Findings
I found this today on my peregrinations across the web. It is beautiful, moving and speaks so loudly as the kind of person that I long to be but so often fail. Please go and read the full piece and offer your sympathies. Someone dying is awful at any time of year, but terribly poignant at Christmas.
Minerva
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Still on Edge
Still On Edge
I am so touchy at the moment. I can't seem to take perfectly normal comments and laugh them off as usual. I snap or bite back and can't control myself. I don't do it to people I don't know but those I love most in the world and I have no idea why.
I know that my beloved daughters are off tomorrow to their father's for a week and that may have something to do with it, or the return to work next week, or even that the curtain that shrouds the Christmas season from the rest of the year is slowly closing. Certainly, next year will be an even tougher year than this one. I have no idea if I will be celebrating next Christmas in a wheelchair, or even bed bound or walking. I don't know if the money I am currently being paid will go far enough in the forseeable future or even if there is a forseeable future.
I just can't see it, and wonder what it all holds for me. What will 2008 bring in its wake?
2007 brought debilititating difficult docetaxel which as a chemo is devastating. It took away my mobility, my freedom and my innocence and it disabled me.
Probably why I am a little stressed!
Minerva
I am so touchy at the moment. I can't seem to take perfectly normal comments and laugh them off as usual. I snap or bite back and can't control myself. I don't do it to people I don't know but those I love most in the world and I have no idea why.
I know that my beloved daughters are off tomorrow to their father's for a week and that may have something to do with it, or the return to work next week, or even that the curtain that shrouds the Christmas season from the rest of the year is slowly closing. Certainly, next year will be an even tougher year than this one. I have no idea if I will be celebrating next Christmas in a wheelchair, or even bed bound or walking. I don't know if the money I am currently being paid will go far enough in the forseeable future or even if there is a forseeable future.
I just can't see it, and wonder what it all holds for me. What will 2008 bring in its wake?
2007 brought debilititating difficult docetaxel which as a chemo is devastating. It took away my mobility, my freedom and my innocence and it disabled me.
Probably why I am a little stressed!
Minerva
Peace Day
Peace Day
The 27th December in our house is called Peace Day after two years ago when exhausted by Christmas and the social rigours of Boxing Day we had a day entirely house bound. Peace Day is defined by laziness: pyjamas are de rigour; returns to the bedroom and duvets are entirely expected and playing games, eating lots of chocolate are the order of the day.
A wonderful day until around 3pm when a derisory flick of the radio switch told us of an act which completely undermines Peace Day and the movement for peace the world over: the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. Now I have no insight into the allegations of corruption or anything else, but I have always held her in the highest esteem and felt a special kinship with Benazir. She went to my university, she is a woman in a man's world and, to me at least, behaved with complete dignity and charm which makes the violence of her end all the more shocking.
The scenes from Pakistan are awful, especially for a people which, when encountered in daily life in London, are so peace loving and charming. Tonight I think of a country rocked by violence and torn apart by extremism and I think of a family shredded by violence and by all that we hate about this man made world of ours.
Minerva
The 27th December in our house is called Peace Day after two years ago when exhausted by Christmas and the social rigours of Boxing Day we had a day entirely house bound. Peace Day is defined by laziness: pyjamas are de rigour; returns to the bedroom and duvets are entirely expected and playing games, eating lots of chocolate are the order of the day.
A wonderful day until around 3pm when a derisory flick of the radio switch told us of an act which completely undermines Peace Day and the movement for peace the world over: the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. Now I have no insight into the allegations of corruption or anything else, but I have always held her in the highest esteem and felt a special kinship with Benazir. She went to my university, she is a woman in a man's world and, to me at least, behaved with complete dignity and charm which makes the violence of her end all the more shocking.
The scenes from Pakistan are awful, especially for a people which, when encountered in daily life in London, are so peace loving and charming. Tonight I think of a country rocked by violence and torn apart by extremism and I think of a family shredded by violence and by all that we hate about this man made world of ours.
Minerva
Friday, December 28, 2007
Mishaps
Mishaps
Last year, the house started leaking. My daughter's wall and ceiling stained brown from a leaking pipe and it took a plumber at exorbitant rates to find the leak, and then fix it, which as any gullible punter knows costs double and requires at least 5 visits to numerous hardware shops on behalf of the plumber.
This year, it's the lights. My boyfriend and I decided to rewire our dimmer switches and 'pop!' the lights went. I sit here waiting for an emergency electrician to arrive. I tried calling 8 all of which were 'busy' over Christmas. I was asked to wait until the 2nd of January and with no downstair lights at all, that would be a bit of a hardship.
Pathetic really isn't it? We look at videos of Africa and starving children every year. The pictures of floods in Java with the Tsunami. These people have no electricity EVER and here am I complaining because someone can't get to me for an hour and a half. I have food on my table, hugs in my home and happy, contented healthy children.
I am blessed.
(But I do wish that electrician would hurry up!)
Minerva
Last year, the house started leaking. My daughter's wall and ceiling stained brown from a leaking pipe and it took a plumber at exorbitant rates to find the leak, and then fix it, which as any gullible punter knows costs double and requires at least 5 visits to numerous hardware shops on behalf of the plumber.
This year, it's the lights. My boyfriend and I decided to rewire our dimmer switches and 'pop!' the lights went. I sit here waiting for an emergency electrician to arrive. I tried calling 8 all of which were 'busy' over Christmas. I was asked to wait until the 2nd of January and with no downstair lights at all, that would be a bit of a hardship.
Pathetic really isn't it? We look at videos of Africa and starving children every year. The pictures of floods in Java with the Tsunami. These people have no electricity EVER and here am I complaining because someone can't get to me for an hour and a half. I have food on my table, hugs in my home and happy, contented healthy children.
I am blessed.
(But I do wish that electrician would hurry up!)
Minerva
The Moments
The Moments.
So what was really special about this Christmas? I have tried, here, to sum them up.
Creeping into my girls' bedrooms to place their stockings at the end of their beds and giggling when the floorboard went. Our wonderful Christmas Eve meal where we laughed with joy at the sheer anticipation of the night and day ahead. The new tradition we established this year of buying each other Secret Santa presents worth a maximum of £3.00 each and laughing at the silliness of them all.
The pound of excited feet up the stairs at 9.01am as they realised those lumps on their feet were stockings filled with exciting packages. The hug of one of my 12 year olds as she wanted to thank 'Santa' for the best presents ever. The most annoying present ever of a voice changer which Twin 2 insisted on saying absolutely everything through for two whole days. The different ways we tried to hide it through those two days.
The first time for a long time that a boyfriend has been there for Christmas and the warmth that he spread in our family.
The care and effort my brother and sister in law went to to make our Christmas as lavish and as generous as they could despite having three young children. The tears my mother had as she opened photographs of a special family session done at the beginning of December. The poignancy of recording everything I could as we just don't know what next year holds.
The sheer joy and love spread around the table.
Minerva
So what was really special about this Christmas? I have tried, here, to sum them up.
Creeping into my girls' bedrooms to place their stockings at the end of their beds and giggling when the floorboard went. Our wonderful Christmas Eve meal where we laughed with joy at the sheer anticipation of the night and day ahead. The new tradition we established this year of buying each other Secret Santa presents worth a maximum of £3.00 each and laughing at the silliness of them all.
The pound of excited feet up the stairs at 9.01am as they realised those lumps on their feet were stockings filled with exciting packages. The hug of one of my 12 year olds as she wanted to thank 'Santa' for the best presents ever. The most annoying present ever of a voice changer which Twin 2 insisted on saying absolutely everything through for two whole days. The different ways we tried to hide it through those two days.
The first time for a long time that a boyfriend has been there for Christmas and the warmth that he spread in our family.
The care and effort my brother and sister in law went to to make our Christmas as lavish and as generous as they could despite having three young children. The tears my mother had as she opened photographs of a special family session done at the beginning of December. The poignancy of recording everything I could as we just don't know what next year holds.
The sheer joy and love spread around the table.
Minerva
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Homeless
Homeless
I have been sitting here for hours. It is so cold I can feel the concrete through my thin blanket and my feet are completely lost to any sensation. I have a sign telling people I am homeless, found the pen in a chip shop and the card is a piece from a box left out in the rain. I have given up looking at the eyes of the shoppers: I feel so ashamed, so ashamed to be begging when others are out shopping for their loved ones. Mine are at home: I had to run away after my father walked out and my step father moved in. I can't bear the arguments, the shouting and the tears. I had to walk out, had to find my own way.
And here it is on a cold street in the middle of London. So much for gold paved in the streets of the capital. There is nothing here, nothing but rushed parents looking for their last minute gifts. When I see the huge bags they are walking past with, the packages piled in their arms, and the cars stuffed full, I have to wonder. Joseph and Mary were homeless too, weren't they and she was pregnant. That must have been awful, but no friendly inn keeper here.
