This time, three years ago, I was alone in a hospital room, watching the night slip away and the transformational, slow-creeping dawn of a new day. 
I was not scared that day. I lived in the moment knowing this would pass. I understood I needed to let go; to trust in the skills of others; to rely on the love that surrounded me; to be free of any pre-conceived thinking. It was a unique time, a special and privileged space to walk into and hold. Eyes wide open, this day was the beginning of the most profound, personal change and learning programme which I’m lucky enough to continue.
On this anniversary, I’m sharing some of these learnings. Some of these are deep and meaningful. Others are not.
1. We are the product of our thoughts. What we think will be. But as our thoughts constantly change, we have the opportunity to change what will be.
Nothing is set in stone. Changing our thinking, changes our outcomes.
2.Our feelings are attached to our thoughts and our thoughts are attached to our feelings.
If I think my recovery will be painful then guess what? My recovery is going to be painful. However, if I think my recovery will be bearable, then I stand a better chance of dealing with all the little niggles and set-backs that occur (like them taking my morphine button away a day early). Conversely this can work the other way too. For example, ripping out my feeding tube “accidentally” in the shower (I hated that feeding tube and they kept saying, “One more day”). It hurt beyond blazes, I still remember the searing agony. But I told myself before I did it, it was going to be painless. I was wrong.
3.People love to help. Help them by asking for specific help.
For example, “I can’t drive for a few weeks and Craig needs to go away for work, can you come and be my driver on these dates”? My lovely friend Karen, did not hesitate, despite living a busy life 200 miles away. It took mouth cancer surgery to not comment on her driving my car; if I’d had a tongue to bite, it would have been an even bigger mess than my new, surgically created, tongue.
4.After big, life-changing, surgery, emotions are heightened.
This is normal and it continues for many weeks; maybe months and sometimes years. The ability to ‘feel more’ intensifies; the air you breathe is sweeter, more rarefied, more precious. I cry far more easily now; my friends know I love and cherish them because I tell them; I won’t waste time doing meaningless, unproductive work for organisations with no purpose and no soul; I choose carefully the people I want to spend time with. The consequence of this hubris is that I am blessed with some incredibly strong friendships while being much less financially robust. However, I now live with ethics, principles and morals and luckily a husband who still works.
5.Your scars will not be as bad as you think they will be.
Three years on, mine are visible but are now an essential part of who I am and frankly I don’t give an XXX what others may think. Three years ago, I never would have believed that I would be so comfortable in my own skin. My wise girlfriend Haydee, shared ” scars are tattoos with better stories”. These days I am an avid storyteller.
6.It’s tougher on your support team than it is on you.
You have to get on with the business of living, surviving or dying. You’re the lucky one, it’s happening to you and you alone choose how you deal with your diagnosis. The loved ones around you are plunged into seas of uncertainty, fear, stress and worry. They can only look on knowing that community and society judges their reactions and behaviours to your diagnosis. Be kind to them. Worst case scenario, they could choose not to see you. In my experience, they only get away with this, if they live far away and their local community has no idea that they have not seen you since prior to your diagnosis. The ones who live close by, are the ones who will be judged. Be nice.
7.It’s BS when they say children are resilient.
Roscoe has had his moments of resilience just as he’s had his moments of sheer fright and panic. They are humans, they process emotions slightly differently to adults but they still feel. 
And never lie to a child about your diagnosis. I thought I was protecting him when I lied that people get better from this cancer and it was nothing to worry about. 15 months later I had to tell him that Charlie had died, leaving his mate, Tyler, without a Mummy. I will always remember his reaction and his face on hearing this news. Now he’s a teenager, I know I disappoint him on a more regular basis but unlike other parents, I know when disappointing my child began.
8. It takes two years minimum for you to come back into yourself.
I went back to work, way, way, too early with a brain like a jellied eel and a memory bank of mush. I turned up to a meeting with my new Exec Director and found myself stuck in one of Dr Who’s time loops, repeating what I’d just said over and over again. I kept waiting for my synapses to fire up but they were away on extended holiday. This was neither good for my confidence, nor my soul. Give yourself time to heal; mentally, physically and emotionally. Otherwise you could end up back in another operating theatre 6 months later, like I did.
9.You will be skinny but it doesn’t last.
I walked out of hospital, the same weight I was in my twenties. Apart from the arm cast, the scars and the hollowed cheeks, I thought I looked great – I could fit into all those skirts and trousers I had held onto in the vain hope I’d be a size 6/8 again. But the joy of being able to eat roars loud and unfortunately I’m now heavier than I was prior to my diagnosis. Determined to not be ‘fat with scars’, I’m pushing myself through a fitness regime with menopausal zeal. I look back on those early days of recovery with a fondness beyond the obvious gratitude that I’m robust and well enough to attend my fitness classes today.
10.The desire to be a cancer missionary, raise money and awareness will burn bright.
I’ve given speeches, talks, opening addresses at conferences, appeared on TV and radio, been interviewed and started this blog. I wanted people to be aware, to know it could happen to them, even if, like me, they never lived with any of the so-called causal factors. “It could be you” became a mantra. I don’t know if any of this has made a difference to others but it’s made a massive difference to me.
