Happy Birthday Andrew

Happy birthday darling!

Another year?

How time has flown.

You - not even a day older,

and me?

Still here alone.

I stare at your old photos.

You stare back with twinkling eyes,

I miss the warmth behind them,

deep understanding you supplied.

You were the keeper of my secrets,

holder of my heart

‘til life crumbled

on my darkest day

we were

untimely ripped.

Apart.

I can’t say that I think of you

each morning, noon and night.

You’re a presence

like a shadow

almost there

just

out

of

sight.

But as your birthday comes around,

and dark November days,

you linger longer in my thoughts

I can’t escape your gaze.

Grief is stealthily defiant

dispensing killer blows

in the least expected fashion

it shakes you head to toe.

At last

with expert timing,

we reach November’s end

but just before it’s over

Happy Birthday

Dearest friend. xxx

Running up Those Stairs

As I sat in the dentist waiting room the other day I was astounded as I watched the dental nurse run up a flight a flight of stairs.

“I used to be able to do that” I thought to myself.

Part of me is mystified when I lost this super power but of course I know full well it went hand in hand a cancer diagnosis and life changing, life-saving op!

My current earworm is Kate Bush “Running up that Hill”, while never an ability or even an ambition of mine to go quite that far, running up a regular flight of stairs was always manageable.

The staccato sound of shoes on a hard floor or the muffled thud of slippers on carpet, carried out with the precision of a quick step in time to some unheard refrain.

            “I’d be running up that road

            Running up that hill

            With no problems”

Oldest son and I have just been away, for what has turned out to be our annual treat to see the end of year ATP tennis finals at the O2.

Oh boy there were a lot of stairs to climb.

Sometimes we relented and took the escalator, gliding to the next level with ease. But I want to push myself and get fitter, so we often took the stairs, not running, just walking, sometimes getting slower and slower until…

…there was a point where I just had to stop.

These were the stairs that took you to the highest level of seating. Once you start climbing there is no option to switch to the easy life. Other spectators floated past while I caught my breath and regained momentum.

It isn’t just a lack of fitness that makes me slow and steady, like the proverbial tortoise in the fable (always a favourite story of my youngest son).

My lack of pace also comes from Peripheral Neuropathy. An unwanted legacy of the chemo.

I literally, and I’m not kidding when I use that word, cannot feel my feet properly. They are in a perpetual state of tingly pins and needles.

Remember playing in the snow as a child, yes you might have had two pairs of socks on your feet and a thick pair of gloves on your fingers but if you are outside too long your extremities become numb. 

Oh how joyous it is to come inside and get warmed up. Feelings creeping slowly back into your fingers and toes. It happens so naturally you hardly notice.

Now imagine the feeling never comes back.

I have another earworm….

            “I feel it in my fingers

            I feel it in my toes…”

Only I don’t!

I carefully watch each step, knowing my legs work and are propelling me up or down but not entirely feeling when my feet land. I’m on autopilot.

In a way I guess it’s how amputees walk with prosthetic legs, trusting your own instinct.

It’s just something you get used to and maybe the nerve ending will repair themselves and the symptoms will ease over time. On the other hand, this might just be another permanent reminder of all that life has thrown at me.

There’s a bit of a campaign at the moment saying that not all disabilities are visible.You never know everything another person is battling.

I’m not after sympathy or a blue badge but hopefully I’ve given you an insight into what life after having cancer can be like for some. There are many varied symptoms of having poison pumped through your veins and most people just carry on, thankful to have another day before them.

As we were reminded, flashed up on a big screen at the tennis, 1 in 2 people will develop cancer over their lifetime.  Cancer research was the sponsored charity for this years’ event. I hope and pray they can find successful cures and treatment that is symptom free.

When the tennis was over, we negotiated more stairs, this time going down what appeared to be a never-ending spiral of concrete. Down an escalator to the tube, out the other end and then a weary walk to our accommodation for the night.

And then before bed – a final flight of stairs… hahaha

Singles’ Day

Are you aware that 11/11 is not only Remembrance Day but also Singles’ Day? 

A little bit of an unfortunate clash for us here in the UK but the concept was originally started by students at China’s Nanjing University as far back as 1993.

WOW – I actually was single then but married a year later. 

The general idea is that you treat yourself and take yourself out on a solo date.

For me every day is Singles Day as I can mostly do as I please and if something yummy should accidentally fall into my shopping trolley  – who cares!

I’ve recently written about going out on my own. I’ve just never called it self-dating before, which might be a term I’ve just sort of made up, inspired by Emma Watson calling her single status “self partnered”.

While I find the whole idea, vaguely interesting, as ever I struggle with the terminology – I’ve never been a fan of traditional labels.

