Snippets

Sunday Shenanigans

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Every Sunday morning, Craig gets up early, walks the dog and is up at Apes Hill Golf course by 7am.  I lie in bed listening to him move around the house, pretending to sleep so I don’t have to talk with him and just enjoy the anticipation of the peace that is about to descend as he closes the back door.  I love that he has the opportunity to enjoy his passion in a beautiful setting and I love my morning of silence and peace and quiet; for the boy would rather be talking to his mates on his X box,  than thinking he might want a conversation or to spend any time with his Mother.

Sundays in our home are so much more relaxed than frenetic Saturdays which involve getting the boy to his football games on time, trying to contain my inner coach as we sit on the sidelines watching him play, ferrying him and his girlfriend backwards and forwards, an evening event or activity and the tussle of bedtime which, for a nocturnal 14 year old,  is never the time he is happy to disappear.

I spend my Sunday mornings normally mooching around the fresh produce at Holders Hill farmers market, cleaning up the kitchen from the night before and sometimes wallowing in a fragrant bath with a good book.  This time is now sacrosanct in my week, it allows me  to put the past week behind me and plan, and sometimes write to-do lists, for the week ahead.

Normally Craig returns around 1pm, we have a spot of lunch and head over to the East Coast for a walk with the dog before starting the weekly battle of unfinished homework for the week ahead.

None of this happened today.

The heavens opened which means the market is a wash out;  Roscoe is on a hollow leg day which involves a mountain  of cooking and cleaning up as he eats one meal and then demands another within 30 minutes.  The dog wants to constantly play to get rid of all of his excess energy from spending a week mainly indoors and I respond to a couple of emails which demand immediate attention and which spike up my stress levels – more of this  in another blog.

2pm comes with no sign of Craig.  I send him a humourous prod on  Whats app reminding him we are here.  This gets ignored so an hour later I call and the phone rings and rings and rings.  No answer. My blood is now on a rolling boil.  We have reached the point where I am less tolerant of an errant husband who does not have the decency to respond to let me know he’s okay.

When he appears he is significantly worse for wear.  In fact I have not seen him quite so inebriated for a very long time.  Unlike many of the men I grew up with in the North of Scotland, Craig is a happy drunk; he likes singing, is tactile, loquacious, loud and generally full of bonhomie.  I am in no mood for such good cheer and after giving him a proper telling off, I head out in the car for an hour to calm down.  During this time he manages to burn the dinner which I’ve asked him to watch then turn off and he pesters Roscoe for conversation which is a real eye opener for them both.

I return to his obvious delight that I’m home and then he repeats all that he’s told me an hour earlier.  I try to salvage dinner and start to soak the burnt pots in the sink.  He’s not interested in eating the homemade chicken soup I give him and is obviously planning on today’s calorific intake coming from his two Wheetabix this morning and whatever liquid he’s poured down his throat on the 19th hole.

He insists on coming with me for the evening dog walk. He is obviously in the ‘drunken denial’ stage.  I purposely walk in front with Monty so I’m unable to comment on his inability to stay on the path,  although some of the swaying about can be attributed to the fact that he’s taken out his contact lenses and can barely see.  It takes him about 15 minutes to work this out and it does mean that he’s forlornly and repeatedly calling my name when we end up way in front of him, given he’s stopped for some ‘relief’.  He really is quite blind without his glasses or lenses.   I can only roll my eyes when on our way home he greets a neighbour with good cheer, hanging onto her garden gate for balance as he regales her with our Monty escapades from the last week.

We arrive home and I lock him in the den room downstairs as Roscoe’s French tutor is leaving.  I need her to return next week.

By now its dawning on him that he’s really worse for wear and we’re moving into the ‘apology’ stage.  This is then followed by the ‘passing out’ stage and then the’ waking starting to feel awful’ stage.  As I write, he’s prone on the sofa upstairs making soft groaning followed by loud snoring noises.

After my initial outburst I’ve remained calm and patient.  He’s obviously suffering from his inability to know when he’s had an elegant sufficiency.  He doesn’t need reminding.

After all tomorrow is Monday.  The start of the working week.  When at 0800 he’s opening a conference with a speech that remains partially written.

There is indeed a penalty for Sunday shenanigans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snippets

Loving the bones of him

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My home is full of males.

They are an odd species, highly competitive, exercise/sport mad, messy, smelly, charming, loving and demanding of my time.

 

From the dog to the boy to the husband they all love strokes; back strokes, head strokes, arm strokes. If they see me sitting still the expectation is it’s their turn for strokes. I never make it through a family movie night with my hands quiet and to myself. Each gets jealous when they see the other enjoying the strokes they believe are theirs by right. Craig frequently tells Roscoe to find his own woman. Roscoe will physically sit on me to prevent me stroking his Dad, (cue “cross Dad”) and the dog, who wins out the most, uses his muzzle to move my hand, or if he sees me stroking Roscoe, uses his 86lbs to jump up on the boy, breaking the connection. I’m only now  realising the dog and the boy use the same physical action to get me to focus on them instead.

