I am alone in this (and I am perfectly happy to accept that I have a personal level of unique weirdness), I think it is an important truth, but also a difficult one to get hold of. I find it hard to explain. I see it in various aspects of life. Some of our deep insecurities come from a sense of not being who we ought to be. Even at a fairly superficial level, we are bombarded with the image of what our body should look like, what our face, our hair, should look like. When you move house, it's easy to feel permanently inadequate, because your house doesn't look like the ones in the catalogues, as they should. It's as if there is an imaginary straight line, that we are deviating from. But guess what? That imaginary line, where we're all slim, healthy, happy, fulfilled, with our scatter cushions perfectly arranged on our sofas, doesn't exist. When I had cancer, one of the overwhelming, yet hard to define, feelings, was that I shouldn't be having cancer. This shouldn't be happening to me. It was a deviation. But it did happen, and it still is happening, in that it is part of me now. I wouldn't be who I am, if I hadn't had cancer, and I am who I am. And that is it. To go back to my earlier example, I used to resent being in America, as it was somehow preventing the children from having the life they ought to be having the other side of the Atlantic. But I stopped seeing it like that. They are who they are, their lives are as they are, and that is enough. My house doesn't look like an IKEA catalogue, but that is.... hang on... I really would quite like my house to look like an IKEA catalogue. I guess I have some progress to make on that one.
I haven't described what I wanted to describe very well. I can feel words like "embracing change" and "acceptance" hovering around, ready to fall onto the page and sum this up for me.
And, if you've read this far, you'll be pleased to know that the results came back from the lab, and that everything they tested was benign. That was the word the doctor used: "benign". Maybe she had a sixth sense that if she said "everything was normal", it might have prompted a monologue on the word "normal". You can see I've been thinking about it... just a little.
.
Of course there is, in one sense. As I said at the end of the previous post, I like being normal. "Normal life" is something we all take for granted... until it's wrenched away from us.. and then it seems like a golden blessing. As I write, I can see the buses going past my window, full of people going about their daily lives. Jobs, shopping, visiting. Who knows what they're up to? Most of it not very important, probably, but all of it part of a big whole. Each day, each element, is like a stitch in a tapestry, contributing to a picture.
Most people come through a major illness with a desire to appreciate the little things of life more, a determination to live every day to the full. I think that's wonderful. But it's also a bit exhausting. You can't do tapestry on speed. Tapestry is often a slow, plodding, meticulous task, and you can't fall down in admiration at every stitch. So yes, I do appreciate life and I do want to live to the full, but I do also have grumpy times (yes, really), and get fed up, and I don't remember to live each day as if it were my last.
The change I notice in myself, is the change of understanding of how life unfolds. Before cancer, I thought life was a line. I might deviate from the line, but then the task was to get back to it. For example, I battled with the idea of living abroad with the children for too long. I was happy for them to have an American experience, and I'd have talked about "broadening their horizons". But really, I looked on it as a deviation. Their real life was somehow hidden away in a cupboard in Britain, and I'd get it out and polish it up when we got back. But I now see how life exists in the deviations, because they're not deviations. They are the very stuff of life. And it's not just the visible. I think I'm able to accept change and disruption at my very core, in a way that I didn't used to. If I was a cake, having cancer wouldn't be a bit of the icing that's gone a bit wrong, that I can scrape off, and cover over with new icing. No. It's one of the ingredients, in the mix, in the baking, in every bite. It's in the flavour.
Unless I am alone in this (and I am perfectly happy to accept that I have a personal level of unique weirdness), I think it is an important truth, but also a difficult one to get hold of. I find it hard to explain. I see it in various aspects of life. Some of our deep insecurities come from a sense of not being who we ought to be. Even at a fairly superficial level, we are bombarded with the image of what our body should look like, what our face, our hair, should look like. When you move house, it's easy to feel permanently inadequate, because your house doesn't look like the ones in the catalogues, as they should. It's as if there is an imaginary straight line, that we are deviating from. But guess what? That imaginary line, where we're all slim, healthy, happy, fulfilled, with our scatter cushions perfectly arranged on our sofas, doesn't exist. When I had cancer, one of the overwhelming, yet hard to define, feelings, was that I shouldn't be having cancer. This shouldn't be happening to me. It was a deviation. But it did happen, and it still is happening, in that it is part of me now. I wouldn't be who I am, if I hadn't had cancer, and I am who I am. And that is it. To go back to my earlier example, I used to resent being in America, as it was somehow preventing the children from having the life they ought to be having the other side of the Atlantic. But I stopped seeing it like that. They are who they are, their lives are as they are, and that is enough. My house doesn't look like an IKEA catalogue, but that is.... hang on... I really would quite like my house to look like an IKEA catalogue. I guess I have some progress to make on that one.
And, if you've read this far, you'll be pleased to know that the results came back from the lab, and that everything they tested was benign. That was the word the doctor used: "benign". Maybe she had a sixth sense that if she said "everything was normal", it might have prompted a monologue on the word "normal". You can see I've been thinking about it... just a little.
.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Finding my new normal - Part I
The title of this post is stolen from a blog I follow. I found it, because it's written by an American living in London, but that's not what the blog is about. The author lost a baby at full term, and has written deeply and movingly (that sounds so patronising and cliched and I don't mean it to) about that. Now she has a second baby, and is navigating life in the new-baby-new-mummy world.
I don't want to compare life after cancer with life after losing a baby. It's a wrong comparison. But some of what she has written recently has resonated with me. I absolutely love the title of the blog. "Finding my new normal". It just seems to encapsulate so much. When we moved back here to Britain last summer, we started a new chapter, in a new place, among new people. We were building a new normal. I had a choice, have a choice, whether to tell anyone about going through cancer. Or not.
I've chosen not to. It wasn't a decision made in advance: "I'm not going to tell anyone". No. It's just that it never quite felt like the moment. There's one person here who I knew before we came here, and she knows, and maybe that one person is enough. I see her often, and we have hardly ever talked about cancer, but perhaps it's enough that I know I could. I did share with her the details of my recent health scare (investigative procedure didn't find anything nasty, but still awaiting lab results to confirm, thanks for asking). Perhaps this is the ideal situation. Just one person, a person I can trust, who I can talk to if I need to. And of course I can always share what I want to on the subject on my blog. That must make a difference.
I suppose part of it is a desire to be free of that label. I want to be me first, and a breast cancer person second (notice I didn't use that word "survivor" which I really loathe). It's not that it's a secret. I'm not afraid of telling people. I'm far enough on now, that it doesn't dominate my life. I can talk about it without it being too overwhelming. It's just that if you don't tell a new friend early on, then it would feel a bit odd when you do tell them. It somehow takes the conversation, and maybe the relationship, into a different register.
It feels good that "I've had cancer" is no longer the top of the list of my daily mental agenda. Perhaps that's why I haven't told people. I don't want it to be. Perhaps I'm afraid that if I tell them, then it will ratchet back up the list a little. Would the casual "How are you?" be weighted with a little more significance? Will I have to say "I'm fine" with a little more emphasis than I usually do?
I'm at the point where I'd be happy to be in a supportive role to someone else going through the same experience. I know that, because I've recently heard of someone with a breast cancer diagnosis, about to start chemotherapy, and I've sent a message, opening the door to further contact, if that is what she wants. I said "it's not a secret, but it's not something I talk about very much". And that is where I am. It's easy to see how something like a cancer history could become a dark secret, and I don't want that. It's nothing to be ashamed of. One in eight women are going to go through it at some point in their lives (are you doing self-examinations, ladies? ONE IN EIGHT...). But I don't want to bang the drum, either. I'm not that woman who is throwing herself into fundraising, campaigning, getting involved. I don't want it to become my identity.
I like "my new normal", actually. I like being a normal person. I did terribly miss normal life, when I was going through the valley of the shadow of cancer. I expect that's why I haven't told people. I like being normal again.
.
I don't want to compare life after cancer with life after losing a baby. It's a wrong comparison. But some of what she has written recently has resonated with me. I absolutely love the title of the blog. "Finding my new normal". It just seems to encapsulate so much. When we moved back here to Britain last summer, we started a new chapter, in a new place, among new people. We were building a new normal. I had a choice, have a choice, whether to tell anyone about going through cancer. Or not.
I've chosen not to. It wasn't a decision made in advance: "I'm not going to tell anyone". No. It's just that it never quite felt like the moment. There's one person here who I knew before we came here, and she knows, and maybe that one person is enough. I see her often, and we have hardly ever talked about cancer, but perhaps it's enough that I know I could. I did share with her the details of my recent health scare (investigative procedure didn't find anything nasty, but still awaiting lab results to confirm, thanks for asking). Perhaps this is the ideal situation. Just one person, a person I can trust, who I can talk to if I need to. And of course I can always share what I want to on the subject on my blog. That must make a difference.
I suppose part of it is a desire to be free of that label. I want to be me first, and a breast cancer person second (notice I didn't use that word "survivor" which I really loathe). It's not that it's a secret. I'm not afraid of telling people. I'm far enough on now, that it doesn't dominate my life. I can talk about it without it being too overwhelming. It's just that if you don't tell a new friend early on, then it would feel a bit odd when you do tell them. It somehow takes the conversation, and maybe the relationship, into a different register.
It feels good that "I've had cancer" is no longer the top of the list of my daily mental agenda. Perhaps that's why I haven't told people. I don't want it to be. Perhaps I'm afraid that if I tell them, then it will ratchet back up the list a little. Would the casual "How are you?" be weighted with a little more significance? Will I have to say "I'm fine" with a little more emphasis than I usually do?
I'm at the point where I'd be happy to be in a supportive role to someone else going through the same experience. I know that, because I've recently heard of someone with a breast cancer diagnosis, about to start chemotherapy, and I've sent a message, opening the door to further contact, if that is what she wants. I said "it's not a secret, but it's not something I talk about very much". And that is where I am. It's easy to see how something like a cancer history could become a dark secret, and I don't want that. It's nothing to be ashamed of. One in eight women are going to go through it at some point in their lives (are you doing self-examinations, ladies? ONE IN EIGHT...). But I don't want to bang the drum, either. I'm not that woman who is throwing herself into fundraising, campaigning, getting involved. I don't want it to become my identity.
I like "my new normal", actually. I like being a normal person. I did terribly miss normal life, when I was going through the valley of the shadow of cancer. I expect that's why I haven't told people. I like being normal again.