But then a friend, a woman with three smiling children stops, holds my shoulder and wishes me Merry Christmas with a gift of a note. She doesn't ask me if I smoke, if I drink but gives the money freely and lovingly. I see that she has her own pain, her own troubles but there are tears in her eyes and I bless her for her compassion.
A star after all,
Minerva
I have been sitting here for hours. It is so cold I can feel the concrete through my thin blanket and my feet are completely lost to any sensation. I have a sign telling people I am homeless, found the pen in a chip shop and the card is a piece from a box left out in the rain. I have given up looking at the eyes of the shoppers: I feel so ashamed, so ashamed to be begging when others are out shopping for their loved ones. Mine are at home: I had to run away after my father walked out and my step father moved in. I can't bear the arguments, the shouting and the tears. I had to walk out, had to find my own way.
And here it is on a cold street in the middle of London. So much for gold paved in the streets of the capital. There is nothing here, nothing but rushed parents looking for their last minute gifts. When I see the huge bags they are walking past with, the packages piled in their arms, and the cars stuffed full, I have to wonder. Joseph and Mary were homeless too, weren't they and she was pregnant. That must have been awful, but no friendly inn keeper here.
But then a friend, a woman with three smiling children stops, holds my shoulder and wishes me Merry Christmas with a gift of a note. She doesn't ask me if I smoke, if I drink but gives the money freely and lovingly. I see that she has her own pain, her own troubles but there are tears in her eyes and I bless her for her compassion.
A star after all,
Minerva
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Internet shopping ISN'T easier...
Internet shopping ISN'T easier.
I mean, that isn't strictly true. Yes, the packages have been rolling in through the second week of December and, to be honest, I am nearly done without really having to sniff a shop. But now, the situation has turned critical. My nephew's present was delivered to work instead of home and I have had to get another one delivered to my home address. And my mother's present which was meant to be delivered a couple of days ago hasn't arrived yet!
So what do I do? Today I have waited in all day waiting for these deliveries, because you can bet, can't you, that as soon as I am out of sight of my front door, the van will draw up, the man with the electronic signature device will get out and ring my door. And then I will get another of the wrong type of Christmas card, the card where I have to get on my phone and remonstrate with someone at the other end to deliver the article again. *sigh*
And how late do I leave it? I mean if it isn't delivered by 1pm on Christmas eve, I am going to have to go out and get some more.. and that doesn't just cost more money which is tight this year, but the hassle that is involved is a major problem. What am I going to do?
Today we have a wonderful pottery painting place about half an hour away which the girls really wanted to visit but we had to stay in to wait for this delivery which was meant to arrive...but no sign.
Better luck Monday I guess.
Minerva
I mean, that isn't strictly true. Yes, the packages have been rolling in through the second week of December and, to be honest, I am nearly done without really having to sniff a shop. But now, the situation has turned critical. My nephew's present was delivered to work instead of home and I have had to get another one delivered to my home address. And my mother's present which was meant to be delivered a couple of days ago hasn't arrived yet!
So what do I do? Today I have waited in all day waiting for these deliveries, because you can bet, can't you, that as soon as I am out of sight of my front door, the van will draw up, the man with the electronic signature device will get out and ring my door. And then I will get another of the wrong type of Christmas card, the card where I have to get on my phone and remonstrate with someone at the other end to deliver the article again. *sigh*
And how late do I leave it? I mean if it isn't delivered by 1pm on Christmas eve, I am going to have to go out and get some more.. and that doesn't just cost more money which is tight this year, but the hassle that is involved is a major problem. What am I going to do?
Today we have a wonderful pottery painting place about half an hour away which the girls really wanted to visit but we had to stay in to wait for this delivery which was meant to arrive...but no sign.
Better luck Monday I guess.
Minerva
Friday, December 21, 2007
Good news - ish..
Good News - ish.
I suppose it is good news, she says, grudgingly. The cancer in my armpit and my thymus has not grown bigger or advanced. That is great but there is a possible new area in my neck. There is nothing to feel though so it could be a falst postitive as PETs are renowned for it. The problem is that they are so new the doctors do feel uncertain of how to proceed and need backup from other sources. The Prof. feels that it isn't enough to base treatment on so I have had blood tests for markers today and I am having a CT scan in three weeks time to see if they come up on that as well.
So why, if it's good news, do I feel so down? Why do I feel so close to weeping? A friend has suggested that it is just the reality hitting again, and I am sure she is right. There is no easy way of dealing with what this disease throws at you. I keep thinking I am hitting acceptance and then a day happens like today and I just feel miserable even though others keep telling me it's 'good news.'
Time to deal with it I think, before my kids come back from their shopping trip.
*sigh*
Minerva
I suppose it is good news, she says, grudgingly. The cancer in my armpit and my thymus has not grown bigger or advanced. That is great but there is a possible new area in my neck. There is nothing to feel though so it could be a falst postitive as PETs are renowned for it. The problem is that they are so new the doctors do feel uncertain of how to proceed and need backup from other sources. The Prof. feels that it isn't enough to base treatment on so I have had blood tests for markers today and I am having a CT scan in three weeks time to see if they come up on that as well.
So why, if it's good news, do I feel so down? Why do I feel so close to weeping? A friend has suggested that it is just the reality hitting again, and I am sure she is right. There is no easy way of dealing with what this disease throws at you. I keep thinking I am hitting acceptance and then a day happens like today and I just feel miserable even though others keep telling me it's 'good news.'
Time to deal with it I think, before my kids come back from their shopping trip.
*sigh*
Minerva
Scared...
Scared
I am a little nervous about tomorrow. I have just shrugged it off to others telling them that being told the first diagnosis is the worst, or that they can't tell me anything I don't already know, but my mind is constantly churning. I don't know what they are going to say tomorrow. Will there be a limiter? A two year/one year/ six month sentence? Will it have spread conspiciously to an organ of mine?
And then, there's telling the kids. I mean, at the moment, there seems absolutely no point. I am well, I seem to be improving and there is no outward sign that I have this disease at all. My nose hasn't turned green, or my hair fallen out or anything of that ilk. And I really, really don't want to drop bad news on anyone at Christmas. Not because Christmas is not a time for bad news, but because if I do, it means that every Christmas future will be tainted by grief, when it is a time of joy and celebration.
Keeping it secret though, is hard, harder than I thought. A careless comment from the girls about how I 'shouldn't sleep in the afternoons', or why I'm tired when 'normal mothers' aren't really does touch a nerve. It does, however, normally mean that I am overtired and need a nap thus ensuring the vicious circle! It is lovely to have them here though.
An afternoon baking cookies, making cakes and a huge mess over the kitchen which I really should be tidying up..but then again, I am a little tired and my bed beckons.
Bring it on tomorrow...
Minerva
I am a little nervous about tomorrow. I have just shrugged it off to others telling them that being told the first diagnosis is the worst, or that they can't tell me anything I don't already know, but my mind is constantly churning. I don't know what they are going to say tomorrow. Will there be a limiter? A two year/one year/ six month sentence? Will it have spread conspiciously to an organ of mine?
And then, there's telling the kids. I mean, at the moment, there seems absolutely no point. I am well, I seem to be improving and there is no outward sign that I have this disease at all. My nose hasn't turned green, or my hair fallen out or anything of that ilk. And I really, really don't want to drop bad news on anyone at Christmas. Not because Christmas is not a time for bad news, but because if I do, it means that every Christmas future will be tainted by grief, when it is a time of joy and celebration.
Keeping it secret though, is hard, harder than I thought. A careless comment from the girls about how I 'shouldn't sleep in the afternoons', or why I'm tired when 'normal mothers' aren't really does touch a nerve. It does, however, normally mean that I am overtired and need a nap thus ensuring the vicious circle! It is lovely to have them here though.
An afternoon baking cookies, making cakes and a huge mess over the kitchen which I really should be tidying up..but then again, I am a little tired and my bed beckons.
Bring it on tomorrow...
Minerva
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Rush
Wow, it's been busy. With the end of school and the commensurate celebrations that take place as well as the beginning of our Christmas preparations, I haven't had a minute to sit down and blog. Tomorrow I am off to the hospital again to find out what Mr C has got up to since our last snapshot together and the boyfriend arrives as well.
So for today, I am clinging to a life raft of an island away from yesterday and tomorrow. Today we are going to snuggle inside my little house. The girls want to bake this afternoon and I can't wait to spend the time with them. Today, it is just us, just the animals and the girls having fun together.
Maybe, just maybe, that is the real message of Christmas too.
Minerva
So for today, I am clinging to a life raft of an island away from yesterday and tomorrow. Today we are going to snuggle inside my little house. The girls want to bake this afternoon and I can't wait to spend the time with them. Today, it is just us, just the animals and the girls having fun together.
Maybe, just maybe, that is the real message of Christmas too.
Minerva
Monday, December 17, 2007
Mush
Mush
I am not, by nature, a church goer or a church follower. I *think* I am still a Christian, but for obvious reasons my faith wavers mightily, like a candle in a draught. But, and it is a big but, I do love carols and churches before Christmas.