Most of the time I don’t mind the stroke demands. I find it amusing that the jealous, competitive streak in each of them manifests itself when they see others are getting strokes.

Naturally I would love to receive similar. Craig delivers them grudgingly if we are wearing clothes and Roscoe looks at me as if I’ve grown another head when I ask for a foot or head rub. The dog, well he focuses on looking helplessly beautiful with his deep, chocolate, puppy eyes.

It’s obvious that if I want strokes, I need to pay a professional. But trying to explain I don’t want a massage, I just want strokes makes me seem like a needy child.

Which is, of course, what I’m living with at home.

Snippets

When is a dog not a dog

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Montgomery Fulton aka Monty, Monty dog, beautiful boy, @Montydog101 on Instagram, is our much adored, pure-bred, Golden Retriever.

Most of the day he lives in air-conditioned comfort while recounting his morning walks or dreaming of yet to have adventures during his evening rambles.

He is a sweet-natured, gentle but huge boy dog. He’s a rubbish retriever and looks at balls and sticks with barely disguised disdain when they are thrown over his head. He also hates water and loathes the sea and the shower in equal measure. Washing this dog is a battle of strength, will and persistence. It’s interesting that the other males in the house melt away when this is a task which needs to be completed. I emerge from the dog shower, wetter than the darned dog every time.

I’m really not sure how it happened but in every other respect, bar his water repulsion, we seem to have acquired the canine version of the Roscoe boy.

Neither contribute much to the running of the household but both demand huge amounts of time and attention. They both need regular grooming and are smelly and stinky in equal measure. They sulk and pout and manage to look cute, tragic and demonic all at the same time. They are unbelievably fussy eaters ( this morning the dog turned his nose up at sweet potato and fish and only ate half of his scrambled egg, bacon and kibble alternative) Although I’ve tried starving Monty into submission he’s more stubborn than me. Talking of which they are both incredibly b-minded. I often battle with 86lbs of dog determined to sniff and pee a particular tree or bush while I’m set on walking in a straight line. With the result, my arm muscles are toning up nicely. Meanwhile, the human version seems equally incapable of walking straight and in addition finds it necessary to lean on me when I drag him out as my dog walking companion. They both run off chasing skirt and would rather ‘hang’ with friends than have anything to do with me; until they want something.

But this week, there has been a shift. After parent/teacher/ child morning, Roscoe and I took Monty to be neutered. At some expense I purchase a ‘comfy cone of shame’ for this occasion as somehow (?) I know the dog is going to be fixated on his bits. Or what is left of his bits. Apart from being groggy from the anesthetic, he is deeply unhappy at the infamy of having this soft, plastic, Velcro contraption strapped around his neck. He follows me around bumping into various walls and furniture using his now tunnel vision and sense of smell to find me. Eventually I give  in and take it off, keeping him close to make sure his nose is not stuck where it isn’t supposed to be. Later, so I can get to bed, I try to re-fix it around his neck. He is so disgusted he turns and looks at the wall while sweating profusely. The perceived psychological battle is won, the cone comes off and I stay up until the wee small hours, checking on him. The following day he looks at me through huge sorrowful eyes. He’s in a lot of pain and can barely move. Once more, I sit  up during the night.

I’m in a Zombie-like catatonic state by Wednesday so woefully under-prepared by Craig announcing he is off to Antigua. In all my written and electronic diaries, this is a day early and it really messes up my schedule. I am too tired to shout. I am too tired to cry. I focus on moving my engagements to accommodate the boy and his canine companion. I try to stay out of any arguments about school work and delivery. There’s no energy left for a war.

Thursday comes and the dog is now looking a bit more sparky. Thank goodness one of us is, I feel as if I’ve been hit by a 10tonne truck. By now I’m force feeding the canine paracetamol every 4 to 6 hours and this is making a huge difference to his demeanor and pain levels. It’s just paying havoc with my sleep pattern.

Friday arrives and finally the dog seems a bit more like himself apart from he needs to sit down on cool tile most of the time as his bits are obviously still paining him. After drugging him once more I drag myself off to boxing class and have to really concentrate that I dive and drive in the right combination. For the third consecutive evening, I drive into downtown Bridgetown as I’ve committed to attend the Kickstart football AGM. I sit there looking all studious, making notes and looking interested. Truth is I’m shattered and writing is the only thing keeping me awake.

Today I sleep in and wake to the dog being sick on one of the only 2 carpets we have downstairs. Why? There is veritably copious amounts of pale tile floor, why is the carpet the place to be sick? Naturally there are no other males around. As I scrub and dab and scrub once more it occurs to me Roscoe would do similar for attention.