.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
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.
.
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.
.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
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?
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?
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Iota's Six Top Festive Tips
Long-term followers of my blog (you poor sad people, don't you have anything better to do?) will know that I really love Christmas. So as the season starts to roll, I thought I would drip my distilled drops of wisdom, accumulated from experiences old and new, as to how to make this Christmas the most wonderful of all.
- Don't get a spaniel puppy. They poo and wee a lot on the floor. They humiliate you at puppy training classes. They bark when they are excited, which is a lot of the time. When you discuss this, outside, with the puppy trainer, she will talk about rewarding good behaviour, as if you need to become an expert in canine CBT. You will be nodding and smiling, while all the while you will be thinking "or we could just buy a kennel and he could live outside". Shouting at your puppy does not help.
- Don't have sons. They are incapable of distinguishing dirty clothes from clean. If you have to have sons, wait a few decades until Lasik have invented a corrective procedure, that will be offered to parents of boys at their birth. Shouting at your sons does not help.
- Don't have daughters. They are like whirlwinds of chaos. They have 'art projects' everywhere. They insist on growing their hair long, and then they don't want to wash it because they are too busy when it comes to bedtime. Shouting at your daughters does not help.
- Don't get married. Husbands are always right about everything, and it's very annoying. They put on a sad face with sad eyes (see "spaniel puppy" above) when you shout at them.
- Don't buy Christmas stocking fillers. You will hide them and then not remember where you have put them. Don't even bother with the shouting on this one. Those pesky stocking fillers will not hear you, and even if they do, they will not answer.
- Don't buy Christmas decorations. Don't buy fancy cardboard stars from IKEA, and wait till Sunday night to put them up. You will have mislaid the light bulbs, and it will be too late to go and buy some more (even if you could be bothered), because this is Britain where shops shut at a stupidly early hour. You won't be able to make the stars hang straight, because electric flex is so deliberately wayward, and because, quite frankly, the world is against you. Surprisingly, shouting at the IKEA stars DOES help.
If you follow these six tips, I guarantee you'll be full of festive cheer, and the season will envelop you in a flurry of goodwill and jollity, as if you were in a blizzard and every snowflake was a warm wish of happiness.
This post is part of the BritMums Christmas Blog Hop.
This post is part of the BritMums Christmas Blog Hop.
.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Why Husband is like Obama (and why I am not like the First Lady)
So Obama is President again. As he made his victory speech, there was a small, seemingly insignificant phrase, that resonated in the Manhattan household. You possibly missed it, amidst the background noise of the whole world beyond America breathing a huge sigh of relief. As he paid tribute to his daughters and talked about their return to the White House, he joked "but one dog is enough".
"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."
I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.
One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours, or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.
Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.
"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."
I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.
One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours, or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.
Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
One wallow at the end of a summer
I've moved continents twice, and that makes me something of an expert. Expert... expat... same difference. And from my expert point of view, here is one tip. You will have days when you just need to wallow for a few hours. Go ahead and wallow. (I suppose this expert advice applies to any move, really.)
I had a wallowy day on Friday. Wednesday had been "new pupil day" for the kids. That was all fun and jollity. Thursday had been the first proper day of school, and they all came home exhausted. Their faces were white and drawn. They slumped. They had homework to do (homework on day one - what kind of unreasonable behaviour is that on the part of the teachers?). Homework is called "prep". I've never liked that. It smacks of a fib. The idea is, I'm guessing, that the children are so enthralled by their school work, that they find out what the teacher is planning on teaching the following day, and prepare themselves for it. Whereas we all know that in reality, prep is either finishing off a task that was started in class, or is an assignment related to what has already been covered. It's only very, very occasionally "prep".
I digress. Back to Thursday night. By the time slumping had been done, dinner had been consumed, and prep had been completed, it was late, the chance of an early bedtime had been blown, and I went to bed as exhausted as my children and hard-working husband, and feeling a bit of a failure, frankly. I mean, they're the ones starting a new school or new job. Friday was their second day, and I packed them off, and then had a good wallow.
I was washing up, and as I did so, I shut my eyes, and I recalled the sounds of washing up at my old sink in my old kitchen in my old home. I missed the mournful hoot of the trains. I missed Diane Ream on NPR. I missed the crickets, made noisy by the heat of the sun. I missed knowing exactly how long it would take to get to Dillons and back. I missed having a diary full of events and people. I missed my job, my MA course, my big fridge...
Then I recalled the early days in America. How I used to wash up, and shut my eyes, and miss the sounds I'd left behind in Scotland. The seagulls, the CBeebies signature tunes, the clinking of a zip against the window of the washing machine the other side of the kitchen, The Archers. I missed the shops on the High Street, the walk there and back with the stroller. I missed the busy calendar on the back of the cupboard door. I missed the sea. Boy, did I miss the sea...
It felt very strange. A deja vue, or a time warp. Memories of memories, re-feelings of feelings. It seems I have come full circle. I'm in Scotland, missing a place, where I used to stand and miss Scotland. But it isn't a full circle. It's two halves of two different circles. Life isn't always joined up, is it?
Anyway, I had a good wallow. And then I felt better. Now those are two halves of the same circle.
.
I had a wallowy day on Friday. Wednesday had been "new pupil day" for the kids. That was all fun and jollity. Thursday had been the first proper day of school, and they all came home exhausted. Their faces were white and drawn. They slumped. They had homework to do (homework on day one - what kind of unreasonable behaviour is that on the part of the teachers?). Homework is called "prep". I've never liked that. It smacks of a fib. The idea is, I'm guessing, that the children are so enthralled by their school work, that they find out what the teacher is planning on teaching the following day, and prepare themselves for it. Whereas we all know that in reality, prep is either finishing off a task that was started in class, or is an assignment related to what has already been covered. It's only very, very occasionally "prep".
I digress. Back to Thursday night. By the time slumping had been done, dinner had been consumed, and prep had been completed, it was late, the chance of an early bedtime had been blown, and I went to bed as exhausted as my children and hard-working husband, and feeling a bit of a failure, frankly. I mean, they're the ones starting a new school or new job. Friday was their second day, and I packed them off, and then had a good wallow.
I was washing up, and as I did so, I shut my eyes, and I recalled the sounds of washing up at my old sink in my old kitchen in my old home. I missed the mournful hoot of the trains. I missed Diane Ream on NPR. I missed the crickets, made noisy by the heat of the sun. I missed knowing exactly how long it would take to get to Dillons and back. I missed having a diary full of events and people. I missed my job, my MA course, my big fridge...
Then I recalled the early days in America. How I used to wash up, and shut my eyes, and miss the sounds I'd left behind in Scotland. The seagulls, the CBeebies signature tunes, the clinking of a zip against the window of the washing machine the other side of the kitchen, The Archers. I missed the shops on the High Street, the walk there and back with the stroller. I missed the busy calendar on the back of the cupboard door. I missed the sea. Boy, did I miss the sea...
It felt very strange. A deja vue, or a time warp. Memories of memories, re-feelings of feelings. It seems I have come full circle. I'm in Scotland, missing a place, where I used to stand and miss Scotland. But it isn't a full circle. It's two halves of two different circles. Life isn't always joined up, is it?
Anyway, I had a good wallow. And then I felt better. Now those are two halves of the same circle.
.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Tornado
If ever there was a bloggable moment, this is it. It's amazing that we have power. A tornado has just come through the city, and power lines must be down all over. I'm glad we do, though. I like to connect with you all, in the stillness that has become my night.
Now I really wish I'd written that blog post I've always meant to write, about what we do when there are tornadoes predicted. Then you'd have some background against which to understand what has just been happening. Too late now.
The storms have been moving across the Midwest all day. We've been following them. Nothing too close, nothing to worry about. Then at about 9.00pm (I only know because 8-yo was in bed asleep, 11-yo wasn't), we started to pay more attention to the local tv channel, now devoted entirely to storm-watching. It still had that slightly exciting feeling to it. And then it didn't. They started talking about a tornado headed straight for our city. Not a likelihood of a tornado. Not a storm that has all the signs favorable for a tornado. A tornado on the ground. Half a mile wide. And the weather man is telling everyone to make last minute preparations. Then he tells us to go to our shelter area.
We are in the basement. We have wondered about sitting under Husband's work bench, but (not in front of the kids), discuss whether the benefits of being under something solid are outweighed by the dangers of being in the workshop. Most tornado injuries for people inside their house are from flying objects. The workshop is full of objects you wouldn't want to fly at you at high velocity. I don't even crack a joke about how tidy it is (what with the house being on the market). I don't even joke. It must be serious.
So we huddle together in the little space that is a storage area between two rooms. We usually have a wine rack there, and a conglomeration of boxes and junk, but of course everywhere is so minimalist at the moment. Did I mention that our house is very tidy because it's on the market? We huddle together, and I'm thinking "This can't be happening. We've only got 2 more months here. This can't be happening. That's lousy timing." 11-yo says it'll be something to tell the grandchildren. I think about the war. Families huddled together night after night.
We're wearing bike helmets. Mine still has the instruction booklet attached to it, which keeps banging against my neck. Husband doesn't have one. He and I don't discuss who should have the adult one. He just handed it to me and I put it on. Why would that be? We're padded with sofa cushions, and snuggled under duvets and blankets. When the tornado comes by, we're going to lift the duvets over our heads. We tell the children that it will sound like a freight train going over us. There might be a silence, but that will be because we're in the middle of it, and it will start again.
I tell everyone to take deep breaths, "into your bellies" I say, "not just into your lungs". I am strangely calm. I think of you all, and I want my mind to come up with some clever quip about blog fodder, but it doesn't.
We have a laptop with us, and we're watching the weather man track the tornado. The weather man tells his non-essential colleagues at the weather centre to head down to their basement. He tells viewers that he will follow them at the last moment. The tornado is on the outer edges of the city. I can picture exactly where. "That's where we were this morning", says Husband (who took 11-yo to his soccer match there). They put up a projected path of the tornado. The neighborhood adjoining ours is mentioned by name. The tornado is expected there at 10.38. I look at Husband and I say "this is it. This really is it." He looks at me.
I tell the kids - again - that we are going to be ok. If you're in a basement, you're (usually) unhurt. I say that we are going to be ok, but that the house might be damaged. We have already prayed several quick prayers, but we pray again. For ourselves, for the city, for those without basements, for anyone outside, for those who are scared. 14-yo says that it's the exact time the Titanic went down. 11-yo has hidden his face under the blanket. 8-yo's eyes are wide and bloodshot.