To be able to make people listen, to have them laugh and cry and feel and most importantly check their mouths, is an immense privilege. I have honed my speaking ability, my presentation skills, my writing platform and my ability to laugh at myself.
11.Why stop at 10?
That would be predictable and you know in your very soul that life can change on a dime. So embrace the learning, the ongoing curiosity about what’s happening to your heart, mind and body; stand up on the surfboard of change and love your life.
12.Attend all of your check up appointments. Don’t miss one.
Listen if I can get on a plane, fly 8 hours and drive 100 miles for a 10 minute check up appointment every 2 months, then you can make sure you show up too. Turning up to my first checkup without Craig was tough; we had seen Mr Bater together for every appointment; we were the practised double act, always trying to raise a smile or a reaction from this taciturn cancer consultant. 
On my own was a much scarier, lonelier proposition, particularly the time when I had developed potentially serious symptoms many hundreds of miles away. The sense of distance and vulnerability created by leaving my support network in the UK has diminished over time, after all, I know what it takes to get back to Mr B if I need to.
13.Frame yourself as a cancer adventurer.
It takes five years to gain an ‘all clear’ diagnosis, in the meantime I’m not fighting cancer or surviving cancer, I’m on a life adventure with regular cancer-free checkups. And long may this continue. When I outsourced my cancer removal to Mr B and his medical colleagues, I kept my cancer recovery responsibilities. I’m not a victim of cancer, I’m not battling it. I’m getting on with stomping, stumbling and exhibition-dancing my way through life.
Our time here is fleeting; I’m a tiny atom of matter in multiple universes of atoms and matter. I’m connected and separate and time-bound and slowly disintegrating and dying (hopefully of old age).
After all, we’re all destined to not make it one day.
So let’s make this day, and each day, count.
At 5 yrs old, I sit on the school bus trying to work out how to be first off when the bus grinds to its stop in our village. I can then sprint home before James, that tubby, ginger-headed, bigger boy catches me and makes good on his taunts to “bash my face in”. It takes about four months for the slow anger inside to build to a crescendo and one memorable moment when I get off the bus and turn to face him, shrugging my satchel off my shoulders and standing square up to him. Children of all ages crowd around us chanting “Fight! Fight”! James lifts his fists, does a wee dance on his toes and bobs me squarely on the nose, upon which blood spurts out and I start to cry. Everyone runs off and I wander home looking for comfort and care. But I make friends because of my courage and James leaves me alone after this.
In High school, I discover how evil and vindictive the female form can be; enduring 4 years of prolonged bullying, name calling and nastiness. I don’t respond, I hang out with the non-cool girls who take comfort in the fact that they’re not the ones being picked on. Just as before, there is no sympathy at home, instead a mistaken belief that bullying toughens you up. Ironically not having familial support, care or back up has a greater impact on my fortitude than the bullying does.
But in the intervening 4 hours and 37 minutes, the people watching and banter is priceless.
Sadly, my conclusion is that there is little joy in the hearts of the elders. Conversations are formed of complaints and injustices, of things going wrong, not done right, criticisms, finger pointing, blame. Not one person offers an opinion or thought focused on solving issues or making things better, not one seems grateful to be there, to be able to stand in line. This negativity is like a poison filled boil; it’s toxic in its ability to swallow folks into the swamp of disapproval and distrust. Since when does growing older mean growing grumpy?
Here in Barbados many still cling to their history of slavery and servitude as a cloak of context and rationale for all slights and ills. It’s been explained to me that this history justifies why women view other women not as sisters but as competition; and culturally why men don’t feel they have the same responsibilities for contributing to family life. I don’t know if any of this is true but what is interesting is that when I ask about culture and patterns of behaviour – trying to understand why things work the way they do – quite often the response is to go back 200 years. I even had one lady tell me she feels the pain of her slave ancestors every day. If folks always live in the past, how can they bear responsibility for the here and now, for what’s going to go on in the future?
I have a little device which attaches to a drink bottle and it flashes annoyingly when the drink bottle has not been tipped up. It didn’t last as the rubber quickly eroded in this humidity and now it’s forlornly flashing on its ownsome in my bedside drawer.
As time goes on, I start to earn his trust and I’m invited to his Rawakitura farm in the Kiruhura District of Uganda- a 5 hour drive from Kampala, 3 hours of which are on bumpy, dusty, murrain track. Once there and the charade of checking for bombs and explosives has been conducted, we sit on white plastic garden chairs under a large open 2 sided marquee and wait to be summoned to the front to talk to the President. I’ve already been warned to bring a toothbrush and change of clothes and to be prepared to sleep “up-country” as there are many more distractions for him at the Farm. But on my visits there I was always able to get back to Kampala, sometimes with my life in my steering wheeled hands, particularly as driving in the dark outside of the city is not advised. On my visits I see no conveniences but as I’m now well practiced in not drinking any fluids there is no need for me to enquire where they might be.