After barking aggressively at some workmen next door, Monty appears at the breakfast table obviously and visibly “excited”. I’m dumbfounded, I haven’t endured nearly a week of virtually no sleep, devising ever-increasing creative ways to force feed him paracetamol and putting my life on hold, for this dog to still look like he could have a good time.

It’s fair to say that after vociferously quizzing Craig on how this can still be possible, and yelling at Roscoe to get downstairs to get ready for football, the hormonal levels in the Fulton household remain high…

Snippets

Go Your Own Way

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This week Roscoe and I went to school together to attend parent/teacher/child day. Putting a positive spin on it, this is where you have pre-booked slots to see each teacher with your child to discuss perspectives and opportunities.

Feedback on Roscoe, as always, is consistent. “Laid back”, “Popular”, “Funny”, Creative”, Outgoing”, “Could achieve so much more”, “More than capable”, “Does the minimum to stay average when he could be great”, ” Needs to read more”.  Actually he needs to read full stop – I write these blogs knowing he’s highly unlikely to ever read a word on the page.

One of the things that makes Codrington  school stand out is it’s focus on giving back, taking part in the wider community. Each student in Roscoe’s year is tasked with a year long project of how they are improving the community in Barbados or the wider Caribbean region. They have to write up each month how they are progressing, what they are doing and where they need support and at the end of the year they stand in front of the entire school and give a 10 minute presentation on the difference they have made.

Applying his usual laconic, big-picture, visionary style, Roscoe wants to send sports equipment to the hurricane ravaged island of Dominica. Due to the potential complexity and time required to achieve this project, the school dissuades him of continuing with this. He then decides he is going to help the homeless of Barbados by giving them “stuff”. When its pointed out that homelessness is not a particularly big issue here as both the church and familial ties are so strong, and that finding homeless people and working out what stuff they need is a more tricky proposition that he envisages, he accuses me of being negative and non-supportive.

So we sit with the community project tutor to discuss how he can be more practically focused so he achieves a tangible outcome and a sense of satisfaction. We are now a month behind what with all the chopping and changing and she applies some pressure to have us commit that his proposal presentation will be completed 2 days hence.

Stuck in a car with me on our 45 minute journey home, there is no escape as I attempt to discuss what his project could be. He is angry, defensive and cornered and I endure a full- force hormonal blast of teenage angst. Later, once he’s fed and had some time on his beloved electronics, we have another go at a conversation.

Ultimately we agree that he’s going to go to the local orphanage, find out what they need and he can then go and fund-raise to help them achieve some of their wish list. Over the course of the next two days we run through it but he refuses to write anything down. Because I feel my neck is as much on the line as his, I’m not prepared to let it go and right up to I drop him at the school bus at 7am on Wednesday morning I am trying to get him to describe the first steps of the project and what he’s going to say to Miss Nicola.

That evening as I drive him to football practice, I ask how his conversation has gone regarding his community project. “Fine” he mutters. I ask when he wants to go to the orphanage. He replies with a tone of defiant satisfaction, “I’m not going, I’m teaching diabetic children about the importance of exercise”.  I take a breath, remain calm and ask “where are you going to find these diabetic children”? His response? “It’s no problem I’m going to make a YouTube video” I keep my mouth shut.

Much as though we are raising him to be his own person, sometimes I wish he would just conform.

And do as I tell him…

Snippets

Starts. And Stops.

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I have a confession.  Something that many of my old teams and bosses would agree on; I’m not a great ‘completer finisher’.  I’m the one with the best intentions;  the memory reminders of birthdays and the corresponding cards that don’t get sent; the business ideas which are researched, modified, written and then never put to fruition; the one who  starts a project, gets bored and is distracted by the next shiny thing.  I’m the person who is awarded certificates but rarely diplomas because there is always  something else new to study, who half-reads books and then their final pages because there is always a new book waiting to be cannibalised.

There are lots of us out there.  Most of us know we have this problem so we put strategies in place to try to stay on track to see our initially exciting  task through to the end.  By then we are probably crying with boredom tears and dragging our feet out of bed in the morning.  It  gets done but it can be a bit slapdash and made merry towards its conclusion (unless you have OCD,  but that’s another story).  Our reward for sticking with it is our system being flooded by intense feelings of satisfaction and relief.

Folks like me are  best suited to working in change as the change within the change is what keeps us motivated.

I know all this so when I gamely announce I’m cutting all sugar on October 1 for a month, I have bought the journal, downloaded the app, cleaned out the fridge reorganising its now healthy contents and hidden all the temptations.  During  week 1 I am evangelical;  studiously reading labels in the supermarkets and taking 3 times as long to do the weekly shop.  Craig eats more green stuff in a week than he’s done for the past 3 months.  Week 2, I’m batch cooking on Sunday and feeling very virtuous.  This is the week where I join a health studio and start going to classes back to back, working through the associated aches and pains of a body that somewhere in its muscle memory knows it’s just a fad so to go with it until another distraction comes along.