We wait for the freight train. It's less than 5 minutes away. We're all hot, under the duvets and cushions. I am ridiculously proud of my children.
The tornado changes course. Instead of heading north, it veers east. There is no freight train. We think of the people in the suburbs to the east. They were hit by a dreadful tornado in 1991. The neighbourhood next to ours isn't mentioned any more. The tornado is north east of the city now. It feels more confusing than anything else. I should be relieved, surely, but I'm just confused. It didn't come. The freight train didn't come.
The power goes out. I text my brother in Paris, so that he can tell the family we're ok, when they wake and see pictures on the news.
And then it gets surreal. The power comes on again. The kids find some digestive biscuits in the basement (I thought you'd like that bit!) which I bought yesterday at a new British supplies shop which I visited just out of interest. I'm long past the need for British goods, but I was just curious, and it was one of those situations where I couldn't really leave without buying something, so I bought digestives for myself, fruit pastilles, refreshers and love hearts for the children. We eat digestive biscuits, and drink water. We go outside and look into the darkness. It's not raining, but it must have been - the side of the road is a raging torrent. I comment that we won't have to water the new turf we've had put down (because our house... oh, I think I've told you that). I get emergency text messages from the school, telling me that if my child was at the prom, they were safe and sound in the basement shelter of the country club. Wow - that would be a prom to remember.
I feel very wobbly, but very calm. The two can co-exist. 11-yo asks if he can play his clarinet, because that will make him feel better. I can't think of a good reason to say no, so I say yes. 8-yo then decides that playing the piano will make her feel better too. She's had a total of 3 lessons so far, and has one tune. Old MacDonald. So she plays Old MacDonald, and 11-yo joins in on his clarinet, but in a different key. They don't seem to mind. I told you it got surreal. 11-yo then says he wants to play something soothing and calming, so Old MacDonald stops, and he plays a haunting, wandering melody. I reflect that I had no idea he was so good at the clarinet.
I suggest that we put the kids to bed on the floor of the spare bedroom in the basement, and take it in turns to go to bed in the room with them. We need to keep watch through the night. There are more storms coming up from the south (damn you, Texas), and I don't think we would hear the tornado sirens from the basement. So this is my watch, Bloggy Friends. It makes sense to do it this way round. I'm a night owl, Husband is a morning lark.
There's a moth at the window in front of the desk, attracted by the light. It's very determined, fluttering and fluttering against the glass pane, trying to get in. How do you suppose a moth survives a storm which produces hail the size of golf balls, and winds that can rip a roof off a house?
I'm going to go now. Those storms might be approaching, and I need to be on top of what is happening. Thank you for keeping watch with me, dear Bloggy Friends.
Now I really wish I'd written that blog post I've always meant to write, about what we do when there are tornadoes predicted. Then you'd have some background against which to understand what has just been happening. Too late now.
The storms have been moving across the Midwest all day. We've been following them. Nothing too close, nothing to worry about. Then at about 9.00pm (I only know because 8-yo was in bed asleep, 11-yo wasn't), we started to pay more attention to the local tv channel, now devoted entirely to storm-watching. It still had that slightly exciting feeling to it. And then it didn't. They started talking about a tornado headed straight for our city. Not a likelihood of a tornado. Not a storm that has all the signs favorable for a tornado. A tornado on the ground. Half a mile wide. And the weather man is telling everyone to make last minute preparations. Then he tells us to go to our shelter area.
We are in the basement. We have wondered about sitting under Husband's work bench, but (not in front of the kids), discuss whether the benefits of being under something solid are outweighed by the dangers of being in the workshop. Most tornado injuries for people inside their house are from flying objects. The workshop is full of objects you wouldn't want to fly at you at high velocity. I don't even crack a joke about how tidy it is (what with the house being on the market). I don't even joke. It must be serious.
So we huddle together in the little space that is a storage area between two rooms. We usually have a wine rack there, and a conglomeration of boxes and junk, but of course everywhere is so minimalist at the moment. Did I mention that our house is very tidy because it's on the market? We huddle together, and I'm thinking "This can't be happening. We've only got 2 more months here. This can't be happening. That's lousy timing." 11-yo says it'll be something to tell the grandchildren. I think about the war. Families huddled together night after night.
We're wearing bike helmets. Mine still has the instruction booklet attached to it, which keeps banging against my neck. Husband doesn't have one. He and I don't discuss who should have the adult one. He just handed it to me and I put it on. Why would that be? We're padded with sofa cushions, and snuggled under duvets and blankets. When the tornado comes by, we're going to lift the duvets over our heads. We tell the children that it will sound like a freight train going over us. There might be a silence, but that will be because we're in the middle of it, and it will start again.
I tell everyone to take deep breaths, "into your bellies" I say, "not just into your lungs". I am strangely calm. I think of you all, and I want my mind to come up with some clever quip about blog fodder, but it doesn't.
We have a laptop with us, and we're watching the weather man track the tornado. The weather man tells his non-essential colleagues at the weather centre to head down to their basement. He tells viewers that he will follow them at the last moment. The tornado is on the outer edges of the city. I can picture exactly where. "That's where we were this morning", says Husband (who took 11-yo to his soccer match there). They put up a projected path of the tornado. The neighborhood adjoining ours is mentioned by name. The tornado is expected there at 10.38. I look at Husband and I say "this is it. This really is it." He looks at me.
I tell the kids - again - that we are going to be ok. If you're in a basement, you're (usually) unhurt. I say that we are going to be ok, but that the house might be damaged. We have already prayed several quick prayers, but we pray again. For ourselves, for the city, for those without basements, for anyone outside, for those who are scared. 14-yo says that it's the exact time the Titanic went down. 11-yo has hidden his face under the blanket. 8-yo's eyes are wide and bloodshot.
We wait for the freight train. It's less than 5 minutes away. We're all hot, under the duvets and cushions. I am ridiculously proud of my children.
The tornado changes course. Instead of heading north, it veers east. There is no freight train. We think of the people in the suburbs to the east. They were hit by a dreadful tornado in 1991. The neighbourhood next to ours isn't mentioned any more. The tornado is north east of the city now. It feels more confusing than anything else. I should be relieved, surely, but I'm just confused. It didn't come. The freight train didn't come.
The power goes out. I text my brother in Paris, so that he can tell the family we're ok, when they wake and see pictures on the news.
And then it gets surreal. The power comes on again. The kids find some digestive biscuits in the basement (I thought you'd like that bit!) which I bought yesterday at a new British supplies shop which I visited just out of interest. I'm long past the need for British goods, but I was just curious, and it was one of those situations where I couldn't really leave without buying something, so I bought digestives for myself, fruit pastilles, refreshers and love hearts for the children. We eat digestive biscuits, and drink water. We go outside and look into the darkness. It's not raining, but it must have been - the side of the road is a raging torrent. I comment that we won't have to water the new turf we've had put down (because our house... oh, I think I've told you that). I get emergency text messages from the school, telling me that if my child was at the prom, they were safe and sound in the basement shelter of the country club. Wow - that would be a prom to remember.
I feel very wobbly, but very calm. The two can co-exist. 11-yo asks if he can play his clarinet, because that will make him feel better. I can't think of a good reason to say no, so I say yes. 8-yo then decides that playing the piano will make her feel better too. She's had a total of 3 lessons so far, and has one tune. Old MacDonald. So she plays Old MacDonald, and 11-yo joins in on his clarinet, but in a different key. They don't seem to mind. I told you it got surreal. 11-yo then says he wants to play something soothing and calming, so Old MacDonald stops, and he plays a haunting, wandering melody. I reflect that I had no idea he was so good at the clarinet.
I suggest that we put the kids to bed on the floor of the spare bedroom in the basement, and take it in turns to go to bed in the room with them. We need to keep watch through the night. There are more storms coming up from the south (damn you, Texas), and I don't think we would hear the tornado sirens from the basement. So this is my watch, Bloggy Friends. It makes sense to do it this way round. I'm a night owl, Husband is a morning lark.
There's a moth at the window in front of the desk, attracted by the light. It's very determined, fluttering and fluttering against the glass pane, trying to get in. How do you suppose a moth survives a storm which produces hail the size of golf balls, and winds that can rip a roof off a house?
I'm going to go now. Those storms might be approaching, and I need to be on top of what is happening. Thank you for keeping watch with me, dear Bloggy Friends.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Geographical locations come and go, but blogs go on forever
Of course the great thing about blogging is that even when your life moves geographically, your blog can stay where it is, in its own little cosy corner of the blogosphere. I find that settling, in a life which is suddenly in a whirl. So a big thank you, THANK YOU, to whoever nominated me for the Brilliance in Blogging awards (short lists here). Seems I am short-listed in two categories: I am "Lit!" (as in literary, I think, not as in all alight and on fire), and "Inspire!". You are very very kind, and you may just have persuaded me to keep blogging (for yes, dear Bloggy Friends, it had crossed my mind that once I am no longer an expat writing an expat blog, my blogging days will be over...).
So... I'm in the category "Inspire!", which is lovely of you all. I'm going to let you into a secret. When you have cancer, it's not difficult to be inspiring, because people kind of give you that label without you having to try. But I hadn't reckoned on the cancer effect not wearing off for a couple of years. Nearly three, actually. That's rather nice.
However, since I am about to return to the country where self-deprecation is the norm, I thought I should dust off my skills in this department, and share with you one way in which I have been totally uninspiring this week.
I wrapped the side of my car round a small post, about 18 inches high. It serves me right for using a bank drive-thru (sorry, I have to spell it that way). That is about the third time in five years in the US that I have used the drive-thru, partly as a matter of principle - what is so hard about parking your car, and walking into a building, for heaven's sake? - and partly because I didn't know how you actually operated a drive-thru and was too embarrassed to ask anyone. Or perhaps I had some dreadful premonition, that I would meet a sticky end in a drive-thru, and was avoiding them, but as fruitlessly as the King and Queen who banned all spindles from their kingdom, in an attempt to stop their Princess pricking her finger. Her destiny was to fall asleep for a hundred years. Mine was to mash up the driver's door, the passenger's door, and - ooh, my reactions were slow that day - the back wheel arch of my minivan. She dozed through a century, to be awakened by a Prince's gentle kiss. I endured the mirth of the Bank of America employees watching me from behind the big glass window as I got out to inspect the damage, and then phoned Husband to confess (who was very nice about it, though you can't get a kiss - gentle or otherwise - down a mobile phone). She planned a wedding and drifted off into the sunset. I looked up my car insurance documents, and discovered that we have a deductible of $1,000.