Tonight, was my school's carol service. And as we sang 'The Holly and the Ivy' and 'Little Town of Bethlehem', I did have a bit of an out of body experience as myself, floating high by the stone columns watched the inner me, down in the pews slowly melt to mush.
What is it about an organ, a choir and a harmonious chorus that is so moving? I felt tears prick at my eyes tonight as I looked back over Christmasses past, and those, I hope, to come. It was so special in the tiny little church, with my three children beside me and fellow parents, staff and children all around.
I find too the words that I have heard ever since I was a child, lonely in a Kent boarding school such a comfort. I am sure that much of the reason that I am an English teacher is because the King James' bible's ritual gave me such warmth.
And so Minerva took these things and pondered them in her heart.
Minerva
I am not, by nature, a church goer or a church follower. I *think* I am still a Christian, but for obvious reasons my faith wavers mightily, like a candle in a draught. But, and it is a big but, I do love carols and churches before Christmas.
Tonight, was my school's carol service. And as we sang 'The Holly and the Ivy' and 'Little Town of Bethlehem', I did have a bit of an out of body experience as myself, floating high by the stone columns watched the inner me, down in the pews slowly melt to mush.
What is it about an organ, a choir and a harmonious chorus that is so moving? I felt tears prick at my eyes tonight as I looked back over Christmasses past, and those, I hope, to come. It was so special in the tiny little church, with my three children beside me and fellow parents, staff and children all around.
I find too the words that I have heard ever since I was a child, lonely in a Kent boarding school such a comfort. I am sure that much of the reason that I am an English teacher is because the King James' bible's ritual gave me such warmth.
And so Minerva took these things and pondered them in her heart.
Minerva
Sunday, December 16, 2007
My Very Own Miracle
My Very Own Miracle.
An afternoon spent at the temple of Mammon otherwise known as Ealing Broadway Shopping centre. The place was packed with harassed shoppers carrying huge bags full of boxes, presents and toys. It was more like a dodgem stall than a shopping centre as we blundered into other people, caught by huge bags twisted round hands white with the imprints of thin, cruel handles. Parents dragged small children through the shops, with admonishments of not to touch, not to stray, not to wander. Teenagers hung round corners, chatting with their friends and young lovers scowled with frowns of disappointment as their beloveds didn't telepathically pick out what they wanted for Christmas.
The windows were bright with sale signs, reduced signs and so-called great bargains for Christmas. A feast of joy and birth has become almost completely overcome by mercenary greed or so I thought. For today, I saw a miracle of sorts, an event that brought home to me what Christmas is really about.
In the centre of the mall corridor, surrounded by shops, a little girl was being dragged by her parents. She must have only been about three and was completely oblivious to the chaos around her. Her eyes were fixed on the blue flashing lights twisted round a wreath of holly on the roof. She pointed, she stared and she gasped at what, for her, was sheer beauty. Her parents, harassed by an undone shopping list told her off for dawdling and I? I smiled at her. Her complete fascination for the ordinary decorations made me think that this is really what Christmas is about. The wonder, whatever religion you are, for the beauty that Mankind can create. The astonishment at a miracle, which must have been what those wise men felt, so long ago.
For me, it took a child to show me the way. Today, that unknown child, that little toddler was my guiding star and my very own miracle.
Minerva
An afternoon spent at the temple of Mammon otherwise known as Ealing Broadway Shopping centre. The place was packed with harassed shoppers carrying huge bags full of boxes, presents and toys. It was more like a dodgem stall than a shopping centre as we blundered into other people, caught by huge bags twisted round hands white with the imprints of thin, cruel handles. Parents dragged small children through the shops, with admonishments of not to touch, not to stray, not to wander. Teenagers hung round corners, chatting with their friends and young lovers scowled with frowns of disappointment as their beloveds didn't telepathically pick out what they wanted for Christmas.
The windows were bright with sale signs, reduced signs and so-called great bargains for Christmas. A feast of joy and birth has become almost completely overcome by mercenary greed or so I thought. For today, I saw a miracle of sorts, an event that brought home to me what Christmas is really about.
In the centre of the mall corridor, surrounded by shops, a little girl was being dragged by her parents. She must have only been about three and was completely oblivious to the chaos around her. Her eyes were fixed on the blue flashing lights twisted round a wreath of holly on the roof. She pointed, she stared and she gasped at what, for her, was sheer beauty. Her parents, harassed by an undone shopping list told her off for dawdling and I? I smiled at her. Her complete fascination for the ordinary decorations made me think that this is really what Christmas is about. The wonder, whatever religion you are, for the beauty that Mankind can create. The astonishment at a miracle, which must have been what those wise men felt, so long ago.
For me, it took a child to show me the way. Today, that unknown child, that little toddler was my guiding star and my very own miracle.
Minerva
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Finally
Finally
Finally Christmas really feels just around the corner. Today we decorated our tree, and somehow the ancient ritual smoothed the path to the clearing of Christmas. It started with tidying up my ridiculously untidy sitting room, moving to the second Act of rummaging in the dusty loft for the ancient box of decorations clawed to death by the three cats of the house. The last Act is always finding those lovely baubles which we forget every year only to be reminded just how glorious they are when they come out. Characters from childhood, and even the glittery ones we made the year my husband and I split up and we had no Christmas decorations from our marriage so we made them from shiny paper and ribbon. They, of course, because they are the oldest have the most special memories. Memories of the first Christmas we had as a new family.
And the finale? Getting the tree out of its box. Yes, climate change guilt hit our household last year and my tree is now a plastic one which looks as good as it did last year.
And you know what? In some ways, it is even more fun than putting up a 'real' one. Ours comes with a main stem and branches which are colour coded and need to be slotted into the main column. That means we all have to help which makes it a genuinely co-operative occasion. Eldest daughter insisted on decorating the dog with fairy wings and tinsel, twin one slotted in the branches and twin two was winding the lights around the branches. Mother Minerva, meanwhile, was engaged in the age old ritual of checking the lights, discarding the broken ones and untangling those curly green wires. Mince pies heated in the oven combined with crisps completed our happy picture.
Now even our dingy hall is smiling with fairy lights curving from door to door, tinsel garlanding our pictures and that wonderful tree shining like a beacon of hope and happiness through the windows.
I am so close I can smell Christmas in the air, see Rudolph's nose pointing to London and if I listen very closely, hear sleigh bells in the wind.
Minerva
Finally Christmas really feels just around the corner. Today we decorated our tree, and somehow the ancient ritual smoothed the path to the clearing of Christmas. It started with tidying up my ridiculously untidy sitting room, moving to the second Act of rummaging in the dusty loft for the ancient box of decorations clawed to death by the three cats of the house. The last Act is always finding those lovely baubles which we forget every year only to be reminded just how glorious they are when they come out. Characters from childhood, and even the glittery ones we made the year my husband and I split up and we had no Christmas decorations from our marriage so we made them from shiny paper and ribbon. They, of course, because they are the oldest have the most special memories. Memories of the first Christmas we had as a new family.
And the finale? Getting the tree out of its box. Yes, climate change guilt hit our household last year and my tree is now a plastic one which looks as good as it did last year.
And you know what? In some ways, it is even more fun than putting up a 'real' one. Ours comes with a main stem and branches which are colour coded and need to be slotted into the main column. That means we all have to help which makes it a genuinely co-operative occasion. Eldest daughter insisted on decorating the dog with fairy wings and tinsel, twin one slotted in the branches and twin two was winding the lights around the branches. Mother Minerva, meanwhile, was engaged in the age old ritual of checking the lights, discarding the broken ones and untangling those curly green wires. Mince pies heated in the oven combined with crisps completed our happy picture.
Now even our dingy hall is smiling with fairy lights curving from door to door, tinsel garlanding our pictures and that wonderful tree shining like a beacon of hope and happiness through the windows.
I am so close I can smell Christmas in the air, see Rudolph's nose pointing to London and if I listen very closely, hear sleigh bells in the wind.
Minerva
Friday, December 14, 2007
Death
Death
Death is all around me at the moment, but I don't mean in a bad way. How much of a paradox is that, or is it an oxymoron? I always get the two muddled. No, death is definitely on my mind, but it isn't in a depressing way or a self pitying way. No, it is rather on my mind like a trip to the supermarket, or getting the children ready for a new school term.
I think of it as something to be approached practically and thoughtfully. I have considered visiting the local hospice to prepare myself, thinking of making a living will so that my wishes are respected, and of going to an undertaker's to find out what the options are and how much they are. My relatives and friends won't want to have all those worries as well as the fact that I will be gone.
My children, luckily, are to a large extent taken care of, or at least they will be materially and will be supported through my death by my family and by their father, who is a superb one. Of that I need not worry too much. Of course I do worry, especially on the emotional front, but with hope, I will be around for a while longer to teach them how to become their own best friends, to learn how to ask for help from others, and to learn how to take it.