Week 3 and the 19th of October is designated international Day at school.  The day where you bring in the taste of home for other parents, teachers and pupils to sample.  Generally the preceding day is intense as you connect with your memories of comfort and home as you stir and shake, smell, touch and taste your offerings.

Scotland, like Barbados, is rooted in sugar.  We’re not known for our salads and vegetables.  We like our sweets, stews and starch.

Correspondingly, I make Tattie scones, Macaroon Bars, Tablet and Fairy cakes.  The latter being my concession to belonging to the UK as I have brought pre-prepared iced Union Jack flags back to the island.

I boil the potatoes for the scones and the Macaroon bars.  I am not tempted by the kilo of icing sugar mixed with potato that makes the fondant.  I am stoic when melting my favourite dark chocolate and oven roasting the desiccated coconut.  But when you put it all together and they come out of the freezer looking so tasty, one tiny piece in the mouth doesn’t count.  Surely?

By now I am boiling the sugar, condensed milk and vanilla essence for my Tablet.  I’m using a new recipe which guarantees success;  after all why use the recipe handed down from generation to generation when there is something new to try?

I follow these new steps to the letter, measuring each ingredient carefully, completing each step as instructed (this is not normal behaviour given my more ‘instinctive’ approach to cooking).  It doesn’t look the same but I gamely pour it into the baking pan to set.  But it doesn’t.  I have to taste it.  This doesn’t count either as it’s a necessity and not a need.  Least that’s what I tell myself.  Of course it takes several tastes before I finally accept that its gritty and I have to start all over again.  This time I use the family recipe and it all goes to plan.  Apart from I obviously have to taste test it to make sure.  One square is not enough to convince me.  It takes several squares before confirming it’s a good enough offering.

My system is now flooded with sugar as I move onto making the Fairy Cakes.  Now as a wee girl, the reward for helping my Nana do her twice weekly baking, is to get to lick the spoon or clean the bowl.  Every time I bake, which is not often as my boys are not big into cakes, I connect with Nana as I swipe my finger round the uncooked mix, popping it into my mouth and thinking of her soft, large, floury, welcoming arms.   An entire bowl of uncooked fairy cake mix is now shouting at me; “Love me. Enjoy me. Eat me”.

I have no willpower.  I go to bed wired from my sugar cacophony, convincing myself that it’s just been a blip day.

My blips and slips continue over the next couple of weeks.  Yesterday I ate a Mars bar, drank a rum sour and enjoyed a piece of rum cake.  To my mind once you’ve sinned once, you might as well make it a day of sinning rather than a mouthful.

I also know it doesn’t matter.  For I am lucky enough to wake up today.  And it’s November 1.

Salad anyone?

Snippets

Practice

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I subscribe to Seth Godin’s blog and his musings and jottings arrive in my email box with impressive regularity. I like the way he views the world. He is concise and thought provoking- a real change catalyser.

Today, to prove my point, he sends this;

The first 1,000 are the most difficult 

For years, I’ve been explaining to people that daily blogging is an extraordinarily useful habit. Even if no one reads your blog, the act of writing it is clarifying, motivating and (eventually) fun.

A collection of daily bloggers I follow have passed 1,000 posts (it only takes three years or so…). Fortunately, there are thousands of generous folks who have been posting their non-commercial blogs regularly, and it’s a habit that produces magic.

Sasha,Gabe, Fred,Bernadette and Rohan add value to their readers every day, and I’m lucky to be able to read them. (I’m leaving many out, sorry!) You’ll probably get something out of reading the work of these generous folks, which is a fabulous side effect, one that pays huge dividends to masses of strangers, which is part of the magic of digital connection.

What I’ve found is this–after people get to posting #200 or beyond, they uniformly report that they’re glad they did it. Give it a try for three or four months and see what happens…

So guess what? Inspired by Seth who has an unerring ability to tap into my thinking, I’m setting myself a challenge to get back into the habit of writing.

I’m not aiming to be profound. I’m not even aiming, at this stage, to be consistent in my messaging or style. However, the aim is to make it happen, every day for 30 days minimum. And to not get stressed about searching for appropriate visuals or correcting poor grammar. If visuals are there and grammar is correct, consider this as a bonus.

To help I’ve created a new category called “Snippets and stories” and my 30 day practice blogs will sit in there; festering for attention.

So if  any of my wee stories, poor grammar or stylistic literary phrasing catches your imagination or attention, please give me feedback. It’s all good and it’s all appreciated.

Thank-you

General Musings, Life change

Bully

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I’m sitting in a girlfriends kitchen listening to Radio Four Woman’s Hour.  The rain is clearing up and the temperature is beginning to rise.  While she is away on holiday, we’re looking after  her two dogs who sit next to me forlornly hoping for an illicit snack before reluctantly giving up and heading back out to explore the garden again. It’s a normal Monday morning. Nothing unremarkable in its rhythm or pattern.