The incident did, however, give me a wonderful opportunity to model to my children how to react to such a situation. First off, I parked the car, and went into the bank to pay in the check. Yes, I did. I am nothing if not determined, when it comes to standing up to inappropriate bank merriment in the face of customer misfortune. I was definitely not going to slink away. I even remembered to make the kids stay in the car, so that they wouldn't get the free tooth-rotting lollipops that the bank gives out to them. (Ah... THAT was why I was doing the drive-thru... I knew there must have been a reason, apart from Destiny, of course.) Then I can't quite recall the details, but it involved shouting at the children, and subsequently listening while 14-yo, bless his tactful teenage heart, helpfully pointed out that I often tell him, if he is angry, not to take it out on another member of the family, and engaging him in a lively discussion about how this situation was in no way comparable to any previous one in which I had given that instruction. See? That is just how inspiring I am.
Oh, and the best bit was this. The reason that I crumpled the side of the car so convincingly, and spread it with the bright yellow paint with which the post was painted (bright yellow... so that people can't miss it...), was because when I heard the bang and the crumply noise, I thought to myself "ooh, don't cardboard boxes make a lovely bang and a lovely crumply noise when you drive over them?". Yup. Pretty darn inspiring, wouldn't you agree?
So... I'm in the category "Inspire!", which is lovely of you all. I'm going to let you into a secret. When you have cancer, it's not difficult to be inspiring, because people kind of give you that label without you having to try. But I hadn't reckoned on the cancer effect not wearing off for a couple of years. Nearly three, actually. That's rather nice.
However, since I am about to return to the country where self-deprecation is the norm, I thought I should dust off my skills in this department, and share with you one way in which I have been totally uninspiring this week.
I wrapped the side of my car round a small post, about 18 inches high. It serves me right for using a bank drive-thru (sorry, I have to spell it that way). That is about the third time in five years in the US that I have used the drive-thru, partly as a matter of principle - what is so hard about parking your car, and walking into a building, for heaven's sake? - and partly because I didn't know how you actually operated a drive-thru and was too embarrassed to ask anyone. Or perhaps I had some dreadful premonition, that I would meet a sticky end in a drive-thru, and was avoiding them, but as fruitlessly as the King and Queen who banned all spindles from their kingdom, in an attempt to stop their Princess pricking her finger. Her destiny was to fall asleep for a hundred years. Mine was to mash up the driver's door, the passenger's door, and - ooh, my reactions were slow that day - the back wheel arch of my minivan. She dozed through a century, to be awakened by a Prince's gentle kiss. I endured the mirth of the Bank of America employees watching me from behind the big glass window as I got out to inspect the damage, and then phoned Husband to confess (who was very nice about it, though you can't get a kiss - gentle or otherwise - down a mobile phone). She planned a wedding and drifted off into the sunset. I looked up my car insurance documents, and discovered that we have a deductible of $1,000.
The incident did, however, give me a wonderful opportunity to model to my children how to react to such a situation. First off, I parked the car, and went into the bank to pay in the check. Yes, I did. I am nothing if not determined, when it comes to standing up to inappropriate bank merriment in the face of customer misfortune. I was definitely not going to slink away. I even remembered to make the kids stay in the car, so that they wouldn't get the free tooth-rotting lollipops that the bank gives out to them. (Ah... THAT was why I was doing the drive-thru... I knew there must have been a reason, apart from Destiny, of course.) Then I can't quite recall the details, but it involved shouting at the children, and subsequently listening while 14-yo, bless his tactful teenage heart, helpfully pointed out that I often tell him, if he is angry, not to take it out on another member of the family, and engaging him in a lively discussion about how this situation was in no way comparable to any previous one in which I had given that instruction. See? That is just how inspiring I am.
Oh, and the best bit was this. The reason that I crumpled the side of the car so convincingly, and spread it with the bright yellow paint with which the post was painted (bright yellow... so that people can't miss it...), was because when I heard the bang and the crumply noise, I thought to myself "ooh, don't cardboard boxes make a lovely bang and a lovely crumply noise when you drive over them?". Yup. Pretty darn inspiring, wouldn't you agree?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Moving on
We are moving back to Britain.
I don't know what else to say on my blog. I have learnt that anything you say, any information you share, you can't take back. I can't ever be properly anonymous again, but I can continue to be semi-anonymous, and I want to guard that. So I don't want to give out details of names and places. But I want to tell my news, dear Bloggy Friends. What to do?
I think what I'll do is tell you a little, and then if you want to know details, you can email me. The address is IotaManhattan, then the rest hosted by gmail. I'm happy to share information, dear Bloggy Friends. I just don't want to do it here. Please do feel free to contact me.
Suffice to say, there's a clue in the labels for this post. Husband has got a job as a school chaplain. It's a great option for the whole family. The kids will have places at the school, which is mostly boarding, but they will be day kids. We will live on site. So as far as the move goes, the two big challenges (finding a house, finding schools) are already in the bag. In the sporran.
It's one of those beautiful moments in life when everything seems to be falling into place around our ears. I haven't shared much about the search for a route back to the UK, but it has been lengthy and demoralising. Sometimes agonising. When we came to the US for a stint, we didn't plan for the credit crunch and what that would do to the job market. There have been times here when we have felt stuck, and panicky. The clock has been ticking in the background. We absolutely HAD to be back before our oldest was 12. He needed to start secondary school in the UK along with peers. That sacred cow fell by the wayside a couple of years ago. Then we had to be back before he was 14 and would start the GCSE curriculum. Bam! Another sacred cow keels over. I can picture it toppling sideways in slow motion, legs giving way and extending to a skywards-pointing position, as the bovine body hits the ground and rotates, sacred udder bouncing and wobbling. The field of our recent life is strewn with several of these supine creatures.
I have had to learn to go with the flow, to trust that life will work out, when we can't work it out ourselves. And now we have an option that is better than all the others. It was waiting for us, but of course we couldn't see it, hiding away round a corner in the future. Meanwhile, we've been determined not to live in limbo, and so we've never allowed ourselves to say "it's not worth it, we might be moving". It's a series of acts of will, but important for expats, I think. So I painted our bedroom even as Husband was in the UK having a job interview about this time last year, and I chose a colour that I liked, not a colour that would be sensible for preparing the house for market. We bought a table tennis table for Christmas, in the knowledge that we would never have a house big enough in the UK for it, and therefore probably wouldn't get our proper money's worth out of it. I started an MA, which I will now leave unfinished. When you're an expat, you have to live in the present, not for a hypothetical future. You really do.
I'm needing a clinching razor-sharp one-liner at this point, to close the post, but waah, I also have to make three packed lunches, get showered, put on some clothes, kill the haggis for dinner, and be out of the house in the next, oh, 4.2 minutes. Talking of living in the present.
I'm so happy.
.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
A holiday in the crucible
There's a competition in Tots 100 to win a holiday, and I'll definitely be entering. You have to write a blog post, 500 words max, about The Best Holiday of My Life. I will write that post, another time, but interestingly, when I first started thinking about it, the holiday that sprang to mind was the week that we took in Colorado, after my cancer diagnosis and mastectomy, and before chemotherapy. I started browsing the photos, and yes, in many ways, it was the best of all my holidays.
For a start, it arose out of the sincere generosity of strangers. A friend of a friend let us use their holiday cabin. It was July, and we had hot weather, but Colorado altitude hot is not the same, let me tell you, as Great Plains hot. It's a dry, friendly, enjoyable heat, not a stagnant, muggy, draining heat. To be away from home, to take a break from the relentless series of tests, appointments, waiting for results, decisions, in the beauty of the mountains, was, metaphorically and literally, a breath of fresh air.
To be honest, I don't remember much detail of what we did. I could guess, because we've been back to the same place three times since, and we now have our favourite spots and activities. They've become traditions. But what I remember from that week, and what I see when I browse the photos, is a moment when we were almost suspended in time. It was a week of peace and calm in the midst of a great storm. I suppose much of that was probably denial of some kind, or hiding, or whatever you want to call that particular coping mechanism. But it was more than that. Looking back, I see how we were in the crucible of life, and yet able to enjoy each other, and have fun, and treasure the days (but not treasure them too much, for fear of thereby investing them with a dangerous significance).
We took a lot of photos that week. There are lots of beautiful nature shots, of woodland, waterfalls, views. There are photos of the children. I made sure I was in a lot of them, because... can't quite bring myself to write why. Just because.
Here's one I love. Out for a walk. The small boy waggling a stick, the mum carrying the water bottle, the little blond girl bringing up the rear. It could be any family. But it's not. It's us.
There was one afternoon when I was on the sofa with the camera, and from where I sat, I photographed the whole family. I have my rules about not showing my children on my blog, but I'm going to stretch those rules a little here.
Here is younger son, 8 at the time, with his friends, the Bionicles.
Here is oldest, just turned 12, not usually much of a reader, but immersed that afternoon in Harry Potter.
Here is youngest, 5 years old, at the table. That's apple juice in the glass, just so you know. Don't you love the way their feet dangle at that age?
And here is Husband, busy in the kitchen area. When I was diagnosed, he read as much as he could on diet, and how you can give yourself an advantage over cancer with what you eat. He took over cooking and shopping, and here he is in action. We still take the trouble to include a lot of anti-inflammatory foods in our diet, and we use the juicer (remember the juicer?) to imbibe quantities of fruit and vegetable juice (though Husband has never repeated one legendary juice from that summer, which he concocted from cabbage, onions and garlic).
It all looks so peaceful and idyllic, and honestly, it was just like that. Perhaps the children needed their own time and space, that week, to process what was going on in their tender lives. Certainly in these pictures they seem reflective. They look so young and vulnerable. I remember sitting there, watching them, managing surreptitiously to raise the camera without them noticing.
Well, we made it through. We are no longer in the crucible, and I'm glad for that. I'm going to end this post with a photo taken in the same place, but four months later, in November, when I'd finished chemotherapy. I look dreadful - gaunt, strained, tired... bald of course. The cabin has a wonderful deck with a lovely view, and even in November, it's a sun trap. Here I am, sitting on that deck, ubiquitous cup of tea to hand, and the reason I'm showing you this photo is to remind us all of what helped me bump along through that time. See what I'm doing? Yes... I'm writing.