So apart from that, it is really the practicalities that I am concerned with. I have thought about planning my funeral; I listen to songs with one eye on playing them on that occasion. I have considered poems to be read, whether my children should be there and whether they might want to play a part in it. All these things are probably to be discussed further down the line, when they know the truth and when we can talk about these openly. For now, it is still too early and they still have too much of their lives to run. Innocence is too precious a quality to be taken away now.
And epitaphs...hmmm.... I haven't had any ideas yet but there is yet time and I think that is why I am still being so open about death. When it isn't impending, it isn't as frightening. It is still something that I can discuss openly and clearly and I want to make those difficult decisions now, whilst I am still of relatively healthy body and mind. I don't want something which doesn't represent my self at all.
All this talk of death, though, also leads me back to life, and to the goals that I want to achieve. My greatest achievement, of course, is my children. They are gorgeous and a fitting epitaph, if it comes to that. But, also, I have always wanted to write a book. I am finding ideas are difficult but if nothing else, then I have often thought about getting this blog published. But then I also think that most blog writers think the same thing and maybe there is no market, or even that cancer is such a depressing subject that it would have no market.. and then I turn full circle.
Perhaps death is easier to contemplate after all!
Minerva
Death is all around me at the moment, but I don't mean in a bad way. How much of a paradox is that, or is it an oxymoron? I always get the two muddled. No, death is definitely on my mind, but it isn't in a depressing way or a self pitying way. No, it is rather on my mind like a trip to the supermarket, or getting the children ready for a new school term.
I think of it as something to be approached practically and thoughtfully. I have considered visiting the local hospice to prepare myself, thinking of making a living will so that my wishes are respected, and of going to an undertaker's to find out what the options are and how much they are. My relatives and friends won't want to have all those worries as well as the fact that I will be gone.
My children, luckily, are to a large extent taken care of, or at least they will be materially and will be supported through my death by my family and by their father, who is a superb one. Of that I need not worry too much. Of course I do worry, especially on the emotional front, but with hope, I will be around for a while longer to teach them how to become their own best friends, to learn how to ask for help from others, and to learn how to take it.
So apart from that, it is really the practicalities that I am concerned with. I have thought about planning my funeral; I listen to songs with one eye on playing them on that occasion. I have considered poems to be read, whether my children should be there and whether they might want to play a part in it. All these things are probably to be discussed further down the line, when they know the truth and when we can talk about these openly. For now, it is still too early and they still have too much of their lives to run. Innocence is too precious a quality to be taken away now.
And epitaphs...hmmm.... I haven't had any ideas yet but there is yet time and I think that is why I am still being so open about death. When it isn't impending, it isn't as frightening. It is still something that I can discuss openly and clearly and I want to make those difficult decisions now, whilst I am still of relatively healthy body and mind. I don't want something which doesn't represent my self at all.
All this talk of death, though, also leads me back to life, and to the goals that I want to achieve. My greatest achievement, of course, is my children. They are gorgeous and a fitting epitaph, if it comes to that. But, also, I have always wanted to write a book. I am finding ideas are difficult but if nothing else, then I have often thought about getting this blog published. But then I also think that most blog writers think the same thing and maybe there is no market, or even that cancer is such a depressing subject that it would have no market.. and then I turn full circle.
Perhaps death is easier to contemplate after all!
Minerva
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Happiness
Happiness
Tonight, the lights are on in my house. Tonight, three gorgeous children are snuggling around me on the old worn blue sofas. Tonight I have a hand on each child, and heads cuddling my lap. Tonight, my fears are calmed and my worries soothed.
Tonight, I am a mother. Tonight my children, all my children are home and I am so content. Tonight life is wonderful. Tonight, I am exactly where and how I want to be. Tonight, being a mother at home, watching the television, normally a completely pedestrian activity is heightened to an extraordinary one.
There is no greater love than a parent for their children, and tonight, my heart sings, soars and swoops in happiness at having my children back. I am doing what I was born to do, to nurture, succour and just be there.
I am determined to try and hug this happiness to me. Perhaps in the days ahead, days of tests, needles and scans, I can try and keep this hot water bottle of maternal love warm to insulate me against those awful cold days which I will face.
But that is all for another time. Tonight I am happy to be here, in London, now.
Minerva
Tonight, the lights are on in my house. Tonight, three gorgeous children are snuggling around me on the old worn blue sofas. Tonight I have a hand on each child, and heads cuddling my lap. Tonight, my fears are calmed and my worries soothed.
Tonight, I am a mother. Tonight my children, all my children are home and I am so content. Tonight life is wonderful. Tonight, I am exactly where and how I want to be. Tonight, being a mother at home, watching the television, normally a completely pedestrian activity is heightened to an extraordinary one.
There is no greater love than a parent for their children, and tonight, my heart sings, soars and swoops in happiness at having my children back. I am doing what I was born to do, to nurture, succour and just be there.
I am determined to try and hug this happiness to me. Perhaps in the days ahead, days of tests, needles and scans, I can try and keep this hot water bottle of maternal love warm to insulate me against those awful cold days which I will face.
But that is all for another time. Tonight I am happy to be here, in London, now.
Minerva
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Hospitals
Hospitals
So, the scan. Same boring routine. Into the hospital, up to Nuclear Medicine and greeted by the same girl as last time. Weighed, measured, and then radioactive material injected into my veins. Or at least that's the theory! The reality? Four jabs at my right arm and each time the veins came up empty. It took us half an hour to finally inject the serum. And how strange is it to have someone holding a lead lined syringe of radioactive material which they are injecting into my veins! An hour then of lying on a bed before an hour and a half in a low ceilinged cylindrical tube.
As the material is taken up more quickly by cancer cells, you aren't allowed to move for the entire time so as not to disrupt the material. That makes an incredibly boring two and a half hours staring into space. Even listening to music or reading a book would alter the results.
And then I emerged, and I looked at the waiting room: a room full of men and women over 40 years older than me. A room full of grandmothers and fathers, a room of cancer victims, true, but they are lucky enough to have seen their children grow up, have grandchildren and be there for them. I was so very jealous and pangs of self pity pricked my eyes.
It was so very strange. For the last two months I have been living a reality which today I saw wasn't my real life. My reality is and will be hospitals, scans, and appointments. I really, really don't want that. It feels so bloody unfair: 42 and condemned to a life of appointments, scans and doctors.
When I returned to school, I felt really shaken and strange. My hearts is in living, but my emotions are in illness and dying. I don't know where I am, where the 'real me' is. I don't know what my future holds.
Shaken in deed, word and feeling.
Minerva
So, the scan. Same boring routine. Into the hospital, up to Nuclear Medicine and greeted by the same girl as last time. Weighed, measured, and then radioactive material injected into my veins. Or at least that's the theory! The reality? Four jabs at my right arm and each time the veins came up empty. It took us half an hour to finally inject the serum. And how strange is it to have someone holding a lead lined syringe of radioactive material which they are injecting into my veins! An hour then of lying on a bed before an hour and a half in a low ceilinged cylindrical tube.
As the material is taken up more quickly by cancer cells, you aren't allowed to move for the entire time so as not to disrupt the material. That makes an incredibly boring two and a half hours staring into space. Even listening to music or reading a book would alter the results.
And then I emerged, and I looked at the waiting room: a room full of men and women over 40 years older than me. A room full of grandmothers and fathers, a room of cancer victims, true, but they are lucky enough to have seen their children grow up, have grandchildren and be there for them. I was so very jealous and pangs of self pity pricked my eyes.
It was so very strange. For the last two months I have been living a reality which today I saw wasn't my real life. My reality is and will be hospitals, scans, and appointments. I really, really don't want that. It feels so bloody unfair: 42 and condemned to a life of appointments, scans and doctors.
When I returned to school, I felt really shaken and strange. My hearts is in living, but my emotions are in illness and dying. I don't know where I am, where the 'real me' is. I don't know what my future holds.
Shaken in deed, word and feeling.
Minerva
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Peace.
Peace
It's turned cold in London. The chill kind of cold, where the dampness seeps through your clothes, your scarf and gloves into your bones. The cold that you can't shake off without a fire, and where your feet feel permanently chilled.
It's dark as well. Dark when I wake up and dark when I leave work. The sun tries to break through clouds but it is rare, and even rarer seen. Winter has hit us and the snooze button on my alarm clock is in much greater use than before.
My next PET scan is tomorrow and winter may be hitting my body too. I get the results in two weeks time and I have to say, that ostrich head of mine is hitting the earth's core at the moment. There is a strange ambivalence in my attitude to cancer at the moment. On the one hand, I need to mention it, need to name the darkness in my thoughts, and at the same time, I need to move on, to trivialise it by mentioning it between current affairs and the weather.