I tune into the radio conversation, this segment is talking about bullying and I stop to fully listen.  One of the guests is a psychotherapist and she is describing how she is struggling to manage a current bullying situation she is experiencing.  Her words are so simple and so heart rendering,  she is lost trying to work out, logically, rationally,  how to deal with the pain and confusion she feels.  I recognise her confusion and relate to her bewilderment.  In my experience, bullying comes from an emotional place.  The bully is trying to assuage an internal need for power, control, acceptance or  is driven by insecurity.  The bullied, when they realise they are being bullied, take flight, fight or are frozen in fear.

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.

Many years later and as a senior professional in a FTSE10 organisation, I experience insidious, manipulative bullying from my Executive Director.  To begin with he starts ignoring my ideas and suggestions in meetings, occasionally belittling these when he can, then he starts to forget to ask me to attend meetings and when challenged makes some excuses before repeating this behaviour again.  I go on holiday and he reorganises my department and reduces my budget while I’m gone. When I return I ask to speak with him to resolve these difficulties and he questions my values not my skills or knowledge. He hires in another layer to stop me reporting into him. At this point other senior colleagues are starting to notice his behaviour.  I speak to the acting Executive HR Director, believing her to be a friend as well as colleague- she says all the right things but does nothing and the bullying continues.  Subsequently, I speak to the CEO’s senior aide yet still it continues. By this point I’m a shadow of myself, now too frightened to speak up, seeing plots and scenarios that don’t exist, second guessing potential situations, focusing everything through the narrow filter of ego; not being good enough, strong enough, clever enough, smart enough. My confidence is shot to pieces.  In addition I’m now dealing with a new, bumbling, inept boss, who needs me to help him navigate and interpret the political waters and the new business strategy. I dread getting up, showing up; hiding my strain from my team who need motivation and encouragement. I attempt to shrug off my worries that my, by now sub-standard, contributions make no difference.  I am frozen by fear.  A rabbit caught in headlights too blinding,  proving to all I’m worthless, useless, inept, unworthy.

I hit the burnout wall like a fly sizzling in an electric flytrap. Flytrap

Recovery, without chemicals, is a long, slow, laborious slog. I tap, meditate, deep breathe, chant, star-jump, go on long walks, talk with my therapist and Craig and even decide this is the best time to do my NLP Masters certificate!  I swallow industrial quantities of brain sharp, fish-oil capsules, start a course of healing homeopathy and sob as the Reiki master works on my feet.  Over time my suicidal thoughts subside but the well of tears is deep and they flow unchecked, unwanted, unbidden, slowly providing healing and solace.  I journal furiously, pen barely touching the page as the words I’ve not been able to speak out in months, flow like a torrent that cannot be dammed.  I begin to come out of my cocoon, agree to go to Spain with some work based girlfriends so I can practice integration, care and support again and while there, allow myself to acknowledge that the persistent ulcer that’s been in my mouth for these past few months now needs specialist attention.

At this point I know that prolonged bullying has put a huge stress on my body.  Being chronically stressed because of the bullying triggers my inability to sleep which in turn fires my adrenaline. This is when a chain reaction is triggered releasing the stress hormone, cortisol, from my adrenal gland. Now my limbic system is shouting Fire, Fire! and the neurological response comes out to save the day. The limbic  system runs my emotions, memory and instinctual survival reactions. So my amygdala is constantly helping me to feel frightened and scared and is reinforcing my sense of danger while my hippocampus is reminding me of all those previous times and situations when I faced something similar and the reaction I chose which saved me.  Round and round this cycle goes, only my memories of bullying were when I was young and fighting or fleeing was the right decision.  Now, I’m a grown-up in a job I love/d and I’m frozen.

Faced with so much stress, fear, emotion, my body eventually reacts and shuts down. Ironically unable to speak out, to right the wrong, to fix the problem, the part of me that has been most stuck manifests itself in cancer of the mouth.

And I’m relieved.

Cancer gives me a societally acceptable excuse for my absence from work. Whereas before I’m ashamed of my burnout and my inability to stand up to the bullying, with a mouth cancer diagnosis, ironically I can talk again.

And an addendum to this story;  on Christmas Eve, 19 days after my cancer surgery, my new Executive Director sends me a letter telling me they are cutting my salary by 50%. The organisation does not recognise two consecutive illnesses.

Sometimes, it takes time to realise that no job, is ever worth it. Sometimes,  it’s just so blindingly obvious,  it hurts.

Changes created by the cancer adventure, Life change

Discomfort

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As humans we communicate using a myriad of tools and techniques. While we in the business talk about verbal or oral communications as well as non verbal, auditory and kinesthetic communications, in practical terms humans connect via reading and writing, body gestures, facial expressions, eye contact, touch, posture, sign language and actions and behaviors, including how close we stand next to one another. (Think about how you feel when someone stands closer than you would prefer, how much you feel uncomfortable and how you react).