.
For a start, it arose out of the sincere generosity of strangers. A friend of a friend let us use their holiday cabin. It was July, and we had hot weather, but Colorado altitude hot is not the same, let me tell you, as Great Plains hot. It's a dry, friendly, enjoyable heat, not a stagnant, muggy, draining heat. To be away from home, to take a break from the relentless series of tests, appointments, waiting for results, decisions, in the beauty of the mountains, was, metaphorically and literally, a breath of fresh air.
To be honest, I don't remember much detail of what we did. I could guess, because we've been back to the same place three times since, and we now have our favourite spots and activities. They've become traditions. But what I remember from that week, and what I see when I browse the photos, is a moment when we were almost suspended in time. It was a week of peace and calm in the midst of a great storm. I suppose much of that was probably denial of some kind, or hiding, or whatever you want to call that particular coping mechanism. But it was more than that. Looking back, I see how we were in the crucible of life, and yet able to enjoy each other, and have fun, and treasure the days (but not treasure them too much, for fear of thereby investing them with a dangerous significance).
We took a lot of photos that week. There are lots of beautiful nature shots, of woodland, waterfalls, views. There are photos of the children. I made sure I was in a lot of them, because... can't quite bring myself to write why. Just because.
Here's one I love. Out for a walk. The small boy waggling a stick, the mum carrying the water bottle, the little blond girl bringing up the rear. It could be any family. But it's not. It's us.
There was one afternoon when I was on the sofa with the camera, and from where I sat, I photographed the whole family. I have my rules about not showing my children on my blog, but I'm going to stretch those rules a little here.
Here is younger son, 8 at the time, with his friends, the Bionicles.
Here is oldest, just turned 12, not usually much of a reader, but immersed that afternoon in Harry Potter.
Here is youngest, 5 years old, at the table. That's apple juice in the glass, just so you know. Don't you love the way their feet dangle at that age?
And here is Husband, busy in the kitchen area. When I was diagnosed, he read as much as he could on diet, and how you can give yourself an advantage over cancer with what you eat. He took over cooking and shopping, and here he is in action. We still take the trouble to include a lot of anti-inflammatory foods in our diet, and we use the juicer (remember the juicer?) to imbibe quantities of fruit and vegetable juice (though Husband has never repeated one legendary juice from that summer, which he concocted from cabbage, onions and garlic).
It all looks so peaceful and idyllic, and honestly, it was just like that. Perhaps the children needed their own time and space, that week, to process what was going on in their tender lives. Certainly in these pictures they seem reflective. They look so young and vulnerable. I remember sitting there, watching them, managing surreptitiously to raise the camera without them noticing.
Well, we made it through. We are no longer in the crucible, and I'm glad for that. I'm going to end this post with a photo taken in the same place, but four months later, in November, when I'd finished chemotherapy. I look dreadful - gaunt, strained, tired... bald of course. The cabin has a wonderful deck with a lovely view, and even in November, it's a sun trap. Here I am, sitting on that deck, ubiquitous cup of tea to hand, and the reason I'm showing you this photo is to remind us all of what helped me bump along through that time. See what I'm doing? Yes... I'm writing.
.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
What I would love about my blog if I were you
A cheeky little title, I know.
This is what I would love about reading Iota's blog, if I were one of you. When I started blogging, it was because I was struggling to make sense of living in a new culture. I was beginning to make 'real life' friends, but that seems to take forever in a new place, and I was lonely. Blogging was an addiction, which in itself isn't bad (hey, who'd be reading this if blogging wasn't a little addictive now and again?), but at that time, I think the addiction spoke of isolation and unhappiness.
Then I had cancer. Remember that? I guess my blog was hard to read at that time. You must have been holding your breath, wondering what the next thing was going to be. Hoping I was going to be ok. Feeling the fear in my situation, even though I was so darn upbeat and jolly about it all, and trying not to let those fears of mine hook into your own buried ones.
The past couple of years have seen a rebuilding of life. But I'm not just back where I started. That was something I really resented about cancer. I was wailing internally "I just want my life back", while at the same time knowing that it was never going to be the same again. But ooh, get me (as they say... well... as I say anyway). I like my life a lot a lot a lot now. I've got a green card. I've got a job (I mistyped that as "I've got a nob", which made me laugh). I love my job. I'm doing a Masters degree. I love my Masters degree. I love how you always see it written with a capital M. Why is that, I wonder? I don't see why it deserves a capital. I actually love living in America (I hear the gasps of surprise followed by the cheering). I am happy. I am content.
You've probably spotted that I don't blog as much. You've guessed that I'm just too busy at the moment. The recycling of a couple of old posts was a bit of a giveaway. Yes, I'm busy, and my blog is getting a little neglected. But don't you even love that about it?
So that's what I would love about my blog if I were you. It's the story of a chunk of a life's journey that was a down and an up, a valley and a journey out of it. I would find that hopeful and heartening. It's more than that, though. It's the story within the story that I like. I feel a difference in myself. I've grown as a person so much over the past 4.5 years (yup, that's how long I've been blogging). I like myself more than I used to. I wonder if you can tell. I wonder if you sniff it out, in the gaps between the words on the screen, in the spaces between one post and the next.
And of course that's what I love about your blogs I've followed over the years. The tales of your lives: the narratives, but more so, the stories of who you are, who you were, and who you're becoming, which somehow, through the magic of writing, leak through the typewritten word.
This is what I would love about reading Iota's blog, if I were one of you. When I started blogging, it was because I was struggling to make sense of living in a new culture. I was beginning to make 'real life' friends, but that seems to take forever in a new place, and I was lonely. Blogging was an addiction, which in itself isn't bad (hey, who'd be reading this if blogging wasn't a little addictive now and again?), but at that time, I think the addiction spoke of isolation and unhappiness.
Then I had cancer. Remember that? I guess my blog was hard to read at that time. You must have been holding your breath, wondering what the next thing was going to be. Hoping I was going to be ok. Feeling the fear in my situation, even though I was so darn upbeat and jolly about it all, and trying not to let those fears of mine hook into your own buried ones.
The past couple of years have seen a rebuilding of life. But I'm not just back where I started. That was something I really resented about cancer. I was wailing internally "I just want my life back", while at the same time knowing that it was never going to be the same again. But ooh, get me (as they say... well... as I say anyway). I like my life a lot a lot a lot now. I've got a green card. I've got a job (I mistyped that as "I've got a nob", which made me laugh). I love my job. I'm doing a Masters degree. I love my Masters degree. I love how you always see it written with a capital M. Why is that, I wonder? I don't see why it deserves a capital. I actually love living in America (I hear the gasps of surprise followed by the cheering). I am happy. I am content.
You've probably spotted that I don't blog as much. You've guessed that I'm just too busy at the moment. The recycling of a couple of old posts was a bit of a giveaway. Yes, I'm busy, and my blog is getting a little neglected. But don't you even love that about it?
So that's what I would love about my blog if I were you. It's the story of a chunk of a life's journey that was a down and an up, a valley and a journey out of it. I would find that hopeful and heartening. It's more than that, though. It's the story within the story that I like. I feel a difference in myself. I've grown as a person so much over the past 4.5 years (yup, that's how long I've been blogging). I like myself more than I used to. I wonder if you can tell. I wonder if you sniff it out, in the gaps between the words on the screen, in the spaces between one post and the next.
And of course that's what I love about your blogs I've followed over the years. The tales of your lives: the narratives, but more so, the stories of who you are, who you were, and who you're becoming, which somehow, through the magic of writing, leak through the typewritten word.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Ebb and flow
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.
You can tell I’ve been by the sea.
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.
It’s how I think about life. I find it restful… peaceful… Like watching waves that swell and retreat.
Sometimes life seems good, the world full of promise and light. Ebb. Sometimes life seems disappointing, stuck in a rut, grey. Flow.
The children are playing together, happy, larking and laughing, enjoying each other. Ebb. Now some invisible line has been crossed. They’re annoyed, tempers flare, there are blows. Flow.
Perceptions. You know… One day you study yourself in the mirror and think “hm, not bad”, and the next day you see yourself in the same mirror, wearing the same clothes, and think “oh dear, big tummy, big bottom, not nice”. Ebb and flow.
When I open a newspaper, sometimes I read of the thousands who are struggling, starving, dying. Other times, the ebb is overwhelming, so I turn the page and instead flow with stories of a cat rescued from a well, or pensioners standing up for their rights.
Is it meant to be like this, though? Or is there some sweet spot in the middle? Are we meant to be searching for that place? Is that what life is about? If so, who would tell me how to find it? An up-to-the-minute psychologist? A religious guru? Would it be better to be at the still centre? I like the idea. No more buffeting one way and the other. No more pulling this way and that. No more lurching. But is the world ever experienced like that? Don’t they say that the very universe is expanding and contracting in infinity?
I’ve always liked the French word for wave: une vague. Isn’t that a beautiful accident of language? A wave is a vague thing, a thing you can’t pin down, whose edges you can’t define, a part of a larger whole from which it emerges and into which it disappears. I like the idea of a still centre, but wouldn’t I miss the mysterious perpetual motion that is life? This way, that way, a shift, a movement, changing moods, each one part of an unseen rhythm.
We have a lovely children’s book about a dog, Ebb, and a little girl, Flo. It’s one of my favourites. They go for a picnic to the beach (where else?), and a seagull steals Flo’s sandwich while her back is turned. She blames Ebb, who goes off and sulks in an empty rowing boat. Then a storm brews up, and the rowing boat is swept out to sea. But don’t worry, it ends happily.
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow. Ebb… and flow…
You can tell I’ve been by the sea.
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.
It’s how I think about life. I find it restful… peaceful… Like watching waves that swell and retreat.
Sometimes life seems good, the world full of promise and light. Ebb. Sometimes life seems disappointing, stuck in a rut, grey. Flow.
The children are playing together, happy, larking and laughing, enjoying each other. Ebb. Now some invisible line has been crossed. They’re annoyed, tempers flare, there are blows. Flow.
Perceptions. You know… One day you study yourself in the mirror and think “hm, not bad”, and the next day you see yourself in the same mirror, wearing the same clothes, and think “oh dear, big tummy, big bottom, not nice”. Ebb and flow.
When I open a newspaper, sometimes I read of the thousands who are struggling, starving, dying. Other times, the ebb is overwhelming, so I turn the page and instead flow with stories of a cat rescued from a well, or pensioners standing up for their rights.