I will never forget my headmaster who taught general studies in preparation for University Entrance. He taught me about Wittgenstein: about how language defines our thoughts for us, that if we do not name a thing, we don't recognise it. That is why the Eskimos have 50 words for snow whereas we only have about three, because we don't recognise the different degrees of snow. Well, in a reverse way, my attitude to cancer is the same. Because I can talk about it in an ordinary way, because I can name it, trivialise it, it strips the monster of its power, it declaws the tiger, it puts out the flaming dragon.
And that brings peace.
Minerva
It's turned cold in London. The chill kind of cold, where the dampness seeps through your clothes, your scarf and gloves into your bones. The cold that you can't shake off without a fire, and where your feet feel permanently chilled.
It's dark as well. Dark when I wake up and dark when I leave work. The sun tries to break through clouds but it is rare, and even rarer seen. Winter has hit us and the snooze button on my alarm clock is in much greater use than before.
My next PET scan is tomorrow and winter may be hitting my body too. I get the results in two weeks time and I have to say, that ostrich head of mine is hitting the earth's core at the moment. There is a strange ambivalence in my attitude to cancer at the moment. On the one hand, I need to mention it, need to name the darkness in my thoughts, and at the same time, I need to move on, to trivialise it by mentioning it between current affairs and the weather.
I will never forget my headmaster who taught general studies in preparation for University Entrance. He taught me about Wittgenstein: about how language defines our thoughts for us, that if we do not name a thing, we don't recognise it. That is why the Eskimos have 50 words for snow whereas we only have about three, because we don't recognise the different degrees of snow. Well, in a reverse way, my attitude to cancer is the same. Because I can talk about it in an ordinary way, because I can name it, trivialise it, it strips the monster of its power, it declaws the tiger, it puts out the flaming dragon.
And that brings peace.
Minerva
Monday, December 10, 2007
Two Questions
Two Questions.
Thank you to everyone who read the latest post and I am so glad it was helpful. Two questions arose: the first regarding hope and the second about what to say when first diagnosed.
Well the second one is the easiest. No matter what, mention it. The situation I was given was that you bump into someone recently diagnosed and they don't mention it. Well, as far as I am concerned, go ahead. I won't mention it to people because I don't know if they know and I don't want to make people cry! If you go ahead and talk about it, that gives me the freedom to discuss it too. Oh, and by the way, mention the cancer word - don't hide around it. Don't say I hear you've been ill, or skirt around it: call the spade the flipping shovel. If you know, and if you have dealt with it, then talk about it in detail and as in my previous points listen.
Now to the second: hope. This is tricky: on the one hand having hope is great but I do feel when I share my fears and someone says ''you have to hope'' or somesuch other then that person is denying my feelings. They are telling me that my feelings don't matter. I know that they aren't ACTUALLY saying that but that is what I hear, and I retreat and back off. Sometimes, I do feel hopeful and joyful, but there are a lot of times when I do feel hopeless and what I need then is not expressions of hope but actually I need someone to listen, someone to tell me that what I feel is valid and that I am right to be scared and fearful of the future.
Everyday, I keep hoping that all will be ok, but there is another side and for my own sanity, and the future of my children, and family, that needs to be recognised and shared too.
I am always willing to answer any other questions people have as it is lovely to know that others are being helped by these words...
Minerva
Thank you to everyone who read the latest post and I am so glad it was helpful. Two questions arose: the first regarding hope and the second about what to say when first diagnosed.
Well the second one is the easiest. No matter what, mention it. The situation I was given was that you bump into someone recently diagnosed and they don't mention it. Well, as far as I am concerned, go ahead. I won't mention it to people because I don't know if they know and I don't want to make people cry! If you go ahead and talk about it, that gives me the freedom to discuss it too. Oh, and by the way, mention the cancer word - don't hide around it. Don't say I hear you've been ill, or skirt around it: call the spade the flipping shovel. If you know, and if you have dealt with it, then talk about it in detail and as in my previous points listen.
Now to the second: hope. This is tricky: on the one hand having hope is great but I do feel when I share my fears and someone says ''you have to hope'' or somesuch other then that person is denying my feelings. They are telling me that my feelings don't matter. I know that they aren't ACTUALLY saying that but that is what I hear, and I retreat and back off. Sometimes, I do feel hopeful and joyful, but there are a lot of times when I do feel hopeless and what I need then is not expressions of hope but actually I need someone to listen, someone to tell me that what I feel is valid and that I am right to be scared and fearful of the future.
Everyday, I keep hoping that all will be ok, but there is another side and for my own sanity, and the future of my children, and family, that needs to be recognised and shared too.
I am always willing to answer any other questions people have as it is lovely to know that others are being helped by these words...
Minerva
Sunday, December 09, 2007
10 Top Tips to help someone dying of Cancer.
10 Top Tips to help someone dying of Cancer.
Whenever I think that my blog is superfluous to the plethora of information there is out there on cancer and dealing with it, someone writes to me and tells me it just isn't true. I received an email two days ago from someone whose close relative had just been diagnosed with Stage IV Cancer. Stage IV means secondary cancer: it means that the cancer has moved on from whereever it was originally and inhabited another part of the body, just like mine. I wrote back immediately but my mind has been percolating over her questions and so, here are my top 10 tips.
1. Deal with it away from the person. Find someone who can help you deal with it, go to a therapist, shout at the moon but you have to deal with the fact that someone close to you, someone about whom you may have unresolved feelings or issues is dying. You need to deal with that, and you need to deal with it away from them so that you can give them 100% support.
2. Don't transfer the anger onto them. It is not their fault that they have cancer, and even if, it is lung cancer and they are a 60 a day smoker, it will do nothing for them and you to be reminded. The anger needs to be directed at the cancer, or to be used fruitfully, not as a whipping stick for your friend/relative.
3. Support them in anything they want to do. They want to carry on working? Help them by telling them its right, helping them practically to carry on with whatever they feel they want to do. I felt so happy recently when I told my mother, who normally feels that work just drains me that I wanted to continue and she said that I absolutely needed to. It really helped.
4. Listen, listen, and listen again. That is why you need to do number 1 first. I need to talk about dying, I need to talk about death, and I need to talk about the world after I am gone. I want to sort out the future for my children without their mother. I want to discuss my funeral and I want to be sure that towards the end that events are sorted as I want. Please listen, assure me that I will always be remembered and a part of life after I have died.
5. Start making bonds now with the survivors. My relatives and friends know that I want my children to have a large support network once their mother has gone so they have started already. My cousins have taken my daughter to the movies, others have had her for the weekend, and her godmother, long out of touch, has been back to text and take her out. It is a huge relief off my mind as I know she will have people to discuss me with and in whom she can confide her feelings.
6. Call frequently, email, text. When you have had cancer as often as I have (another phrase I NEVER thought I would write!) it is no longer interesting to others. I have terminal cancer now but I feel quite alone sometimes. In the first batch I was cossetted and helped all the way through. It really is important to stay in touch.
7. And related to that one is practical help. When you are calling you can say, I am going to the shops, can I pick you up something? I HATE asking for help. I am an aggressively independent person and had any kind of dependency on anyone for anything. But, and it is a big but, I am also really tired, tired to the depths of my bones and I just can't seem to get it all done. The house is permanently untidy, the animals running out of food, supper needs to be cooked every night and every night I look longingly at cold tins of baked beans...
8. Feel free to research and find out alternative treatments but please don't force me to do them. You may be convinced that such and such a treatment is the ideal route but maybe my eyes are on something different. I have read loads, and so many people have suggested things to me but do I really want to cling on if all I can eat and drink is cockroach berries? Joke but you get the idea. Let me live as I want to: by all means suggest and discuss but don't lecture!
9. Give them some leeway. I asked my mother for a watercolour set this Christmas. I know that I won't use it constantly but it is something I want to try. I saw the usual ''what on earth'' in her eyes but I know it is my last chance now to try different activities. I need to be supported in that!
10. Thank you so much for reading this far.. I can't honestly think of a number 10 except to say to each and every one of you who read up to here, that you will be wonderful to that person no matter what you do, because you care, and after all, finally, that is what cancer, and ultimately Christmas, is all about.
Minerva
Whenever I think that my blog is superfluous to the plethora of information there is out there on cancer and dealing with it, someone writes to me and tells me it just isn't true. I received an email two days ago from someone whose close relative had just been diagnosed with Stage IV Cancer. Stage IV means secondary cancer: it means that the cancer has moved on from whereever it was originally and inhabited another part of the body, just like mine. I wrote back immediately but my mind has been percolating over her questions and so, here are my top 10 tips.
1. Deal with it away from the person. Find someone who can help you deal with it, go to a therapist, shout at the moon but you have to deal with the fact that someone close to you, someone about whom you may have unresolved feelings or issues is dying. You need to deal with that, and you need to deal with it away from them so that you can give them 100% support.
2. Don't transfer the anger onto them. It is not their fault that they have cancer, and even if, it is lung cancer and they are a 60 a day smoker, it will do nothing for them and you to be reminded. The anger needs to be directed at the cancer, or to be used fruitfully, not as a whipping stick for your friend/relative.