Eventually, I’m bestowed the honor of going to the boma. This is where the prized Ankole cattle are kept, where the President is most relaxed, where real business gets done. On the day in question there are a small handful of us and I’m the only woman in the group. We sit on the ubiquitous white plastic garden chairs close to two 10 ft circular brick watering holes. Museveni is in his herd boy dress and his avuncular mood is infectious. Drinks are passed around, I take a bottled water but do not open it. He gestures and the ballet begins. From the left side come approximately 20 of the most beautiful bovine beasts I have ever seen, they amble to the watering hole, guided by their herdsman; with their gleaming skin and muscled flanks, they revel in their power and grace. It seems that they know they are pristine, much-loved Ankole cattle owned by the most powerful figure in the land. Museveni asks questions about each animal, the herdboy answers, then the next 20 of the herd are ushered in from the right hand side and so it’s goes on, left to right back to left, interminably. 
Part way through a frisky bull decides to mate with a willing cow, directly in my line of vision. The President delights in this show of virility and there is much innuendo and laughter, a lot of which seems to be pointed in my direction. It feels like it’s some sort of test and I try to not rise to the bait however I’m marginally uncomfortable given my singular female status. By now the President is seated to my left and shortly after the bull has dismounted and been led away, he stands up and walks about 10 paces away. With his back to me he casually pees into the bush while still talking to the group. What to do? Where is the protocol on where to put ones gaze as the Head of State unzips his breeks and relieves himself in your line of sight? I stare straight ahead and try to appear nonchalant.
Suitably chastened I drink the bottled water and later I’m pressed into having a two cups of tea. Like all leaders he misses very little and I know to refuse would offend his hospitality.
I’ve been stuck in my bubble, wallowing in its silence and peace. A less stressful, slower life beat. An opportunity to pause, to breathe, to observe. I focus on family, I make good on my promises. I am grateful and fortunate yet at the same time still unfulfilled.
He knows these words are not to be used in everyday conversation but it seems to be a right of passage of teenagedom to ‘talk dirty’ in front of your friends. I stand on the cliff top this evening watching him learn to surf with a bunch of school friends and the winds carry a clear bell tone of colour which causes an inward wince. Occasionally, he will use a colloquialism for a body part or sexual act and always I try to ignore it, so the word loses its power.
All good communicators know it’s harder to write headlines for the Redtops than the Broadsheets, to appeal to the working man as well as his middle manager. But it’s a lazy communicator who chooses to appeal just to the masses, as the herd mentality will never create a long-term sustainable solution; they become too preoccupied with belonging. Great ideas and solutions come from thinking differently and speaking out; even if people disagree with a decision or view, if it’s explained well and understood, there is a better chance of bringing people together and of their working for the greater good. Understanding your audience and communicating thoughts and ideas to those who may not be of your political persuasion, education or social class is a real skill. Done well, it can shift thinking and perception.
Always I am reminded that these are the experiences which will make my boy an empathetic, loving man. I know that these challenging times are what shapes him – not the surf lessons , the football or golf, the paddle boarding or sunset dog walking. It’s the tough stuff; finding your place and way at the new school; being open with your emotions and asking for help; dealing with name calling from insecure older boys; knowing who to trust and who to avoid; managing tricky situations. And through all of this, I see glimpses of the man he’s going to become and I am heartened. This boy-child is already dealing with transitions that many adults would struggle with and he’s doing so with openness and grace, with humility and patience, through tears and laughter. I know, even if he doesn’t yet, that he will be a well-balanced, fabulous human being. That each tricky situation builds his character and generates more inner resilience. These life skills cannot be taught in a classroom, they must be lived.
As mentors, parents, life coaches or guides, we best serve by acknowledging difficult experiences and talking about what can be learned for next time; by listening – not judging, shouting nor fixing. By standing by with the belay, ready to break the fall, not stop it from happening.
A deception sustained for short bursts of time – enough time for visitors to get off and back on the plane. Real Barbados is much more complex and far more interesting. An island currently experiencing a seismic shift in its culture and attitudes, where hard decisions need to be made to create sustainable changes so as to reinvigorate a flagging economy and shift antiquated working practices.
We drank rum punch on the Jolly Roger even though I was teetotal and could barely stand at the end of the day. It was here I had my first encounter with flying cockroaches who seemed to wait until I was in the shower before they would helicopter in and attempt to land in my hair ( I still go weak kneed when I see one). And it was here I was first bitten by mosquitos and directly applied the juice from the aloe plant to the bite. Flying to Barbados was the first time I had been on a plane, the first time I had been out of the UK.
It was at the beach by the Hilton Barbados that he first stuck his toes into soft warm sand and paddled waist deep in the warm salty sea water. It was Barbados that helped the sea seduce my child, where he first awkwardly jiggled his hips to soca music and where he first felt sun so hot that his skin now goes berry brown instead of Scottish raspberry red.
A title is everything and nothing. What counts and demonstrates the mark of the wo/man are their behaviours and actions. Words come easy but it’s their meaning and associated results which make the difference.