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Life change, Snippets

Digging deep

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In less than 90 minutes we are leaving this hotel, leaving St Andrews, leaving Scotland, leaving behind our boy.

I have no idea how other Mothers cope with the leaving. There is no manual and like other “women’s issues’ little discussion on how. And while I imagine every leaving is different dependent on the relationship and on practice; this is my first time. It hurts as if some magical being is reaching inside me and slowly extracting the organs which keep me breathing.

I promise Roscoe that I will not cry when we walk away from the boarding house. I remain dry-eyed all evening. The bright blue sky’d sunny yellowness of the following morning lifts my mood: the day beckons to get to know better the town where he’s going to be for the next few years. We are texting and he says that most of the boarding house boys are off to Edinburgh for the day so of course we pick him up and saunter into St Andrews for a large plate of celebratory oysters. Leaving the restaurant it’s apparent that this Barbados boy is inappropriately dressed for Scottish sunshine so we purchase a lightweight fleece to go on top of his thin T shirt as he is beginning to turn blue with the cold. Craig has to take him back to our hotel as he cannot get heat into his bones. His first lesson in dealing with our home climate; Layered dressing.

We walk the beach. The sky is glorious and the miles of cold hard golden sand are scattered with dog walkers, kite flyers, pram pushers, whole families out enjoying time together. We amble-walk, the wind at our backs, catching our words, our laughter and blowing all imminent future wrenching away. We argue how far Ben Cross, Nigel Havers, Ian Charleston ran for the opening sequence of Chariots of Fire; both boys have no faith that the actors ran far at all. My romantic notions of about a mile dashed by my husbands pragmatism as he points out the freeking freezingdom of the North Sea. Although we are surprised at the amount of hardy Scots with their trousers rolled up and their feet bare as they walk in icy waters this afternoon. It’s enough to make my bones ache just watching.

I know they ache for other reasons as I loop my arm into my son’s as we more purposely stride into the wind heading back towards St Andrews town. Turning into its cold embrace is a metaphor of momentousness: the leaving is marching towards us. 

We decide to have dinner at the hotel; Roscoe lured by the promise of escargot and being still of the age where the whiff of strong garlic is of no consequence. I watch him wrestle with the tongs and a few elusive snails and wonder how the boy who dislikes anything but pasta, loves the food we’ve eaten today: another quirk of his capricious contradiction.

All too soon it’s time. This time much harder as we all know this is the dreaded au revoir. I have to dig deep to maintain any semblance of composure, managing only by seeing my boy is matching me and I don’t want to make it any harder for either of us.

Now, I watch the rain battering against our window; it’s dreich grayness apt. How do other Mother’s do this? I have no blueprint, no plan. The packed cases mock me, silent tears run as I type. No words come. It’s just screaming emptiness inside, impossible to describe.

My challenging, gorgeous, contradiction of a boy is now being nurtured and grown by others.

I ache.

 

General Musings, Snippets

High on happy

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I’ve written a couple of blogs over the past few weeks which have not made it to publish stage yet, somehow all the negativity , worry and concern created by a potential Brexit and the utter stupidity from the Orange one across the pond, has seeped itself into my writing.

Thankfully, I know a cleansing is in the offing and as I board the plane I have the excited tingling sensation of a four year old anticipating gooey chocolate cake and the resulting sugar high; the mountains beckon.

We are here for a full 8 days and after the first day of purgatory where I’m still trying to break in my Surefoot custom-made ski boots which after 8 seasons of blister plasters, ibuprofen pain relief every 3 hours, and bruised shins, are obviously a lost cause, I give in and go to the hire shop. As I slip my feet into the padded softness of the brand new, rented, Alpina ski boots, I realise that this is what having cancer does; it shortcuts decision making. Yes it costs, but whether it’s a penny, a pound or millions of spondoolies, you can’t take it with you. I am here now.  My own blasted boots are never going to ‘spark joy’ and I want to enjoy my time on the mountains. What a fabulous decision this is proving to be. Free of foot and leg pain, I am able to go anywhere and do any ski run of my choosing.