Is it meant to be like this, though? Or is there some sweet spot in the middle? Are we meant to be searching for that place? Is that what life is about? If so, who would tell me how to find it? An up-to-the-minute psychologist? A religious guru? Would it be better to be at the still centre? I like the idea. No more buffeting one way and the other. No more pulling this way and that. No more lurching. But is the world ever experienced like that? Don’t they say that the very universe is expanding and contracting in infinity?
I’ve always liked the French word for wave: une vague. Isn’t that a beautiful accident of language? A wave is a vague thing, a thing you can’t pin down, whose edges you can’t define, a part of a larger whole from which it emerges and into which it disappears. I like the idea of a still centre, but wouldn’t I miss the mysterious perpetual motion that is life? This way, that way, a shift, a movement, changing moods, each one part of an unseen rhythm.
We have a lovely children’s book about a dog, Ebb, and a little girl, Flo. It’s one of my favourites. They go for a picnic to the beach (where else?), and a seagull steals Flo’s sandwich while her back is turned. She blames Ebb, who goes off and sulks in an empty rowing boat. Then a storm brews up, and the rowing boat is swept out to sea. But don’t worry, it ends happily.
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow. Ebb… and flow…
Monday, May 30, 2011
Getting better
Well, ten out of ten to those of you who said "it's jetlag, give it a few days". It was jetlag, I gave it a few days.
I've been walking in the beautiful green Buckinghamshire countryside. Oh heaven. I've been eating too much (why does my mother think I don't feed myself properly, though the evidence of the last 30 years would suggest otherwise?) I've introduced my husband and my two oldest kids to the board game that was my total favourite as a child and that still lives in the games chest at my mother's house. A few rounds of Careers has cheered me up no end. There's nothing like a quick dabble in Politics, Hollywood, Farming, Big Business, and Uranium Prospecting to make you feel purposeful in life. Ah, if only real life was like Careers. You decide how much money, fame and happiness you need to win, and then you set about achieving it by shaking the dice and landing on the appropriate squares. A glorious mix of tactics and luck, but mostly luck, both good and bad. I've always loved that game, and it seems to fit the moment perfectly.
I've also taken on 13-yo (14-yo, tomorrow) at Dover Patrol. I used to play that with my big brother. It was another of my favourites. I remember discovering that Dover was a place, and being rather surprised. I'd thought it was an adjective meaning "strategic" or something similar. For Dover Patrol is a game of great strategy. 13-yo and I play it a little differently to how my brother and I played it, because we have the instructions (amazing what you can find on the internet these days). It's rather a shame, in a way. Not knowing the rules has a certain charm, when you're the admiral of the fleet.
Plus all that wonderful bloggy love, of course. You can't beat that. Thank you all so much. That has helped me feel better about my blog. And Cyber Mummy too. Yes, I'll be going, because I would regret it if I didn't. It seems though, from the comments and from two or three people who've emailed me, that I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed, or on the fringes, or out of place. So here's a tip that I found worked for me last year. Be intentional. If there are bloggers you want to meet, email them beforehand and say "can we meet over lunch/coffee/tea?" Even just saying "can we look out for each other?" makes it considerably more likely that you'll meet. Otherwise, the day will pass, and you'll go home thinking "I wish I'd met Blogging Mum" or whoever it is. Meanwhile, if you are feeling on the fringes, take heart. You're clearly not alone.
I just have to share one more thing. I dreamed about Rosie Scribble! How weird is that, when you dream about your blogging life? I dreamed that I'd agreed to pick up her daughter, IJ, from school. Meanwhile, somehow I was at the zoo in the city I live in, in America. The road system in our city is very straightforward, being a grid, with main roads going north-south and east-west. There are, however, a few main roads that go diagonally, and confuse everything. Well, they confuse me, at any rate. One of these diagonal roads is Zoo Boulevard (the clue is in the name). In my dream, I couldn't get to IJ's school, because I kept getting lost on Zoo Boulevard. I didn't have the school's phone number, and I was at a loss as to what to do. Time was ticking on, and I was getting increasingly desperate about ever finding the school, and increasingly anxious as to what I was going to tell Rosie later on about why I had failed to pick up IJ.
Do you think it was an anxiety dream about blogging and Cyber Mummy?
This was a post of rather random things, but life is sometimes like that.
.
I've been walking in the beautiful green Buckinghamshire countryside. Oh heaven. I've been eating too much (why does my mother think I don't feed myself properly, though the evidence of the last 30 years would suggest otherwise?) I've introduced my husband and my two oldest kids to the board game that was my total favourite as a child and that still lives in the games chest at my mother's house. A few rounds of Careers has cheered me up no end. There's nothing like a quick dabble in Politics, Hollywood, Farming, Big Business, and Uranium Prospecting to make you feel purposeful in life. Ah, if only real life was like Careers. You decide how much money, fame and happiness you need to win, and then you set about achieving it by shaking the dice and landing on the appropriate squares. A glorious mix of tactics and luck, but mostly luck, both good and bad. I've always loved that game, and it seems to fit the moment perfectly.
I've also taken on 13-yo (14-yo, tomorrow) at Dover Patrol. I used to play that with my big brother. It was another of my favourites. I remember discovering that Dover was a place, and being rather surprised. I'd thought it was an adjective meaning "strategic" or something similar. For Dover Patrol is a game of great strategy. 13-yo and I play it a little differently to how my brother and I played it, because we have the instructions (amazing what you can find on the internet these days). It's rather a shame, in a way. Not knowing the rules has a certain charm, when you're the admiral of the fleet.
Plus all that wonderful bloggy love, of course. You can't beat that. Thank you all so much. That has helped me feel better about my blog. And Cyber Mummy too. Yes, I'll be going, because I would regret it if I didn't. It seems though, from the comments and from two or three people who've emailed me, that I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed, or on the fringes, or out of place. So here's a tip that I found worked for me last year. Be intentional. If there are bloggers you want to meet, email them beforehand and say "can we meet over lunch/coffee/tea?" Even just saying "can we look out for each other?" makes it considerably more likely that you'll meet. Otherwise, the day will pass, and you'll go home thinking "I wish I'd met Blogging Mum" or whoever it is. Meanwhile, if you are feeling on the fringes, take heart. You're clearly not alone.
I just have to share one more thing. I dreamed about Rosie Scribble! How weird is that, when you dream about your blogging life? I dreamed that I'd agreed to pick up her daughter, IJ, from school. Meanwhile, somehow I was at the zoo in the city I live in, in America. The road system in our city is very straightforward, being a grid, with main roads going north-south and east-west. There are, however, a few main roads that go diagonally, and confuse everything. Well, they confuse me, at any rate. One of these diagonal roads is Zoo Boulevard (the clue is in the name). In my dream, I couldn't get to IJ's school, because I kept getting lost on Zoo Boulevard. I didn't have the school's phone number, and I was at a loss as to what to do. Time was ticking on, and I was getting increasingly desperate about ever finding the school, and increasingly anxious as to what I was going to tell Rosie later on about why I had failed to pick up IJ.
Do you think it was an anxiety dream about blogging and Cyber Mummy?
This was a post of rather random things, but life is sometimes like that.
.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Iota's got it bad
I am in England and I am weary.
I am weary because the journey is long and the time difference a pain. It takes a few days to adjust.
I am weary because I landed at Gatwick, raced around the south of England delivering tired but excited children to stalwart members of the family who looked after them while I sped off to join Husband at a job interview. He was glad I was there, but it didn't make any difference. He didn't get the job.
I am weary when I read blogs written by expats. For the first time ever, I can't really be bothered to summon up an opinion on posts which I used to find fascinating, on language, culture, everyday life. Does any of it matter?
I am weary of being an expat. I am tired of people assuming I'd like to back in Britain. They're right, and they base their assumptions on what I've told them. They haven't taken liberties. But I'm annoyed at what they assume, because it somehow devalues my current life in America. I have always tried to live in the moment, not in the future. I have called our house in America "home", and called Britain "Britain". I did that deliberately, but there is also truth in it, truth that took a while to become true, but is now true. At least I think so. I don't even know any more. I feel like other people think my life is in an aeroplane in the stack above London, circling and circling, waiting patiently to land and begin the next chapter. But it's not. My life is in the Midwest, full of friends and fun and family adventure. And yet, of course, they're right, deep down I probably am circling in that stack, and that's why I'm annoyed. I'm not really annoyed with them. I'm annoyed with myself. Because I'm not as free-floating as I pretend.
I am weary when I think of Cyber Mummy. Can I be bothered to go? There's a waiting list, I believe, so I could get my money back. I'm thinking there are better things to spend that cash on. Can't I just meet up for a drink the night before with the bloggy friends I really want to see? That's the bit I honestly want to do.
I am weary when I think of blogging, because I can't keep up, and don't want to keep up. I don't facebook, I don't twitter, and I know this means that I'm on the edge of blogging, that I don't have a future. It's just a matter of time. I've always been of the opinion that there's space for everyone in the blogosphere, but I guess it's not a nice feeling to know that you're just drifting slowly to the edges, making way for the next new generation of bloggers, and the next one, and the next one.
I am weary, because there's lots I'd love to write about, and I can't, because I gave up my lovely anonymity. Writing an anonymous blog is very freeing. You can say what you like. Should I ditch The Iota Quota and start another one secretly, where I can share of myself like I used to? (Ha! Perhaps I already have and I'm bluffing you!)
I am too weary even to polish this into a reasonable piece of writing. I am just going to press "publish post" and see what you all say.
.
I am weary because the journey is long and the time difference a pain. It takes a few days to adjust.
I am weary because I landed at Gatwick, raced around the south of England delivering tired but excited children to stalwart members of the family who looked after them while I sped off to join Husband at a job interview. He was glad I was there, but it didn't make any difference. He didn't get the job.
I am weary when I read blogs written by expats. For the first time ever, I can't really be bothered to summon up an opinion on posts which I used to find fascinating, on language, culture, everyday life. Does any of it matter?