I think it’s the word “self” that really bothers me – after all selfish starts with the same 4 letters.

It is sometimes depressing seeing friends on Facebook or even actually in real life, living the dream of being in a committed relationship, treating and surprising one another – oh to have someone in my life to spoil me like that!

But it’s a two-way process and I think Singles Day would be better spent spoiling other single friends, a bunch of flowers can go a long way, a phone call, a hand written card. Simple stuff really.

Of course sometimes the happily marrieds will tell us how lucky we are to be able to do exactly as we please, without considering a partner. We nod our heads sagely aware that we can binge on Netflix any time we like but every now and then it would be nice to have someone snuggling on the sofa next to us.

Why are we often so unsatisfied with our status? Making up new ways to celebrate because we are obviously unhappy. Justifying being kind to ourselves.

It’s not always easy being single and not always easy being part of a couple.

And what about the dreaded W word?

It will be nine years this week since I was widowed. Tell me when is the day to celebrate widowhood, or at least acknowledge it?

The rawness of it all has considerably mellowed over time but as I watch others lose their partners’ I am witness to that great chasm of grief that can so easily be all consuming and my heart weeps for them more than for me.

I’ve negotiated the labyrinth and although I can sometimes be sucked back in, I know there is a life beyond the label. I retrace my steps and bask in the sunlight enjoying the good times with as few regrets as possible. Life is too short to do otherwise.

A special day for widows is unnecessary – as is Singles’ Day in my opinion!

spending graphics in the article from the i Weekend yesterday

Ultimately it is a marketing dream, another commercial “made up” event to make us spend, spend, spend!

This year predictions are that Singles’ Day spending (£1.29bn) will be almost as high as spending on Black Friday (£1.49bn) – another spurious event!

Meanwhile Valentine’s Day, the day to celebrate coupledom in all its glory is completely overshadowed, spending only reaching a paltry £830m. Perhaps it just goes to show that when you are in a couple you actually have less of a disposable income!

However you decide to spend your day tomorrow - I'm going to shun the whole Singles's Day concept and instead spend some time quietly reflecting on far more important issues.

Pampering myself on my own terms also means picking a day and time that suits me - that really is the best way to live the single dream!

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November

How can I forget? Today a year ago I was “officially” diagnosed with bowel cancer.

I say “officially” because one of my GPs had already spilled the beans when I wasn’t feeling well as he could see the scan results and knew exactly what was causing my intermittent stomach upsets.

But the fifth of November was the day it all became REAL.

“We need to operate as soon as possible.” Said the consultant.

Petrified of any kind of operation I blurted out, “But I’m moving later this month.”

“What’s more important, moving or your health?”

Well I could have swung for him then.

He took me to another room and showed me the scan photo as proof that an operation was imperative, not that I have any sort of training to interpret the grey and black blobs of my internal organs. I gave up biology in third year preferring chemistry, much more maths involved and pretty coloured reactions to play with!

The image was bad, on so many levels, and at that point I totally lost if and got hysterical. My boys had already lost their dad it was inconceivable that they should lose me too.

The prospect was bleak and I couldn’t compute how I could both move and have an operation at the same time. I’ve double booked myself on many occasions and I knew this wasn’t going to work.

Fortunately, I had a friend with me, she took me to a nearby café, I had a cup of tea and slice of cherry pie while she calmly worked out possible scenarios for me.

She is very much the planner and as I sat savouring the pie, squishing whole cherries between my tongue and roof of my mouth, drying my eyes at the same time, she sorted out how I could rally around my local friends from church to help out. There must be someone I could stay with in this situation?

Mentally I went through a list of everyone I knew nearby, very dear friends, with spare rooms who might accommodate me while I recuperated and regained my strength after a lifesaving operation.

I discounted every one!

Moving nearer my parents was the best thing for my health – the consultant didn’t have a clue about my personal history, why moving was the important for my mental well-being and it finally sunk into my friend that family was the most important part of the equation.

My dad was, and still is, having regular chemo. There was no way him and mum could keep coming up to see me. They’d already made two trips in the past month.

On my way home I called in to see a friend who is a retired GP and told him what the consultant had actually said. He talked things over with me and agreed I should put the medical stuff on hold until I moved.

When I got home, I rang my own GP surgery. I wanted to speak, not to the doctor who had originally sent me for tests who was a fairly new addition to the practice but the one who knew me and the boys and had known Andrew and all we had been through.

He rang me back and was very honest with me about my chances. He even came around that evening to see me and give me the strongest hug I have ever experienced! Subsequently he wrote an amazing letter to my new GP practice, which the receptionist told me had her in tears!

And so my path was set before me. November was filled with things to do, excursions and visits to friends that were already planned and a moving date fixed in stone.