There is a moment today, when the ice wind is cutting through my 7 layers of clothing, my 2 pairs of socks and gloves, my full face balaclava, goggles and helmet and eating into my very bones, when I look out and down the hill. In front is my husband and son together cutting sharp turns on freshly pisted virgin snow. We are the only people on this run. The lake at the bottom of the mountain glistens in the pale sunlight, the snow blows silently off the pine trees and drifts into the air as I pass, the only sound I can hear is the satisfying squeak-crunch of ski on snow. I momentarily stop, thinking I should take a photo to capture the moment before shaking myself to my senses. This is a moment for living, not recording. A moment of sheer aliveness and gratitude that no camera could ever hope to capture. Seared into my memory bank; the only way to thank the universe for my being here is to keep going.

One of the joys of skiing for me is the ‘present-ness’ of it all. It’s the best form of mindfulness that I know. There are no other thoughts than icy, bumpy, lumpy, pisted, groomed, deep powder, tracked-out snow and the kind of skiing and control it demands. It’s been 3 seasons since we last skied together as a family and in this time we have all experienced significant life changes – not least that Roscoe has grown over 8inches and his new body means he needs to adjust his skiing style. On day two we send him off on an advanced ski lesson and he returns wild eyed, exhausted and slightly deranged. From one of the chair lifts we look aghast at the places where he’s been and I’m so glad that I don’t have the burning need to prove myself anymore. As a boy with competitive mates, he probably has many more years of sheer stupidity and daftness on skis ahead of him.

 

Although the following day, his muppetry extends to a new unparalleled level , where mid-way through the morning he turns to me and says, “Mum, I’m just not feeling it today”. I leap to the conclusion that he’s lost confidence given his extreme ski the day before and reassure him we’ll take it easy. Later, as we tighten our boots after lunch, he makes a surprising discovery – his 70’s style clam shell boots (now coming back into fashion) are on the wrong feet and he has skied like this all morning. I reflect that he must be fairly reasonable on skis that he made this possible.

By contrast as Craig and I are inching into our middle years, our aches and pains seem to linger longer. These little creaks are gentle reminders that our bodies are not designed to keep going ad-infinitum. In the mountains the aches become muscular, deeper; a welcome reminder that we can still ski-fly down the hill but there are consequences attached to such decisions. I wonder if skiing decisions go the same way as life itself where the caring adult becomes the child and the child becomes the caring adult. Do black runs and the high of surviving off piste glide into the gentle delight of blue and green runs as the pine-tree snow-dust scatters in the wind?

When I was in hospital one of my best memories to replay was of a restaurant in Switzerland, full of some of my favourite ski friends, and us skiing from our lodge in Chatel in France, across the mountain and up on a T-bar to this shining bastion of good food and even better wine. Fortified with full tummies and the requisite amount of alcohol, we would all ski like demons home, making the last ski lifts as the clanging bells sounded across the valley. On our final visit, we didn’t acknowledge this was our last time, there remained the potential of another sojourn, another year.

Now of course, I am more aware of time; next time, last time, final times. So I don’t take for granted this ability to step into comfy ski boots and have an easy glide down the mountain. Who knows what lies ahead. Apart from today and tomorrow, everything else just stops, while the mountain envelops me in her magic of possibilities.

So irrespective of the absolute tomfoolery which is currently happening in the homeland; the plots, defections, confusion, concern and uncertainty, there will always be a mountain beckoning somewhere. A mountain of promise. A mountain of fun. And if we’re  lucky we might meet at the top of such a place and have a bite of something delicious and a toast, or two, to the sheer joy of breathing in the air of just being here.

Snippets

Traditions

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This Saturday we drive up to Clifton Hall,  Great House in St John, dressed in full Scots regalia.  We are out for the evening to celebrate Burns night.  After a 30 minute drive through some of the beautiful Barbados countryside, we arrive at this stunning plantation house, the driveway lit by flickering candles, the piper standing at the door with our host,  Massimo.  It feels like we are in a  scene out of a movie and I have to pinch myself to stop my gleeful insides bursting out.