I am weary of being an expat. I am tired of people assuming I'd like to back in Britain. They're right, and they base their assumptions on what I've told them. They haven't taken liberties. But I'm annoyed at what they assume, because it somehow devalues my current life in America. I have always tried to live in the moment, not in the future. I have called our house in America "home", and called Britain "Britain". I did that deliberately, but there is also truth in it, truth that took a while to become true, but is now true. At least I think so. I don't even know any more. I feel like other people think my life is in an aeroplane in the stack above London, circling and circling, waiting patiently to land and begin the next chapter. But it's not. My life is in the Midwest, full of friends and fun and family adventure. And yet, of course, they're right, deep down I probably am circling in that stack, and that's why I'm annoyed. I'm not really annoyed with them. I'm annoyed with myself. Because I'm not as free-floating as I pretend.
I am weary when I think of Cyber Mummy. Can I be bothered to go? There's a waiting list, I believe, so I could get my money back. I'm thinking there are better things to spend that cash on. Can't I just meet up for a drink the night before with the bloggy friends I really want to see? That's the bit I honestly want to do.
I am weary when I think of blogging, because I can't keep up, and don't want to keep up. I don't facebook, I don't twitter, and I know this means that I'm on the edge of blogging, that I don't have a future. It's just a matter of time. I've always been of the opinion that there's space for everyone in the blogosphere, but I guess it's not a nice feeling to know that you're just drifting slowly to the edges, making way for the next new generation of bloggers, and the next one, and the next one.
I am weary, because there's lots I'd love to write about, and I can't, because I gave up my lovely anonymity. Writing an anonymous blog is very freeing. You can say what you like. Should I ditch The Iota Quota and start another one secretly, where I can share of myself like I used to? (Ha! Perhaps I already have and I'm bluffing you!)
I am too weary even to polish this into a reasonable piece of writing. I am just going to press "publish post" and see what you all say.
.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Farewell, red mullet
I have a little curly red mullet on the back of my neck. I do. Thing is, I got really very used to having thick curly hair, and I loved it. It’s now reverted to straight and thin, and almost all the waves have gone. There are just a few tight curls left at the bottom, at the back, and I haven't been able to bring myself to have them trimmed off. I also Clairoled my hair red, and hit lucky on a colour that is very nice (though I say it myself). I even remembered to keep the top of the box, so that I can buy the same one next time.
I’ve been loathe to cut off my curls. I didn’t like them at first, but as time passed, I got very fond of them. Having cancer seems to involve endless rearrangement of your mental furniture. I’d rearranged it to embrace the idea of curly hair, and then I had to go about re-rearranging it to re-embrace the idea of getting my straight hair back. I knew it would revert over time. I just didn’t know “over time” meant a few weeks. I thought it would be months or even years. By the time I’d got to like having curly hair, it was time to U-turn back again.
Losing your hair is a big deal. In a way, though, it’s no bad thing. It's easier to focus on losing your hair, than on having cancer. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s not really an inevitable side-effect of the drugs, but a result of some product that the medics deliberately add. Maybe they know that thinking about losing your hair is the easier option, and consider it an act of kindness to make that happen.
So yes, I enjoyed my curls, but I’ve held onto them for reasons beyond the curliness itself. There’s a feeling that they’re a part of me now. Somehow cutting them off feels like the end of an era. It’s not an era I liked, but it was an era. I didn’t have any photos taken of me when I was bald – I didn’t want to preserve the look for posterity. But I wish I had. That was me, whether I liked it or not, and I wish I had a picture to look back on and say “yes, that was me”. But I have got photos of the curlicued Iota. I’ll be able to look back and say “ooh, get me with my curly 2010 hair!”
But even I can see that an aging diminutive curly-at-the-bottom red mullet is not the most attractive of looks, and so the little hoops must go. It’s one thing to enjoy a season of ringlets; it’s quite another to go around in polite society with straggles dripping down your neck. In the past year, I have gone through so many looks: Gandhi, Sinead O’Connor, Obama, Showaddywaddy. Time to take control, and get me to a salon.
Here’s a photo of them, though, for you to enjoy before they go.
Farewell, little curly red mullet.
Top photo credit: Philippe Guillaume, Flickr
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Religion
I thought it was time I wrote about my experience of religion in the Midwest. This has long been tucked away in my ‘not sure I want to go there on my blog’ folder, along with guns and obesity. Now there’s an attractive pair of bedfellows.
The first thing to say is that it’s very British, this reticence to talk about religion. How did that happen in Britain? Is it too personal? Is it too sensitive in these multi-cultural times? I have to say, I have found it refreshing here, to have it off the taboo list. When we arrived, people asked “will you be looking for a church?” much as they might have asked “which sports are you interested in?” And whether we’d said yes or no, either would have been fine. It’s something that people are much more relaxed about. I know the Bible Belt has a bad reputation, and perhaps we’ve just been lucky, but I can’t think of any occasion on which I’ve felt pressured or offended by any church or individual. I suppose it would be fair to say that as we did the rounds, looking for a church we might call home, we didn’t exactly head to the ones that advertised themselves as unpleasantly fundamentalist and Bible-bashing. But you know, even as I type that, I’m trying to think if I’ve come across some that would fit that description, and I honestly can’t think of any. I conclude that a very little of that kind of stuff has gone a long way in fostering an unfair reputation. I guess they must be around. Perhaps they just don't have a sign outside saying 'Unpleasantly Fundamentalist and Bible-Bashing'.
I find myself stuck at this point. Many many times in my head - most Sundays in my early blogging days - I have written amusing blog posts about an English woman’s perception of church life here. And I could reproduce one of those here, and make you laugh. I could. I mean, we all know that God, underneath His impressive ability to stand up for all nations, is really English. We have the best hymns, we have the best buildings – cold and draughty, with hard bottom-aching pews, just like they should be. We understand that when you leave church, you exchange two sentences about the weather, shuffle your feet a bit, and then head home for a decent Sunday roast. That’s how God planned it. I’m sure it’s in the Bible somewhere. They don’t really appreciate that here. They worship in modern buildings, which are warm and comfortable. They have guitars and keyboards instead of organs. They make way too much eye contact as you walk through the door. They even have people specially to do that, who wear badges saying “Greeter”. And there’s hugging too. I know, I know. It’s just not right. Not right at all.
Over time, though, I have gingerly crossed some lines. I find I can’t write that post any more. Where I used to see a room full of people who didn't seem to understand how to do church properly, though they were having a good stab at it, I now see a community of people living health-filled, grace-filled lives, gathering for worship, and I know I am privileged to be of their number. These are the people who stood with me and my family in the dark days of last summer. These are the people who brought us dinner evening after evening, who took the children off for whole days, whose phone numbers I could have called at any time, day or night, sure of receiving help. These are the people who stood with me in the anxious times when waiting for test results, who shared my relief when these were good (mercifully often), and who fell to their knees in prayer on my behalf when they were bad. These are the people who rejoiced with me when my hair grew, who allowed me space to be sad, be angry, be happy, be weird. These are the people who have puzzled over my odd European perspectives in discussion, and who have embraced my English eccentricities. These are the people in whose company I have wrestled with things, questioned things, faced things, and laid things down. These are the people who I know will carry me in their thoughts and prayers after we’ve (eventually!) left the Midwest, as I will carry them.
I have learned more and received more than I bargained for, here in the Bible Belt. I could tell you a whole lot more about that, but I’m going to sit back now, and watch the comments box go strangely silent. I suspect we’re all British here, when it comes to religion.
There is one thing I miss, though. Because religion is so much more acceptable here, there was an edginess about being a Christian in the UK that I don't experience now. There used to be moments, moments which I loved, when I'd be talking to a mum from school who I'd known for a while, and I'd drop into the conversation that I went to church. The conversation would hesitate, just briefly, before she would express polite interest, or not, while her face would have written all over it the suppressed exclamation "but Iota, I thought you were NORMAL!". I'm a bit of a rebel at heart and I do miss those moments, so if some of you could oblige in the comments, that would be nice.
The first thing to say is that it’s very British, this reticence to talk about religion. How did that happen in Britain? Is it too personal? Is it too sensitive in these multi-cultural times? I have to say, I have found it refreshing here, to have it off the taboo list. When we arrived, people asked “will you be looking for a church?” much as they might have asked “which sports are you interested in?” And whether we’d said yes or no, either would have been fine. It’s something that people are much more relaxed about. I know the Bible Belt has a bad reputation, and perhaps we’ve just been lucky, but I can’t think of any occasion on which I’ve felt pressured or offended by any church or individual. I suppose it would be fair to say that as we did the rounds, looking for a church we might call home, we didn’t exactly head to the ones that advertised themselves as unpleasantly fundamentalist and Bible-bashing. But you know, even as I type that, I’m trying to think if I’ve come across some that would fit that description, and I honestly can’t think of any. I conclude that a very little of that kind of stuff has gone a long way in fostering an unfair reputation. I guess they must be around. Perhaps they just don't have a sign outside saying 'Unpleasantly Fundamentalist and Bible-Bashing'.
I find myself stuck at this point. Many many times in my head - most Sundays in my early blogging days - I have written amusing blog posts about an English woman’s perception of church life here. And I could reproduce one of those here, and make you laugh. I could. I mean, we all know that God, underneath His impressive ability to stand up for all nations, is really English. We have the best hymns, we have the best buildings – cold and draughty, with hard bottom-aching pews, just like they should be. We understand that when you leave church, you exchange two sentences about the weather, shuffle your feet a bit, and then head home for a decent Sunday roast. That’s how God planned it. I’m sure it’s in the Bible somewhere. They don’t really appreciate that here. They worship in modern buildings, which are warm and comfortable. They have guitars and keyboards instead of organs. They make way too much eye contact as you walk through the door. They even have people specially to do that, who wear badges saying “Greeter”. And there’s hugging too. I know, I know. It’s just not right. Not right at all.
Over time, though, I have gingerly crossed some lines. I find I can’t write that post any more. Where I used to see a room full of people who didn't seem to understand how to do church properly, though they were having a good stab at it, I now see a community of people living health-filled, grace-filled lives, gathering for worship, and I know I am privileged to be of their number. These are the people who stood with me and my family in the dark days of last summer. These are the people who brought us dinner evening after evening, who took the children off for whole days, whose phone numbers I could have called at any time, day or night, sure of receiving help. These are the people who stood with me in the anxious times when waiting for test results, who shared my relief when these were good (mercifully often), and who fell to their knees in prayer on my behalf when they were bad. These are the people who rejoiced with me when my hair grew, who allowed me space to be sad, be angry, be happy, be weird. These are the people who have puzzled over my odd European perspectives in discussion, and who have embraced my English eccentricities. These are the people in whose company I have wrestled with things, questioned things, faced things, and laid things down. These are the people who I know will carry me in their thoughts and prayers after we’ve (eventually!) left the Midwest, as I will carry them.