3. Support them in anything they want to do. They want to carry on working? Help them by telling them its right, helping them practically to carry on with whatever they feel they want to do. I felt so happy recently when I told my mother, who normally feels that work just drains me that I wanted to continue and she said that I absolutely needed to. It really helped.
4. Listen, listen, and listen again. That is why you need to do number 1 first. I need to talk about dying, I need to talk about death, and I need to talk about the world after I am gone. I want to sort out the future for my children without their mother. I want to discuss my funeral and I want to be sure that towards the end that events are sorted as I want. Please listen, assure me that I will always be remembered and a part of life after I have died.
5. Start making bonds now with the survivors. My relatives and friends know that I want my children to have a large support network once their mother has gone so they have started already. My cousins have taken my daughter to the movies, others have had her for the weekend, and her godmother, long out of touch, has been back to text and take her out. It is a huge relief off my mind as I know she will have people to discuss me with and in whom she can confide her feelings.
6. Call frequently, email, text. When you have had cancer as often as I have (another phrase I NEVER thought I would write!) it is no longer interesting to others. I have terminal cancer now but I feel quite alone sometimes. In the first batch I was cossetted and helped all the way through. It really is important to stay in touch.
7. And related to that one is practical help. When you are calling you can say, I am going to the shops, can I pick you up something? I HATE asking for help. I am an aggressively independent person and had any kind of dependency on anyone for anything. But, and it is a big but, I am also really tired, tired to the depths of my bones and I just can't seem to get it all done. The house is permanently untidy, the animals running out of food, supper needs to be cooked every night and every night I look longingly at cold tins of baked beans...
8. Feel free to research and find out alternative treatments but please don't force me to do them. You may be convinced that such and such a treatment is the ideal route but maybe my eyes are on something different. I have read loads, and so many people have suggested things to me but do I really want to cling on if all I can eat and drink is cockroach berries? Joke but you get the idea. Let me live as I want to: by all means suggest and discuss but don't lecture!
9. Give them some leeway. I asked my mother for a watercolour set this Christmas. I know that I won't use it constantly but it is something I want to try. I saw the usual ''what on earth'' in her eyes but I know it is my last chance now to try different activities. I need to be supported in that!
10. Thank you so much for reading this far.. I can't honestly think of a number 10 except to say to each and every one of you who read up to here, that you will be wonderful to that person no matter what you do, because you care, and after all, finally, that is what cancer, and ultimately Christmas, is all about.
Minerva
Saturday, December 08, 2007
In Memoriam
In Memoriam
A grey, blackish, brackish day in London. A day where the clouds begin and the rain ends and there is no sun. A day where death stalks us on the pavement, and where a black pallor hangs like a shroud over London.
There it was, or rather, there you were, a dead bird on the pavement. Shuffled to one side, out of the foot fall of walkers, mothers and children you were tucked against a wall, legs clenched up to your chest, beak finally silent and wings held close.
Why?
Did you give up? Was the cold, the grey sky, the lack of food, the predatory cats that roam the streets too much for you? Was the sheer adversity of living the ultimate enemy?
I hope that you, as you lie in complete stillness, untroubled by the flow and eddy of human life around you, dream of warmer blue skies, where you fly free in the whispers of wind. I hope that you are surrounded by a nest of birds, where you and your lover coo to each other in the shimmering leaves of the trees, where warm bark rises to meet you as you swoop and spiral the breeze.
Just to let you know that you are missed, that your death, whilst meaningless, has not been unremarked or unnoticed. You have, even with your death been loved, been mourned and been seen. You are forever marked on this page as something which whilst apparently a small event, is a symbol of the final passing which comes to us all.
Sleep well, sweet blackbird.
Minerva
A grey, blackish, brackish day in London. A day where the clouds begin and the rain ends and there is no sun. A day where death stalks us on the pavement, and where a black pallor hangs like a shroud over London.
There it was, or rather, there you were, a dead bird on the pavement. Shuffled to one side, out of the foot fall of walkers, mothers and children you were tucked against a wall, legs clenched up to your chest, beak finally silent and wings held close.
Why?
Did you give up? Was the cold, the grey sky, the lack of food, the predatory cats that roam the streets too much for you? Was the sheer adversity of living the ultimate enemy?
I hope that you, as you lie in complete stillness, untroubled by the flow and eddy of human life around you, dream of warmer blue skies, where you fly free in the whispers of wind. I hope that you are surrounded by a nest of birds, where you and your lover coo to each other in the shimmering leaves of the trees, where warm bark rises to meet you as you swoop and spiral the breeze.
Just to let you know that you are missed, that your death, whilst meaningless, has not been unremarked or unnoticed. You have, even with your death been loved, been mourned and been seen. You are forever marked on this page as something which whilst apparently a small event, is a symbol of the final passing which comes to us all.
Sleep well, sweet blackbird.
Minerva
Friday, December 07, 2007
Christmas in the air.
Christmas in the air.
Christmas is in the wind. It flows down the glittering streets, curls its way through the windows and gleams through shop windows. Suddenly, pine trees are everywhere, sparkling and dancing with coloured lights, whispering to all that Christmas is coming... Are you ready?
As I drove home tonight, the pale street lights reflected off shopping bags packed with love and thought, ready for sellotape and labels to lie, in anticipation under the trees at home. I can smell the anticipation, the excitement glittering in children's eyes, the tingle in the blood as we slowly count down to Christmas.
I am so lucky to have had a happy childhood: one where Christmas was an event that I looked forward to and relished when it finally dawned; where a filled stocking awaited me at the end of the bed, and in my bleary half awake, half dreaming sleep I would become aware of weights on my feet, of strange wrapped objects silhouetted against the window light. And how that glimpse of wonderment became fully flamed excitement as I woke up and it was, finally, Christmas. The rush upstairs with the stocking dragging behind me on the stairs as I burst into my parents' room telling them that Father Christmas had come, had eaten the mince pie left out for him and the drop of whisky.
And now, I have my own children. And every Christmas Eve, a little tipsy from supper, I creep upstairs and wrap each child's present and fill their own stockings. Just like parents all over the world I wait until they are asleep and creep, breathless, into their rooms terrified they will wake up. And, on that wonderful morning, when I wake up to the sound of excited footsteps on the stairs, they burst into my bedroom, full of the joy of the day.
I can't wait!
Minerva
Christmas is in the wind. It flows down the glittering streets, curls its way through the windows and gleams through shop windows. Suddenly, pine trees are everywhere, sparkling and dancing with coloured lights, whispering to all that Christmas is coming... Are you ready?
As I drove home tonight, the pale street lights reflected off shopping bags packed with love and thought, ready for sellotape and labels to lie, in anticipation under the trees at home. I can smell the anticipation, the excitement glittering in children's eyes, the tingle in the blood as we slowly count down to Christmas.
I am so lucky to have had a happy childhood: one where Christmas was an event that I looked forward to and relished when it finally dawned; where a filled stocking awaited me at the end of the bed, and in my bleary half awake, half dreaming sleep I would become aware of weights on my feet, of strange wrapped objects silhouetted against the window light. And how that glimpse of wonderment became fully flamed excitement as I woke up and it was, finally, Christmas. The rush upstairs with the stocking dragging behind me on the stairs as I burst into my parents' room telling them that Father Christmas had come, had eaten the mince pie left out for him and the drop of whisky.
And now, I have my own children. And every Christmas Eve, a little tipsy from supper, I creep upstairs and wrap each child's present and fill their own stockings. Just like parents all over the world I wait until they are asleep and creep, breathless, into their rooms terrified they will wake up. And, on that wonderful morning, when I wake up to the sound of excited footsteps on the stairs, they burst into my bedroom, full of the joy of the day.
I can't wait!
Minerva
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Jingle Bells.
Jingle Bells
For my sins I have a dog and three cats. Three gorgeous cats each one full of its own personality and foibles. Bossy Bessy loves to sit one one's knee and yowls until you stroke her, Pickle is a scavenger always looking for an extra morsel of food, and Poppy? Well Poppy is quite honestly mad. She was feral when I adopted her and half siamese, she is extremely vocal when stroked and picked up yowling until she is put down again.
Pickle, being male, is quite happy to hang out in front or even on top of the television but the two girl cats, Bessie and Poppy are hunters. Wild, great hunters who have woken me up before with the agonised screeching of a half dead bird brought into my bedroom. A bird in extreme fear that jumps from corner to corner desperately fighting for its life and scattering feathers all over in a last cling to the cliff edge before oblivion.
For that reason, I have bought cat collars. Black cat collars with a wide reflective strip and yes, a large, loud bell on each of them. I love cats, but I do also love birds and whilst not wishing to curb the desire of my cats to wander outside, I do have a problem with them hunting animals that, in the noise and bustle of a large city, are therefore defenceless.