This week I’ve had to rely a lot on my non verbal communications. Unlike my mouth cancer where I was able to produce a few guttural words after the operation; a profusion of ugly mouth ulcers on my lower gum, alongside the remainder of my tongue and down my throat have rendered me speechless.  And scared.

Its been over 2 years since my mouth cancer diagnosis and operation. I’ve frequent follow-up appointments with the maxfax consultant and all remains good. But the daily tussle with the mind continues. Any cancer remission patient will tell you that life becomes infinitely sweeter in the immediate recovery weeks after the end of their treatment.  It’s a warning and a blessing to still be here and to be able to hug, hold and communicate with friends and loved ones.  Over the passage of time, memories smooth out some of the trauma and daily gratitude often slips from the conscious to the subconscious, only popping to the fore when reminders snake up.  This is how it should be, it’s how the system helps repair the self.

However some of us carry a residual sense of deep impermanence. Where we know life is short and can end at any time. This cannot be described as fear but I’ve yet to make peace with this knowledge. I can get very short-tempered with the time wasting and downright laziness that is inherent here in Barbados. Where others think their time is more valuable that yours so yes they will just take this phone call and gossip with a friend while they stop serving you or they will download their mound of groceries on the cashiers belt in front of you and then saunter off for another 15 minutes to complete their shopping. The countless times I stand waiting for someone to finish chatting with their co-workers, or wait in for workmen to appear 5 hours late with no apology or watch traffic come to a halt so the bus drivers can have a chinwag. While others might put this down to Caribbean time, I want to yell “but not on my time, I don’t know how much I’ve got left and what I’ve got is precious”.  To be fair I don’t think my time is any more important than any one else’s, I just want the opportunity to spend it as I choose.

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This has really come to the fore these past few days. Rendered mute and in pain, I read as much as I can on dealing with ulcers or canker sores and how to help them heal.  Of course it doesn’t matter how many times I gargle with salt water and bicarbonate of soda or drink camomile and honey tea, or eat my body weight in ice cream to numb my mouth, it is only time that will heal.  I cannot push recovery to be faster, I cannot star jump or deep breathe my way to a better mouth, I just need to sleep lots, stay calm and let it go.

And this is the mind challenge, for try as I might, this week has brought back into technicolour focus what we all went through as a result of my cancer diagnosis.  I give myself a mental beating for some of my recent lifestyle choices and giving into my natural hedonistic tendencies ; unfortunately I’m not blessed with a deep desire to get up with the dawn chorus, chant “OM”, eat berries and contort my body into positions better suited to pre-pubescent gymnasts.  I know I should but when there is a great cocktail bar and a live band performing, guess where you’ll find me?

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Refocusing my mind away from what I see as fun versus what I think will make me dull and boring,  towards the goal of long-term health and strength  is something I need to work on.  Part of me thinks I haven’t survived my cancer to live my life as a scholastic monk but there are consequences as a result of my recent choices.  It’s time that I accept responsibility and make some necessary changes such as getting to the gym regularly, eating more organic fruit and vegetables and learning to stop stressing about the incompetent driving and bad manners that seem to be prevalent  on this island. And probably, (written reluctantly),  managing my desire for the evening G&T under the guise of it helps me de-stress! Changing life patterns may cause a bit of discomfort but the benefit of a healthy life  and the corresponding ability to fully communicate as well as spend time with friends and loved ones are the most compelling of incentives.

 

 

 

 

 

General Musings, Life change, Metaphors and Stories

Aveum Levis

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At 7.05 on Tuesday, Roscoe and I leave the house in a flurry of panic, raised voices and general chaos.  I don’t like being responsible this early in the morning; it’s against my better nature to nurture someone who is even more morning challenged than I am.  Normally this is Craig’s job but he’s in Grenada at some ‘highfalutin’ political  event.  So here I am, cortisol pumped and determined to get the child to the school bus on time. On the way,  I stop to help an elderly local lady who, it transpires, is thumbing a lift on behalf of her daughter and grandchildren.  After waiting for three generations to get into the car, we hurtle down the hill making the bus with a pipsqueak of a second to spare.

Sandra, the hitch-hiking grandma, discovers I am headed for the South Coast, necessitating a drive through Bridgetown, so she decides to ‘visit town’, and on the way we have a very lively discussion about the state of Barbados and the changes it’s going through.  I find out about her views on the upcoming elections and what she thinks about the sewage troubles and its impact on tourism on the South Coast.  She is very forthcoming about “the problems with the youth” and challenges of finding employment for older workers.  I am sorry to have her leave the car – she is a lively, informative and entertaining car companion.

