Plot Change

As I wait for the bells to sound out 2017 I’m saying good-riddance to that bummer of a year. Discounting Trump, Kim Jong-Un, and May-bot’s general election, it was only the second half that really stank. 2017 began on a personal high - I hit the big 5.0 in Venice with the three dustbin lids. The beautiful city was picture perfect with a light dusting of snow. And though the endless steps and bridges covered in icy-compacted snow were deathly dangerous, they looked oh so pretty. There was also that sibling trip to sunny Mallorca, a lush school gang celebration in Brighton and a fantastic family reunion in Ireland.

Fast forward: mid-year, mid-house move, and a mid-life health MOT. After a battery of tests involving very little dignity, large needles, biopsies, scans and hanging about in breezy NHS waiting rooms in very thin gowns, I found myself in the middle of a massive life plot change.  Unexpectedly and reluctantly I joined the not-so-exclusive club of the estimated 2.5 million people living with cancer in the UK and I am now one of the ‘one in eight women diagnosed with breast cancer’. My cancer is common in the over 60s and those that don’t breast feed. I fit neither group, but found comfort in other statistics like the excellent survival rates, and the increasing proportion of people living longer. My outlook is pretty great: this was caught early, and the treatment plan has proven itself with fantastic, and constantly improving, results.  

Despite the limitations of working in systems designed in the 1940s the NHS staff have been unfailingly brilliant. But, there’s no denying the treatment, so far, has been grim. My oncologist described chemotherapy as akin to flooding your body with poison and predictably, I’ve lost most of my hair.  I was surprised at how little that bothered me, though I’m presently enjoying a moratorium on selfies. The first batch of hair to go was a very small clump and was in the main distressing because I was in the loo at work and about to go into a meeting. Over the following days I learnt losing shoulder-length hair is very very annoying.  And, adding plunging the shower to the daily chore list was a real bore. 

My eldest tried, badly, to cut my hair. We ended up clippering it to an inch all over, which thankfully led to much less plunging of the shower, and a general reduction in the amount of hair scattered about the house. My boy decided to brave the shave in solidarity. His short clippered head and beard made his face look rounder and he looked tougher than his usual cheeky blinder long top look. Sadly, I didn’t look tough so much as a twin to my follicle-challenged brothers – not an attractive look for a woman of any age.  Earrings, a bright lipstick and an assortment of hats have sort of provided a solution to looking less like my brothers. 

In true teen-girl style, my little-un said, categorically, she would not join the shaving party:  it had taken a long time to grow her hair long; she wasn’t feeling that look, and couldn’t see how it would help me in anyway for us all to look like weirdos. In these strange and uncertain times, it is gratifying to note: the outlook of teenagers remains unchanged. 

Family life

Whether successful or not there are two basic ingredients for a blog: energy and wherewithal. For me, this week both energy and wherewithal are like my post-giving-up-fags knicker elastic – stretched beyond the boundaries of safe or natural. We’re talking danger levels. The worry of recent mornings is fear of a catapult in the tummy just by un-careful dressing. Or worse, given my tiredness stupor, a fear of whether I’d notice. Or care.

What’s it all about anyways? Whilst He-who-must-be-adored suns himself/works abroad I take on the role of blue-arsed fly. For the treat of a weekend away with He I spend my day off running round to organise dustbin lids, luggage, activities, social lives, homework and animals. The 24 degree weather disappears as soon as I land. As I hit the airport again on Sunday the Spanish sun re-appears. It can't just be paranoia. I am being followed by a black cloud.

My flying visit to Madrid coincided with the international stamp collectors fair. See above re black cloud. Friday night we continued my walking obsession and left his ‘lads pad’ to head to town. In this context walk is a sorry excuse for a-kinda-bar-crawl. We start the warm balmy evening outside in a square full of families and playing children. As we’d left our dustbin lids at home and the sun started to set and the temperature truly plummeted (thank goodness I’d packed a wrap) we moved on. Our next pit stop was in the arty/young/fashionable district. Clearly outta place there we next found ourselves in the gay zone. Without wishing to peddle stereotypes: as He is neither bald, skinny nor fashionable, and I, even on my worse days, can't be mistaken for a bloke, we didn’t hang around there too long. None of this stopped us enjoying a drink and tapas and that age-old sport of people watching at any place. Odd that at no point during the entire evening of many and varied bars did we find ourselves amidst middle-age, dull, grumpy, old gits. Or perhaps we did. And perhaps in our natural habitat, some glasses and dishes later, we simply didn't notice.

He-who-must-be-adored continues to sun himself over there whilst I get on with the business of trying to organise our family and a working life. Of sorts. Any Monday Morning after a weekend away, with no time devoted to uniforms, homework or lunchboxes is clearly not going to be a huge pleasure. Moving swiftly on…

Last night was worse. For every five minutes spent stripping, sponging and drugging the little-un I got twenty minutes peace and slumber from her fever. Poor thang. Pity all my maternal kindness was used up by 6am. Lucky then, at that point, she finally hit a deep drug-induced sleep. I had a small window to sort the broken washing machine (yes the new super dooper hugely expensive whiz banger of a thang), create a 60s costume for gorgeous boy, and send the Teenager off relaxed and happy to her internal exams (cash and a hug were all I could muster, and I now realise all she ever really wants). My 20 minutes on the sewing machine were rejected by the boy. He settled for the 2009 look re-styled into 1961 with the addition of his sister’s cardy. Luckily she had already left for her institution.

The little-un re-awoke as I waved gorgeous boy off. She was begging me to come upstairs for a cuddle. I followed her voice. I collapsed back into bed. And all murderous feelings evaporated.

Ah family life.