So Christmas has come early to my house as the two jingled cats peal up and down the stairs. When I close my eyes, here downstairs with my daughter sleeping away in her room, I fancy that I can possibly catch the scrape of reindeer hooves on the slates above, the flash of red through the window and the echo of an old man still bringing his magic to me on the wind.
Minerva
For my sins I have a dog and three cats. Three gorgeous cats each one full of its own personality and foibles. Bossy Bessy loves to sit one one's knee and yowls until you stroke her, Pickle is a scavenger always looking for an extra morsel of food, and Poppy? Well Poppy is quite honestly mad. She was feral when I adopted her and half siamese, she is extremely vocal when stroked and picked up yowling until she is put down again.
Pickle, being male, is quite happy to hang out in front or even on top of the television but the two girl cats, Bessie and Poppy are hunters. Wild, great hunters who have woken me up before with the agonised screeching of a half dead bird brought into my bedroom. A bird in extreme fear that jumps from corner to corner desperately fighting for its life and scattering feathers all over in a last cling to the cliff edge before oblivion.
For that reason, I have bought cat collars. Black cat collars with a wide reflective strip and yes, a large, loud bell on each of them. I love cats, but I do also love birds and whilst not wishing to curb the desire of my cats to wander outside, I do have a problem with them hunting animals that, in the noise and bustle of a large city, are therefore defenceless.
So Christmas has come early to my house as the two jingled cats peal up and down the stairs. When I close my eyes, here downstairs with my daughter sleeping away in her room, I fancy that I can possibly catch the scrape of reindeer hooves on the slates above, the flash of red through the window and the echo of an old man still bringing his magic to me on the wind.
Minerva
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Happiness
Happiness.
For some reason life just seems to be going right at the moment. I feel so utterly fulfilled at work with the boys that I am lucky enough to teach. My children at home are delightful and Christmas, with its sparkly fingers and hands of family togetherness beckons from just around the corner.
I think the real reason underlying all is friendship. Last night I went out for dinner with my two greatest friends and it was wonderful. Wonderful because despite being a threesome, we were all loving, interested and supportive, wonderful because great friends who know all about each other, who are honest and committed to the core are so very rare and so special.
We never get to see each other enough. One of my dearest friends has moved away from London so it is a special night indeed when we manage to get together. We talked about children, we talked about work and we talked about cancer.
But it wasn't a depressing chat about cancer. It was free, free of misconceptions and of boundaries. It was a time of complete honesty and of acceptance, of recognising that once I am gone, it will be their job to love and help my children through losing their mother, of reassuring me that the essence of me, my spirit will be by their sides, kept vivid and lively by photographs, memories and anecdotes.
That felt so special. Last night I felt truly loved: loved, understood and recognised. I may do nothing more than live and die, but I really felt that here were two people who completely understood my need to talk unrestrainedly about what I was going through, who put their own emotions and issues aside in order to help me deal with mine because, to be completely honest, that hasn't really happened.
Yes, I have this blog, and yes that means so very much to me. But when you tell people you have something like terminal cancer, the fact is that you are trying to reassure them, you are helping them to deal with the news and that leaves no room for my emotions. ( I am aware that this could sound like poor, little me, but I don't mean it like that at all...) Last night though, I realised that these dear friends of mine had purposely dealt with it, they had 'worked through' their issues and were there for me, really there for me.
I haven't stopped smiling since. V and C, you are so very very special to me.
Minerva
For some reason life just seems to be going right at the moment. I feel so utterly fulfilled at work with the boys that I am lucky enough to teach. My children at home are delightful and Christmas, with its sparkly fingers and hands of family togetherness beckons from just around the corner.
I think the real reason underlying all is friendship. Last night I went out for dinner with my two greatest friends and it was wonderful. Wonderful because despite being a threesome, we were all loving, interested and supportive, wonderful because great friends who know all about each other, who are honest and committed to the core are so very rare and so special.
We never get to see each other enough. One of my dearest friends has moved away from London so it is a special night indeed when we manage to get together. We talked about children, we talked about work and we talked about cancer.
But it wasn't a depressing chat about cancer. It was free, free of misconceptions and of boundaries. It was a time of complete honesty and of acceptance, of recognising that once I am gone, it will be their job to love and help my children through losing their mother, of reassuring me that the essence of me, my spirit will be by their sides, kept vivid and lively by photographs, memories and anecdotes.
That felt so special. Last night I felt truly loved: loved, understood and recognised. I may do nothing more than live and die, but I really felt that here were two people who completely understood my need to talk unrestrainedly about what I was going through, who put their own emotions and issues aside in order to help me deal with mine because, to be completely honest, that hasn't really happened.
Yes, I have this blog, and yes that means so very much to me. But when you tell people you have something like terminal cancer, the fact is that you are trying to reassure them, you are helping them to deal with the news and that leaves no room for my emotions. ( I am aware that this could sound like poor, little me, but I don't mean it like that at all...) Last night though, I realised that these dear friends of mine had purposely dealt with it, they had 'worked through' their issues and were there for me, really there for me.
I haven't stopped smiling since. V and C, you are so very very special to me.
Minerva
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
This Christmas..
This Christmas
This Christmas, I will try to remember it could be my last. That it could be my last without being under the influence of chemotherapy drugs and that it may well be my last with hair.
This Christmas I will savour all the delights of my wonderfully warm and dysfunctional family and I will smile through it. I will thank my family for their loving support over the last couple of years and I will try to spread love and happiness through my brother's house on Christmas day.
This Christmas, I will be grateful for my brother's smile, my mother's enthusiasm, my sister in law's patience, my step mother's jollity and my half brother's cheerfulness.
This Christmas I will savour every hug I get, every smile flashed my way by my children and my relatives.
This Christmas, I will be so happy to have your arms around me, your love like a bubble protecting me from the outside world, and your tenderness lighting my life like a flaming torch.
This Christmas I will open every present as though it was the only present in the world, as though I had always wanted whatever is inside and I will be thankful for the love and the thought which the person gives me with every card, with every label and with every sheet of paper.
This Christmas, I will hug my children constantly and savour their arms, their humour and their charm like a long, slow mouthful of the most exquisite warm chocolate. This Christmas, I will lay down memories for them of their mother, mad, warm and quite possibly eccentric, as someone that they remember with fondness, as a hot water bottle for the cold years ahead without me.
This Christmas will not be about me, or my illness. It will be about being together, about loving one another despite our faults, about tolerance, compassion and above all love. It will be about sharing as a family around the table, about getting ready rather than the end product of that present under the tree.
This Christmas, we will turn off the TV and the video games. We will play old card games and board games, crack open the Monopoly and the Cluedo. Maybe, this Christmas, it is time to indoctrinate my wonderful children into the world of Scrabble.
This Christmas will not be of Christmases past or future: this Christmas will be about here and now. Here whilst time is still beatable, whilst cancer is still forgettable and whilst we are all together as a family. There may be dark Christmases ahead where the candles that are lit are lit for those no longer with them, where the dark days herald darker moods, and where my warm arms are no longer there to touch, to hold and to soften. But that is not for this Christmas.
This Christmas, I will love, and be loved. I will show that even when darkness is round the next bend, around that corner at which we dare not look, that this Christmas, we are still and always shall be a family, a family with love, gratitude and warmth at our core.
Minerva
This Christmas, I will try to remember it could be my last. That it could be my last without being under the influence of chemotherapy drugs and that it may well be my last with hair.
This Christmas I will savour all the delights of my wonderfully warm and dysfunctional family and I will smile through it. I will thank my family for their loving support over the last couple of years and I will try to spread love and happiness through my brother's house on Christmas day.
This Christmas, I will be grateful for my brother's smile, my mother's enthusiasm, my sister in law's patience, my step mother's jollity and my half brother's cheerfulness.
This Christmas I will savour every hug I get, every smile flashed my way by my children and my relatives.
This Christmas, I will be so happy to have your arms around me, your love like a bubble protecting me from the outside world, and your tenderness lighting my life like a flaming torch.
This Christmas I will open every present as though it was the only present in the world, as though I had always wanted whatever is inside and I will be thankful for the love and the thought which the person gives me with every card, with every label and with every sheet of paper.
This Christmas, I will hug my children constantly and savour their arms, their humour and their charm like a long, slow mouthful of the most exquisite warm chocolate. This Christmas, I will lay down memories for them of their mother, mad, warm and quite possibly eccentric, as someone that they remember with fondness, as a hot water bottle for the cold years ahead without me.
This Christmas will not be about me, or my illness. It will be about being together, about loving one another despite our faults, about tolerance, compassion and above all love. It will be about sharing as a family around the table, about getting ready rather than the end product of that present under the tree.
This Christmas, we will turn off the TV and the video games. We will play old card games and board games, crack open the Monopoly and the Cluedo. Maybe, this Christmas, it is time to indoctrinate my wonderful children into the world of Scrabble.
This Christmas will not be of Christmases past or future: this Christmas will be about here and now. Here whilst time is still beatable, whilst cancer is still forgettable and whilst we are all together as a family. There may be dark Christmases ahead where the candles that are lit are lit for those no longer with them, where the dark days herald darker moods, and where my warm arms are no longer there to touch, to hold and to soften. But that is not for this Christmas.