We have agreed, as bone fide Scots, to help maintain the traditions of the Burns Supper and Craig delivers a superlative “toast to the Haggis” where he stabs the aforementioned creature with great gusto until its “gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich”!

After some wonderful food, education and entertainment, its my turn.  I have agreed to give the response to the Laddies and never one to turn down a speaking engagement, I’m there, ready, in full entertainment mode.

So in case any of you are ever pressed to deliver the lassies response, I thought I would share my words.  At least it gives an insight into what thousands of Scots would have been doing this weekend, no matter where they are in the world.  What I re-remembered on Saturday is that my culture and traditions live bright in my heart and although I may not return very often, I carry Scotland with me wherever I go.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it falls to me, your allocated lassie for this evening, to take up the challenge of replying to   Howard’s unconventional, highly entertaining toast.  What a lovely toast it was to us lassies so I’d like to personally thank him for his words.  These sentiments are much appreciated, especially now we’re a few drams doon – you may need a few more by the time I’m done.

When I agreed to take on this task, which was at the end of one of those long, noisy, heid-banging Sunday afternoons at the Cliff Beach Bar;  Massimo was at pains to point out that previous iterations of this event had been over-long and would I keep it to 5 minutes.  Well I’ve never listened to a man before.  And I’m not about to start now…

There are various womanly wiles I could use to encourage you to listen;  I could use facts and figures for those of you who have logical, rational brains; I could use props and pictures and other “techniques” {shoogle boobies} for those of you who are more visual.  Those who are more auditory may prefer the words of the Bard himself, the kinesthetics amongst you may prefer to contribute – not heckle mind – to what I’m sharing.  One voice at a time though otherwise I may get all “Ms Jean Brodie” . Actually, this  reminds me of a true story I’d like to share.

Great friends of mine, moved up to the home country to a wee village called Braco, just off the A9 (its in-between Perth and Stirling for those geographic types).  Nick, who’s originally from South Africa, was in the pub one evening and got chatting to 3 laddies from Wick; the wee Highland town where I was brought up.  Now, I have spent many hours with Nick;  I spoke at their wedding; I helped him wet the heid of his first born; I’ve sat more evenings than I care to remember, at his dining room table and in his kitchen and had many, many  long sober and drunken chats; his wife, Clare,  is one of my very best friends.  Nick knows me.  So in the course of the male bonding love-in going on in the Braco bar, Nick asks if they know a Laura from Wick and hopefully mentions a few of my finer qualities.   One of them says, “Laura who”?

By now, Nick is a few pints of Heavy down and he frantically casts around his grey matter for my surname.  He remembers a video I had given him when they first moved from England, to assist with his broader Scottish Education, and inspired, he splurts,  “ Laura…Brodie”.

By all accounts, three sets of eyes cast upwards to the right as they search for a connection.  Laura Brodie.  “Aye”, says one of them. “ I remember Laura Brodie.  She was in my History Class at the High school.  She was a bit of a goer.  Popular with the boys.  Never said no”.  “I was with her”, chimes his mate.  “Just for a night.  Aye”  “Go-an” says the third, “me too;  she ate me up”.  Nick sits at the bar, shocked, staring at his pint of Heavy and mulling over the fact that the version of the Laura he knows is far removed from what’s just been described.

He staggers home to impart the news to Clare, that her ‘besie’ mate has a colourful past.  Clare, a no nonsense Northerner, listens to the whole story and then makes him walk through it again, this time getting more of the detail.  These three braggard boys from Wick had obviously been on the mushrooms, or figured that Nick would be impressed that this lass that he knew, was so accommodating.  It’s a shame then that my surname is Ferguson. Laura Brodie is yet another figment of a male imagination.