I have learned more and received more than I bargained for, here in the Bible Belt. I could tell you a whole lot more about that, but I’m going to sit back now, and watch the comments box go strangely silent. I suspect we’re all British here, when it comes to religion.
There is one thing I miss, though. Because religion is so much more acceptable here, there was an edginess about being a Christian in the UK that I don't experience now. There used to be moments, moments which I loved, when I'd be talking to a mum from school who I'd known for a while, and I'd drop into the conversation that I went to church. The conversation would hesitate, just briefly, before she would express polite interest, or not, while her face would have written all over it the suppressed exclamation "but Iota, I thought you were NORMAL!". I'm a bit of a rebel at heart and I do miss those moments, so if some of you could oblige in the comments, that would be nice.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
I am sad
I am sad. I am sad and weary. I am sad and weary and I have a question.
Those of you who have followed this blog for a while will know that Husband and I have been trying to return to the UK for, oh, two years or so, this move being dependent on Husband finding employment. One of the bad things about being a stay at home mum is that you find yourself in a position to contribute little to the mix, and entirely dependent on the whims and vagaries of the field of work of your spouse (in Husband's case, a very narrow field). The job search coincided with the credit crunch and its aftermath, and though Husband's area of employment isn't exactly at the sharp end of the business world, and perhaps a little cushioned from other people's harsher realities, no doubt the timing hasn't exactly helped.
I am sad, because we have just had disappointing news of the latest application, and weary, because this feels like boringly familiar territory. Husband has been doing all the right things. His cv ticks all the boxes. He knows how to present it. He has spent time networking with people in the field. He keeps in touch. We do not wallow in what Americans call 'a pity party' each time he is unsuccessful, but get right back up, and look for the next opportunity. He is not picky.
Here is my question, though. Is recruitment in other people's fields quite as bruising an experience as it has been for us - or have we been particularly unlucky? I can't help thinking that in most businesses, the process goes something like this: the job is advertised, a shortlist is drawn up, candidates are interviewed, one is appointed, and the others told they've been unsuccessful. In Husband's two areas of potential employment (universities, and the church - or church-related organisations), the process seems more like entering a maze. It is very common for no candidate to be appointed, and the post re-advertised in a slightly different format a few weeks or months later. It is very common for the process to take months. It is very common for the process to take months, and then to be abandoned. It is very common for them not to bother to tell candidates what has happened. It is very common for the whole thing to be a cover for the appointment of an internal candidate. With crashing irony, the time when Husband was in that situation, and all his department had to do was appoint him to carry on with his research, for which they had received money from the government ear-marked for that purpose and for him specifically by name, they managed to appoint someone else instead, who had no relevant experience at all. The words 'piss-up' and 'brewery' come to mind. It's how we ended up in America.
Is the business world more efficient? I suppose committees of philosophy and/or theology academics were never going to be the speediest and most efficient of decision-making bodies, were they? I picture them all in a room, trying to discuss the relative merits of the candidates, stuck in the mire of theoretical considerations, and going off on tangents from which they have no hope of ever returning.
As for the church, well, I can only despair. Husband has been on the receiving end of the kind of behaviour from senior church men and women, on both sides of the Atlantic, that would make the Pharisees blush. If there isn't a Parable of the Blushing Pharisee, there jolly well ought to be. The inefficiency, the waste of money and time, the in-fighting, the empty promises... Most of all, the sheer lack of consideration. Do these people not realise what kind of effort goes into a job application? And the time it takes? Blimey, if Husband was paid by the hour for job applications and their accompanying preparation, he wouldn't even be looking for a new position, we'd be so wealthy. Do they not realise the emotional energy that is expended? Over literally months? Do they not think what it is like to consider moving a family? Because with every clergy job (not just in our case), it's not only the job that's involved. It's the location, the house, the schools, the whole life? Don't they think about that at all?
It is with this in mind that I am SO tempted to drop in the name of the latest Bishop who has just changed his mind on a job. This job was advertised in April, and then again in September, after a failed first round. Flight tickets had been purchased for Husband's interview. He wasn't guaranteed the job - I get that. So I know that it was a risky business getting excited about the place, and researching what it might be like to live there. No, he hadn't been promised the job, but he HAD been promised an interview. At a week's notice of the flight, he received an email saying the Bishop had decided nor to go ahead with the post at the present time. At least they are refunding the flight ticket (they'd asked us to pay half). And now Husband has to go away and hide somewhere for a week, because of course he'd told people he was going away, and has arranged for classes to be taken in his absence. It wouldn't do for him to bump into students in Dillons.
I realise that this all sounds horribly petty, and of course I don't know the inside story. I don't know what pressures other people are operating under, and I don't know what frustrations and problems they face. But for heaven's sake, STOP promising more than you can deliver. Stop it. Just STOP IT.
Oh, and the reason I'm so very tempted to name that Bishop is this. I know he, or one of his communications staff, will have his name on google alert. I just know it. And I want him to realise that this is a big deal. That for him, what is just a little twist in some Diocesan politics, or an unfortunate mistake, or an embarrassing glitch, for us, is life-changing. I want him to know, because once people get to a certain level in an organisation, they forget what it's like to be nearer the bottom of the pile, and they have people around them who shield them from the memory. They don't even have the decency to write emails themselves (too busy, too important). But of course I won't name and shame, because we can't afford to be alienating people in such a small world. A small sucky world.
Back to my question. Is our experience typical? Is recruitment in every sector such a painful process? Or is Husband just in the wrong business?
I should really retitle this post. I am sad. I am sad and weary. Most of all, I am sad and weary and ANGRY.
Those of you who have followed this blog for a while will know that Husband and I have been trying to return to the UK for, oh, two years or so, this move being dependent on Husband finding employment. One of the bad things about being a stay at home mum is that you find yourself in a position to contribute little to the mix, and entirely dependent on the whims and vagaries of the field of work of your spouse (in Husband's case, a very narrow field). The job search coincided with the credit crunch and its aftermath, and though Husband's area of employment isn't exactly at the sharp end of the business world, and perhaps a little cushioned from other people's harsher realities, no doubt the timing hasn't exactly helped.
I am sad, because we have just had disappointing news of the latest application, and weary, because this feels like boringly familiar territory. Husband has been doing all the right things. His cv ticks all the boxes. He knows how to present it. He has spent time networking with people in the field. He keeps in touch. We do not wallow in what Americans call 'a pity party' each time he is unsuccessful, but get right back up, and look for the next opportunity. He is not picky.
Here is my question, though. Is recruitment in other people's fields quite as bruising an experience as it has been for us - or have we been particularly unlucky? I can't help thinking that in most businesses, the process goes something like this: the job is advertised, a shortlist is drawn up, candidates are interviewed, one is appointed, and the others told they've been unsuccessful. In Husband's two areas of potential employment (universities, and the church - or church-related organisations), the process seems more like entering a maze. It is very common for no candidate to be appointed, and the post re-advertised in a slightly different format a few weeks or months later. It is very common for the process to take months. It is very common for the process to take months, and then to be abandoned. It is very common for them not to bother to tell candidates what has happened. It is very common for the whole thing to be a cover for the appointment of an internal candidate. With crashing irony, the time when Husband was in that situation, and all his department had to do was appoint him to carry on with his research, for which they had received money from the government ear-marked for that purpose and for him specifically by name, they managed to appoint someone else instead, who had no relevant experience at all. The words 'piss-up' and 'brewery' come to mind. It's how we ended up in America.
Is the business world more efficient? I suppose committees of philosophy and/or theology academics were never going to be the speediest and most efficient of decision-making bodies, were they? I picture them all in a room, trying to discuss the relative merits of the candidates, stuck in the mire of theoretical considerations, and going off on tangents from which they have no hope of ever returning.
As for the church, well, I can only despair. Husband has been on the receiving end of the kind of behaviour from senior church men and women, on both sides of the Atlantic, that would make the Pharisees blush. If there isn't a Parable of the Blushing Pharisee, there jolly well ought to be. The inefficiency, the waste of money and time, the in-fighting, the empty promises... Most of all, the sheer lack of consideration. Do these people not realise what kind of effort goes into a job application? And the time it takes? Blimey, if Husband was paid by the hour for job applications and their accompanying preparation, he wouldn't even be looking for a new position, we'd be so wealthy. Do they not realise the emotional energy that is expended? Over literally months? Do they not think what it is like to consider moving a family? Because with every clergy job (not just in our case), it's not only the job that's involved. It's the location, the house, the schools, the whole life? Don't they think about that at all?
It is with this in mind that I am SO tempted to drop in the name of the latest Bishop who has just changed his mind on a job. This job was advertised in April, and then again in September, after a failed first round. Flight tickets had been purchased for Husband's interview. He wasn't guaranteed the job - I get that. So I know that it was a risky business getting excited about the place, and researching what it might be like to live there. No, he hadn't been promised the job, but he HAD been promised an interview. At a week's notice of the flight, he received an email saying the Bishop had decided nor to go ahead with the post at the present time. At least they are refunding the flight ticket (they'd asked us to pay half). And now Husband has to go away and hide somewhere for a week, because of course he'd told people he was going away, and has arranged for classes to be taken in his absence. It wouldn't do for him to bump into students in Dillons.
I realise that this all sounds horribly petty, and of course I don't know the inside story. I don't know what pressures other people are operating under, and I don't know what frustrations and problems they face. But for heaven's sake, STOP promising more than you can deliver. Stop it. Just STOP IT.
Oh, and the reason I'm so very tempted to name that Bishop is this. I know he, or one of his communications staff, will have his name on google alert. I just know it. And I want him to realise that this is a big deal. That for him, what is just a little twist in some Diocesan politics, or an unfortunate mistake, or an embarrassing glitch, for us, is life-changing. I want him to know, because once people get to a certain level in an organisation, they forget what it's like to be nearer the bottom of the pile, and they have people around them who shield them from the memory. They don't even have the decency to write emails themselves (too busy, too important). But of course I won't name and shame, because we can't afford to be alienating people in such a small world. A small sucky world.
Back to my question. Is our experience typical? Is recruitment in every sector such a painful process? Or is Husband just in the wrong business?
I should really retitle this post. I am sad. I am sad and weary. Most of all, I am sad and weary and ANGRY.
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