This Christmas, I will love, and be loved. I will show that even when darkness is round the next bend, around that corner at which we dare not look, that this Christmas, we are still and always shall be a family, a family with love, gratitude and warmth at our core.
Minerva
Monday, December 03, 2007
A Target
A Target
Today something memorable happened. I bought shampoo from the local supermarket. Yes, I finally have enough hair to wash - how exciting is that? When I look back to April and May when I was completely bald, I used to look at the shampoo aisle and realise, after pangs of yearning, that I was saving so much money, no cuts, no shampoo and no conditioner.
It seems to be emphasised at the moment as my three daughters all want hair straighteners, or curlers for Christmas. Hair, for a woman, is a big deal and even now, after my shampoo addition to my basket, I still miss my long hair. The hair I had before I got cancer the first time. Long dirty blonde hair that waved down to my waist, hair that I played with all the time, twirling it around my fingers.
Do you have any idea how cold it is without hair? How hats just don't feel the same as they itch, they are uncomfortable and they slip. Nothing beats real hair: even a wig just itches and feels uncomfortable.
I can't even face a haircut at the moment. My lavatory brush hair just sticks up and looks silly. Last year, it had just got to this stage when I had to go through chemo again, and of course, that threat does hang in the air like a bad cloud.
But for the moment, my shampoo stands, a trophy to the human instinct for survival, for keeping on keeping on.
Minerva
Today something memorable happened. I bought shampoo from the local supermarket. Yes, I finally have enough hair to wash - how exciting is that? When I look back to April and May when I was completely bald, I used to look at the shampoo aisle and realise, after pangs of yearning, that I was saving so much money, no cuts, no shampoo and no conditioner.
It seems to be emphasised at the moment as my three daughters all want hair straighteners, or curlers for Christmas. Hair, for a woman, is a big deal and even now, after my shampoo addition to my basket, I still miss my long hair. The hair I had before I got cancer the first time. Long dirty blonde hair that waved down to my waist, hair that I played with all the time, twirling it around my fingers.
Do you have any idea how cold it is without hair? How hats just don't feel the same as they itch, they are uncomfortable and they slip. Nothing beats real hair: even a wig just itches and feels uncomfortable.
I can't even face a haircut at the moment. My lavatory brush hair just sticks up and looks silly. Last year, it had just got to this stage when I had to go through chemo again, and of course, that threat does hang in the air like a bad cloud.
But for the moment, my shampoo stands, a trophy to the human instinct for survival, for keeping on keeping on.
Minerva
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Holidailies
Holidailies
Christmas is heralded by many things: terrible advertisements exhorting you to get your gifts now; awful weather; the smell of pine leaves in the air; wreaths appearing in doorways and exoneration from the usual calorie restrictions we impose on ourselves. On the internet, and particularly in the blogging community, Christmas is announced by Holidailies, an opt in community where each blogger vows to update their blog every day from December 1 to January 1.
It can be demanding and difficult over the holiday time where there is so much going on, but it can also be fun, and I really enjoyed it two years ago when I participated. It is going to be a big holiday this year too. Firstly, I have my children with me this Christmas, secondly, I have secondary cancer, and although I am sure that I will have other Christmases in the future, there is a bitter sweet tinge to the season, and thirdly, I have the next PET scan on the 12th and the results just before Christmas itself, on the 21st of December.
But in my usual ostrich fashion, my head is underground and I refuse to think about that for now. That worries me a little for I am concerned that I may fall apart in the actual appointment depending on the news. I mean, how will I react if I find out it is in one of my organs or in my bones, or if my 'uncertain' present, becomes a certain non-future?
The answer I think is, for the moment, not to ponder upon such issues, but to put them, like Mary's visitation by Gabriel, in my heart and think about them. The answers will come just as tenacity rises in the face of hardship.
And speaking of hardship, I feel so sorry for this poor teacher in Sudan. I was thinking that a teddy bear symbolises companionship, love, tenderness and unconditional acceptance and that if those children equated those values with the name of their God on Earth, then she should receive a medal, not prison.
Enjoy the Christmas build-up,
Minerva
Christmas is heralded by many things: terrible advertisements exhorting you to get your gifts now; awful weather; the smell of pine leaves in the air; wreaths appearing in doorways and exoneration from the usual calorie restrictions we impose on ourselves. On the internet, and particularly in the blogging community, Christmas is announced by Holidailies, an opt in community where each blogger vows to update their blog every day from December 1 to January 1.
It can be demanding and difficult over the holiday time where there is so much going on, but it can also be fun, and I really enjoyed it two years ago when I participated. It is going to be a big holiday this year too. Firstly, I have my children with me this Christmas, secondly, I have secondary cancer, and although I am sure that I will have other Christmases in the future, there is a bitter sweet tinge to the season, and thirdly, I have the next PET scan on the 12th and the results just before Christmas itself, on the 21st of December.
But in my usual ostrich fashion, my head is underground and I refuse to think about that for now. That worries me a little for I am concerned that I may fall apart in the actual appointment depending on the news. I mean, how will I react if I find out it is in one of my organs or in my bones, or if my 'uncertain' present, becomes a certain non-future?
The answer I think is, for the moment, not to ponder upon such issues, but to put them, like Mary's visitation by Gabriel, in my heart and think about them. The answers will come just as tenacity rises in the face of hardship.
And speaking of hardship, I feel so sorry for this poor teacher in Sudan. I was thinking that a teddy bear symbolises companionship, love, tenderness and unconditional acceptance and that if those children equated those values with the name of their God on Earth, then she should receive a medal, not prison.
Enjoy the Christmas build-up,
Minerva
Saturday, December 01, 2007
The Joy of Forgetting.
The Joy of Forgetting.
I am one of those people who always forget where they have put things, especially keys. Every morning, every evening, I mislay them. I can't find them constantly at school forever looking 'in the last place' I had them for those miscreants. If you met me, you would see me ever searching pockets, bags and shelves for the elusive place where I put them last.
I have always cursed this terribly impractical memory of mine. Telephone numbers aren't a problem, but keys, glasses, books and wallet somehow sneak under the radar. At the moment though, I have to say that forgetting is a blessing, for I seem to be forgetting that I have cancer.
So very very strange. The first time diagnosed when I lived with my lump for a full six months before surgery it was the first thought in my head in the morning, and the last when I drifted away at night. It was constantly with me, holding my hand, grasping my steps, holding me back. Last year, when it came back, it was the same. It was something that I was trying to escape; that I saw in black and white. I either had it in me or it was gone, fleeing before the chemo or the surgeon's knife.
Today though, or rather at this time, for I mean it much more broadly than just this little space of 24 hours it really has just slipped my mind. I am busy making plans for tomorrow, next week, next month and even next year. I have a career plan that exceeds the next few months and plans for next Summer with my children and family.
A blessing indeed for it allows me to continue to live my life. I am relieved that people know for it allows me to continue without having to explain, but it does also give me a freedom to live as normal. How little we realise that to live normally is really one of the greatest privileges we have. We do see a little of it when we have flu, (even man flu!) or a hurt leg or arm, but it is even more the case when struck by a chronic disease or illness. Normalcy is not something to be despised but something which is worth more than a palace of gold, or a roomful of jewels.
Minerva
I am one of those people who always forget where they have put things, especially keys. Every morning, every evening, I mislay them. I can't find them constantly at school forever looking 'in the last place' I had them for those miscreants. If you met me, you would see me ever searching pockets, bags and shelves for the elusive place where I put them last.
I have always cursed this terribly impractical memory of mine. Telephone numbers aren't a problem, but keys, glasses, books and wallet somehow sneak under the radar. At the moment though, I have to say that forgetting is a blessing, for I seem to be forgetting that I have cancer.
So very very strange. The first time diagnosed when I lived with my lump for a full six months before surgery it was the first thought in my head in the morning, and the last when I drifted away at night. It was constantly with me, holding my hand, grasping my steps, holding me back. Last year, when it came back, it was the same. It was something that I was trying to escape; that I saw in black and white. I either had it in me or it was gone, fleeing before the chemo or the surgeon's knife.
Today though, or rather at this time, for I mean it much more broadly than just this little space of 24 hours it really has just slipped my mind. I am busy making plans for tomorrow, next week, next month and even next year. I have a career plan that exceeds the next few months and plans for next Summer with my children and family.
A blessing indeed for it allows me to continue to live my life. I am relieved that people know for it allows me to continue without having to explain, but it does also give me a freedom to live as normal. How little we realise that to live normally is really one of the greatest privileges we have. We do see a little of it when we have flu, (even man flu!) or a hurt leg or arm, but it is even more the case when struck by a chronic disease or illness. Normalcy is not something to be despised but something which is worth more than a palace of gold, or a roomful of jewels.
Minerva
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)