But how illustrative is this, of the male need to compete, over Women; Sport: Life.  Rabbie Burns knew this.  Take the furore which happened last year when the former national poet of Scotland, Liz Lochhead, referred to Burns as “Weinsteinian”.  This serious charge of misogyny and rape is  based on a letter he’d written in 1788 to his pal, Bob Ainslie,  in which he described having sex with his soon to be wife, Jean Armour who was heavily pregnant by then with his 2nd set of twins.  Using Burns’ colourful command of the Scots vernacular  he describes how he “ gave her such a thundering scalade that electrified the very marrow of her bones”

Not content with such a graphic description of his sexual prowess, he then goes on to eulogise his penis. And let me share this for it truly is a work of prose;

“Oh what a peacemaker is the guide wheel-willy pintle! It is the mediator, the guarantee, the umpire, the bond of union, the solemn league and covenant, plenipotentiary, the Aaron’s rod, the Jacob’s staff, the prophet Elisha’s pot of oil, the Ahasuerus Sceptre, the sword of mercy, the philosopher’s stone, the Horn of Plenty, and the Tree of Life between Man and Woman.’ 

Well I don’t know about the rest of you ladies but this makes me come over all in a hot flush! Dear God, there’s not many women who would not pray to encounter one of these at least once in her lifetime,  let me tell you!

Frankly, this is more likely to be a bloke bragging to a mate about his sexual prowess, in a situation where this cannot or will not be challenged; a bit like the three blokes in a bar in Braco, pretending to have had their way with the fictional Laura Brodie.

We wise women are aware of the male need to have the ego stroked;  the highly strung mind, calmed;  the warrior male, aroused; any wounded pride re-built.   We are experts at humanness, we can use our energies to help men feel male again.  While most men tend to be linear, simple, transactional, translatable;  we women, we are atoms of variety and fascination.  We can choose to be Sex kittens; Bitches;  Queens, Lovers, Mothers, Warrioresses, Sorceresses. Grounded by the earth and nurtured by the soul of the moon; women hold a different power – not better, not higher, just different.

 

You men would be well advised to take heed of this.  Rabbie Burns understood it  after all he is quoted “Mither nature…her prentice hand she tried on man and then she made the lasses, O’” . The Burns I know and love,  is not a sex pest or philanderer, he loved women;  his mother, his aunts, his sisters, his wife, his daughters and, yes, his lovers. Burns valued and appreciated women for our beauty and intellect, along with our political views, our humour and  passion for words and language.

Burns’ love of women began with his Mother; Agnes Broun Burns.  By all accounts she couldn’t read or write a word but she was an avid storyteller. Imagine this wee slip of a woman with bright red hair,  going about her daily chores with a wee Rabbie rapt by her side as she sings the songs of the ancient lands, verbally imbibing his desire for Scots legends, history and  folklore.  Seeped deep in the art of oral history it’s no wonder Burns developed his passion for rhyme and song.

We all know Burns put into practice his assertion that he preferred the company of women saying “The finest hours that e’er I spent were spent amang the lasses, O’.”   This probably explains why there are so many descendants of his lineage running about the world today.   His was a seduction of humour, intellect and outstanding rhythmic language. In a world where getting pregnant out of wedlock was considered to be the worst of mortal sins, Burns was Baby Daddy to  12 children by four different women. Thinking about it, Burns could quite happily live in Barbados today ; to the Kirk on Sunday for absolution, the fields for work, the rum shop for stories and the beach for pleasure and conquest. He’d fit right in.

So that brings me to tonight, what would Burns  want me to share with you men that gives you hope and rumination in the wee sma ‘oors when the whiskey is still doing a wee dance in the brain.   I combed the Burns annals, toyed with “the Rights of Women” still apt today, but thought it ower long and I still have my favourite Scots joke to share.  The delight of “What can a young lassie dae wi an Auld Man” made me giggle but it could potentially send some of our present company to the bottom of the whisky bottle.  So, I’ve settled on the short and not well known

“A bottle and a friend”

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o’ care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.

A prescient Burns had it right, long before Carpe Diem and the Dead Poets society.