Somehow, I managed every single one before the trauma of having to be diagnosed all over again before finally ending up with emergency surgery.

I have to thank God for the way things worked out. On paper it all seemed unlikely and impossible and yet I’m still here a year on to tell the tale. But I’m crying as I type this, amazed by the miracle of my journey, from North to South, through cancer diagnosis, lifesaving surgery and beyond.

I’ll always remember that fifth of November, the fireworks, family and friends.

Pansies in my garden for thoughts and remembrance.
They are also sometimes called heartsease.

Lost and Loneliness

Lost and Loneliness is quite possibly a rejected Jane Austen title that never quite made the grade. It follows the same pattern as Pride and Prejudice and my favourite Sense and Sensibility, but doesn’t really grab you and the more I think about it doesn’t make grammatical sense either – it should be Loss and Loneliness or Lost in Loneliness. But neither of them quite fitted my mood.

I played around with the online thesaurus and came up with Adrift and Abandoned. A bit dramatic, even for me.

Last night I went to the theatre to see Austentatious – an improvised Austenesque play made up on the spot after title suggestions are shouted out from the audience. Getting the title right is of utmost importance.

Youngest son and I saw something similar at the Edinburgh Fringe based on Sherlock Holmes, so I had an idea what to expect and as a lover of all thing Austen – except the ending of Sanditon on TV recently – I decided I wanted to go.

The problem was I only found out about it the other week and it was almost too late to ask anyone to go with me.

But an independent woman of means is always in want of light entertainment and won’t let a lack of a companion stop her!

The day before the performance I received an email from the theatre with directions to car parking nearby. It looked a doddle, I fixed the map in my brain, as I tend to do, and set off into the night.

Everything looks so different when it’s dark and as I neared the town centre where the theatre was located, I realised this wasn’t going to be as straightforward as I imagined – it was ever thus!

I stopped a couple of times to consult Google Maps but still ended up in a car park the other end of town. Deciding at least the car was safe and secure I set off, once more consulting google maps – why does the arrow not point in the direction you are walking???

At least the predicted 800 metres ahead of me was not daunting, now I am much fitter, I had sensible flat shoes on even if I was only wearing a thin wrap – well one does like to dress up for a theatre visit.

The streets were silent and strange – had I thrown sense out of the window? Was it purely my pride that spurred me on? I confess I wavered and wobbled a bit but with some persuasion to my inner self I kept putting one foot in front of the other and finally the glow of the theatre was before me.

I had time to claim my ticket, use the facilities and get a drink before settling down in my seat ready for the show to begin.

After rejecting such suggestions as “Trouble and Strife at the Whitehouse” and “Lust and Lycanthropy” the title of the performance was decided, we are about to see the one off performance of “Formally Known As Brian”.

I am quite convinced this tale, about the status of having the right name, was the inspiration behind Oscar Wilde’s classic “The Importance of Being Ernest”.  It followed a similar plot. Our heroine Clarissa Ward declared she could not marry a man called Brian Peanut. Some name changing, misunderstanding and chaos ensued until a satisfying resolution was reached. Although the solitary duck in the pond was killed, the Peanuts lived happily ever after – a true Austen classic ending. (Take note producers of Sanditon – as if they’d be reading this! Hahaha)

The play was delightful and the walk back to the car, once I consulted google, was actually more straightforward.

As I wandered, not quite so lost I remained just a little bit lonely. I had no one to share my experiences with. The play was a one off the only other people who knew the minor plot of the dead duck were now scattered, no one else would find it quite as funny.

I honestly don’t mind doing anything on my own, walking, going to the cinema, even eating out alone. I don’t always like the lost feeling of walking somewhere new in the dark, but I’ve come to terms with those demons.

Driving home last night along the windy country lanes I remembered a previous journey made years ago. It was the first long journey I undertook a few weeks after losing Andrew, I had my two young sons with me and I was the sole responsible adult. It was dark and so very foggy it was actually scary. I recognise I’ve come a long way since then. I am almost a different person.

I have proved my resilience over and over again but there is still a small ache, a chip in my heart that leaves me not quite complete. Perhaps I never will be totally whole again.

Online dating doesn’t seem to be the answer… I might write more on that another day; I might give it another go next year – November is NOT the right time and I didn’t think things through properly when I started this quest for romance.

Maybe somewhere out there is a Mr Darcy or Edward Ferrers waiting patiently, or even impatiently. I’m not quite sure how I find him, if he will find me or if my life will ever be as Austenesque as I wish it to be.

Undeterred I will plod on, improvising mostly in a style all of my own. Trying not to get too lost and combating those brief moments of loneliness with a smile and a new adventure because an independent woman of means is always in want of some excitement in her life and won’t let a lack of a companion stop her!