I travel another 20 minutes through heavy traffic before thankfully finding a space in a rapidly filling car park.  It’s 7.45am and I’m opposite the offices of the Barbados Association of Retired Persons (BARP).  I’m here to apply for my BARP card.  To my dismay, the queue is already approximately 50 people long and I hustle to find my spot in the line. When the doors open at 0800 there is a surprising amount of queue jumping and tussle, with quite a few colourful words being ‘Bajaned’ about. It doesn’t take me too long to find myself in the blissful air-conditioned office where pandemonium and chaos ensue due to lack of signage, helpful staff and multiple confusing queuing lines.  It takes some time to find my place, conform to the process and pay my money. But in the intervening  4 hours and 37 minutes, the people watching and banter is priceless.

Older folks care less about conforming or holding back their opinions and they are clear about their sense of right and wrong, so if there is anyone daft enough to try and step out of line, they run the risk of an elderly lynch mob, sharp of tongue and elbow.  And to wile away the time they chat and gossip, not caring a jot about what others may think.  I bury my head in my book, my ears sharp and my mouth closed.  And just like my earlier conversation, I learn much of the elder perspective of Barbados.  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?

If only this was an affliction solely attributable to the elders of Barbados.  But in my experience, this happens across many cultures, countries, organisations.  In the UK we used to have a well-known television character – Victor Meldrew – who made an entire comedy show out of his ability to whinge and whine.  It was very funny because it was so sharply drawn from reality.  But what causes this slide into the pit of complaint and distrust?  I think it’s about our ability, aptitude and attitude towards change.

 

We all know that the passing of time creates change – it’s an irrefutable fact.  Not one of us stands unmarked as we grow and age. Our individual and collective consciousness towards what’s gone before is a vast mine of knowledge and data, of what’s worked and what hasn’t and what patterns of actions and behaviour have subsequently been formed as a result.  The secret is to know when these hold us back, when they are merely interesting observations from the past or if they may have a bearing on what’s yet to come.  I have sat with senior executives who try to bend employee survey results to fit in with their view of the world and how the organisation used to be; and on one memorable occasion, when working with the CEO and his Executive  team on the culture and values of the organisation,  I listened to my Executive Director inform me of what these would be, based on his experience in the civil service, not on the evidence presented in front of him.

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?

Listening to my BARP compatriots belly aching about the ills and wrongs wakes me up.  We all need to consciously move away from a tendency to complain or pass negative judgement or look back to the “good old days”.  If this becomes our default button, we need to button our mouths until something more constructive comes out.  We too were once young, making mistakes and hopefully learning from them.  Surely as upcoming elders of society we must role-model problem solving, constructive thinking, compassion, understanding,  curiousity and passion for life.  We are the life survivors.  It is our collective responsibility to seek out and support others looking for positive alternatives in a changing world.

And while I may be a card carrying BARP member, with multiple store discounts now available, I’ve no intention of retiring.  My knowledge and skills are helpful in shaping the world of tomorrow. I’m here to make a difference, and my age and cultural history have nothing to do with the value I offer and the change I create.

Life change

Raising boys in the female paradigm

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This is turning out to be an enlightening week.  It starts with David Leser, an op-ed journalist writing for the Sydney Morning Herald, crafting a seminal article called “women, men and the whole damn thing“.  And as a result of this,  Dr Joanna Martin, tearful, snot-filled, passionate and articulate challenging us – her One of Many cohorts and coaches- to get out there and Lead the Change.

Joanna’s challenge does not go unheeded and I ponder how I can really affect change in a country riven by gender imbalance and gender conflict.  Of course the answer is much closer to home, it needs to start in our home and how we are raising our boy-man.  Only by looking at what I’m doing today can I go out and be authentically challenging tomorrow.

I know why I don’t really want to do this. It’s because I don’t like what I see.  When Roscoe was a baby, Craig and I had a conversation about how we would raise him.  This was not driven from a Utopian desire to have a child who was rich, well-fed and indulged.  This was a deliberate choice to raise a child with experiences so far removed from my own childhood that there could be no chink of similarity in comparison.  Ironically,  perhaps our choices conform to the stereotyping we were keen to avoid.  On the positive side, ours is not a child who cowers in fear from an adult voice, who waits for the blow from the hand or the psychological sting from the sharpened tongue.  He is not treated as an unpaid, silent house servant. This is not a child who goes to bed trembling. By comparison, our boy is loved and cherished, he has a secure base from where he knows the world is his for the exploring; he’s confident, assured, articulate, funny, loving and, normal for a teenager, self-absorbed.  As a result of belonging to various and not always successful football teams, we see emerging qualities of empathy and teamwork. We also see just how much our influence is waning while the peer group is becoming ever more important.  Only yesterday this child was happily wearing geek-cool red sunglasses. Today a derisive comment from a 15-year-old mate in the back of the car means those sunglasses will never be worn again.