So before we seize the day, or the rest of the night, or the glass, I want to leave you with my favourite Scots joke:

 An armed, hooded, robber burst into the Bank of Scotland in Princes Street, Edinburgh, and forced the tellers to load a sack full of cash. On his way out the door with the loot, one brave Scottish customer grabbed the hood and pulled it off revealing the robber’s face. The robber shot the Scotsman without hesitation! He then looked around the bank to see if anyone else had seen him. One of the tellers looked straight at him so the robber walked over, raised his gun and calmly shot him  straight in the heid. Everyone in the bank was by now really feart and were all  studiously looking at the floor. “Did anyone else see my face?” roared  the robber. There were a few seconds of silence, then one elderly Scottish lady, still looking down, tentatively raised her hand and said:

“I think my husband might have caught a glimpse .….”

Thank you to the laddies who keep us on the slow boil, for the evening festivities and the shenanigans yet to come.  Ladies please be upstanding and lets give a toast to to our laddies.  Bless each and every one of our scallywags. To the Laddies”.

 

Changes created by the cancer adventure, General Musings, Life change

Time flies

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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.

General Musings, Life change, Metaphors and Stories

Consumption

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“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly

What is essential is invisible to the eye”.

Antoine de Saint Exupery, Le Petit Prince

Walking into a red brick church today, after a frantic drive of over 200 miles, I am struck by the amount of folks filling the pews.  It’s a thanksgiving service to remember a lovely gentle man.  I listen to the eulogy, beautifully written and delivered by his daughter, Clare.

She comes to a point where she says

“For me, going for a walk with Dad was so interesting, he was always in the moment – observing everything, a flower bud, picking out a bird song, noting a smell.

Everyone knows of Dad’s passion for gardening. There was a standing joke that on any walk or visit to gardens, Dad would return with a pocket full of cuttings to grow on.  How many of you in the congregation today have plants in your garden grown from Dads cuttings?  I  have it on good authority that his Candelabra Primula reside in many a Cheshire garden”.

What a lovely way to leave your mark on the world. A soft, gentle touch which breathes on season after season.

Later, we are observing the community who have come to the wake party – there are nearly 100 people in the room – and we note that none of these folk are from his work environment.  These are Tony’s friends from his passions – nature, the great outdoors, gardening, U3A, sport.

This stays with me as I drive home. I think of all these people I’ve just left behind, who have seeds and plants growing in their gardens due to Tony’s love and passion. Plants which need this incessant rain to flourish and bloom.  The grey ‘scotch mist’ which has hung around for days, continues, occasionally turning into sleety, dirty rain drops necessitating a constant need for windscreen wipers.  The car is filthy.  The grime from the rear windscreen wiper builds up either side of the blade creating my rear window on a murky world.

So knowing I’m too late to make my evening meeting and with eyes tired from driving in the rain, I decide to break my journey.  It’s a very slight detour to Bicester village.  This used to be an outlet centre ( I know this as we used to live 6 miles away when it originally opened).  But now it’s become a consumers designer dream world, stuffed full of Bond Street type stores, all with goods at still vastly inflated prices, masquerading as bargains.  I don’t know why I thought stopping here would be a good idea.  Every time I visit now I become more depressed; by the obscene prices for big name brands, and by the gobbling tourists, arms full of crinkly cardboard bags who don’t seem to be enjoying the experience as they are so intent on grabbing the next item on offer.

On the plus side, it’s very prettily decked in Christmas lights, all twinkling in the dark, cool, night air and it has some of the very best public conveniences of any retail park I’ve ever visited. And I’ve been to a few retail parks in my time!

Empty handed and still contemplative, I’m heading homewards when right next door to Bicester village,  I spot what is quite possibly the largest ever supermarket superstore I’ve ever seen.  90,000 sq feet of retail space waiting to be explored.  Naturally, I stop and park up.  Walking inside this mecca of grocery and consumer goods, I am at once confused and overwhelmed.  I’m transported back to Kampala where, prior to Shoprite and the march of the South African supermarkets, our food choices came from the market, the grocery store in Kisimenti, or driving over the other side of town to visit Quality Cuts, the Belgian butcher serving fresh meat and cheese, European style.  Food quality is good in Kampala but in my early days there, choice was limited.  And food from the UK was rare.  I once called Craig in the office to excitedly tell him I had bought a Frey Bentos pie for tea.  This ‘delicacy’ being a rare find. Needless to say, this was a one time purchase.