He attends an international school here and although he has 10 different nationalities in his class, there are only 120 pupils in total so in senior school they all hang out together.  As he’s already 180cm at 13 years old, this means that physically and mentally his peer group are more likely to be the 15-year-old boys.  Boys of this age are more advanced in what they are interested in, talk about and look at, so having restrictions on Roscoe’s devices is incredibly important.  Despite this I know he has seen images that a generation ago would have been so much harder to access. But today we can all watch the latest music videos to see female ‘popstrals’ twerking and twirling to sell their wares.  Did anyone watch the JLo Super Bowl performance on the  Saturday evening before the game?  It was as if she was auditioning for a part in a soft porn movie. On this basis it’s difficult to argue with Roscoe about his much-loved rap music with its red-raw expletives and chants of women as objects to be done unto, vilified, dis-respected, used and discarded. Not while Mothers like JLo and Beyoncé undersell their talent and debase femininity by using their over-expressed ‘sex-kitten-bitch’ to engorge the male brain. Double standards are not solely a male preserve.

Of course we are not the only ones struggling with the challenges of teenage boys with questionable music taste and hormonal carnality.  During half term we ‘enjoyed’ four teenage boys staying over; boys of different nationalities and upbringing. It’s shocking to see the similarity in behaviour. Just how much of their stuff they lose, how little they are capable of feeding themselves (aside from chocolate bars and fizzy drinks), how their clothes are discarded where they have been taken off, how beds don’t get made and dirty dishes stay on the table without a verbal reminder to clear.  They alternate between bouts of screen time and bouts of physical play, eating, belching just out of earshot (so they think) and shouting obscenities at each other as if they are deaf.  I’m aware that they don’t view me an individual, my role seems to be invisible serf and I boil inside.

The ugly truth is I’ve enabled this child to be solely focused on his pleasure and play. His contribution to the smooth running of the household is negligible.  He is my adored little prince and up to this week I’ve been pressed into service running around picking up the dirty clothes, making the sleepover beds, changing the sleepover beds as different friends come and stay, making vat-sized quantities of pasta and crepes;  washing, drying and putting away dishes only to do it all over again about 30 minutes later as teenage boys seem to have bottomless hungry stomachs.  The Lesner article and Jo’s challenge conjure up a massive magnifying glass that makes me squirm. For although he is much-loved and adored, I am raising a lazy boy-man that no women in her right mind would ever want to become shackled to. A boy-man with latent but emerging social stereotypical thinking about the role of women.  I have to take responsibility as a Mother to make sure my son goes out into the world as a fully functioning, contributing and supportive adult.  A male able to positively contribute to society with little prejudice and judgement, who sees alternative genders as equal.  A man who is sensitive to the needs of others and willing to co-partner, co-parent, co-create.

I console myself with the knowledge that we’ve very open and direct conversations together.  No subject is taboo and with the result I know I influence much of his thought process even though this may not immediately translate into action.  I recently spoke with him about gently letting down a girl who liked him.  I explained that male and female ways of thinking were different and although he can say “I like you but just as a friend” , what she may hear is “I’m not pretty enough/good enough/just enough” so he needs to tell her his feelings face to face, look her in the eye and stay in the moment to allow her to feel his positive intention by being there.  It’s a big concept for a boy and during the following days of him pondering,  she dumped him.  By text.

However, his burgeoning interest in girls means we need to step up our efforts to have him recognise that women are so much more than visual distractions in a day full of “boring” academia.  It’s difficult in a place like Barbados where daily wear consists of  few scraps of cloth and much shaking of booty. Here, local girls are queens of sexual suggestion and promise. Their role model, Rihanna, is much admired and adored.

So I must influence him and encourage his female friends to not feel their value only comes through how they look or behave. Here at home, we need to make sure we are seen and heard to praise female intelligence and facets of personality not visual attractiveness.  Both Craig and I have been guilty of this in the past and from now this will change.

Now my awareness antennae is awakened, I am shocked at how much I’ve personally conformed to gender-social stereotyping.  How much of the “boys are strong and girls are feminine”; “boys are physical and girls talk all the time”; “boys like football and girls like fashion”, etc, I shorthand in my head.    I’m going to have to consciously challenge each of these thoughts to get out of this habit.  I know these are not what I believe – it’s just lazy thinking.

I am also guilty of silent rage as I pick up dirty clothes and generally tidy up after him.  This too will change.  Clothes not in the laundry basket will not get washed.  Beds not made and rooms not tidied will result in the loss of electronic privileges.  Silence will be swapped for firm insistence.  Yes, we are due for a period of pain but it’s necessary for longer term gain.

If we ever get to a point where we attend his wedding, I will look his partner in the eye and know they are committing to a fully functioning, loving, intelligent, self-aware and co-creating adult.

This is the goal.  The change starts here. Now.

For those curious about change