So ending up in this Bicester superstore, reminds of a Christmas past, when I flew from Uganda back to ‘Blighty’. On my way to friends in Cheltenham, I stopped off at a supermarket to pick up some essential supplies.  But I left empty-handed, as I got to the cereal aisle and became so bewildered by the amount of choice, that I stood silently stupefied in front of the garishly coloured, neatly stacked boxes.  The entire aisle was cereal – both sides – stacked high.  It was just too much contrast from where I had come from.

When you spend time in places where people have very little, you learn to appreciate, and feel fortunate as well as guilty, about the vast amount that we have.  However,  having now been back in the UK for some time, and living in a very affluent and privileged part of England, I forget. Until days like today.

Today I remember, again, what’s important.  Having passions for activities and things which are meaningful for me. Taking time to show friends they are cherished.  Developing and nurturing my communities of shared interests.  Treading gently on this earth and, paying attention to the moments of learning.

Living in our world, at this time of year, it can be too easy to buy fancy presents to show people you care.  But the gift of time and genuine attention, of listening, of love, it’s priceless.

 

Changes created by the cancer adventure, Life change

Tribe

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All my life I have been concerned about brand and reputation.  Not just from a company perspective but how I personally appear and show up in every work, social and personal situation.

Good and bad people

Rarely I have let my guard down.   I learned, from an early age, to hide fear, hurt, frustration, pain and tears.  These were for quiet solitary moments or for at the pictures, when it’s okay to cry like a baby at some story on the screen.

So telling people who I really care about that I had cancer was really hard.  In the beginning it felt like a weakness; I was apologetic and then would try to defuse the situation with some weak joke or quip.  Or I’d start asking questions about them – anything to take the focus away from me.  Those initial days I spent a lot of time in tears or nearly in tears. It seemed like I had a river inside and it was determined to burst its banks and cause a flood.

I also began to realise that I could not control the message, that people would talk and would share what they felt was appropriate for them and the recipient.  Once the news was out, I could not contain or manage it.  There was little spin to put on this, apart from to keep repeating that I was not a typical mouth cancer patient, never having smoked, a light drinker and never had the HPE virus.  I was also under 50!

So, recognising I needed my friends to help me get through this, I set up a Whatsapp group for those who had it on their phones.  For those I really needed I begged and cajoled that they loaded this app.  Friends such as Jill, in Canada, who is in her late 70’s, and Jenny, my most technophobic  friend, were just two examples of those who downloaded Whatsapp and learned to stick with it.  This group – my tribe/ network/ buddies/team – are exceptional individuals.  Collectively they are beyond compare.  They are there for me when I need to keep myself looking outwards. They offer comfort, treat me with love and derision when I get lost in my own self, chew the cud, tell stories and generally keep me going. Best of all, they don’t need me now to start or even keep the conversation flowing; they will chat amongst themselves, despite the fact that Whatsapp is the only way many of them have met.

I’ve stopped trying to present myself in a particular way – what my tribe have taught me is to be myself.  So when I’ve been frightened,  focused, driven, scared, happy or confused – they know.  It’s been such a revelation that by letting go, by being me and not worrying about my brand, just how much better I feel about myself and just how much I help and inspire others.

So today I want to acknowledge and be thankful for having Karen, Jenny, Jill, Haydee, Anke, Isobel,Clare, Lucy, Anna, Luci, Catherine, Carol, Andrea, Denise, Justin, Paul, Craig,  Tracey, Sam, Wendy, Sally, Amanda, Dani, Maria, Jan, Jodie and Julia as part of my tribe.

womenfun

And what’s amazing is there are others too, fabulous friends who have also reached out and offered love and support.

This blog is a result of me learning to be who I am.  And this is a direct result of the love of my tribe.