I went through a couple of experiences nearly two years ago that made me re-think how I did my writing. Until then, I'd written on scrappy bits of paper or old exercise books and then having poured out all my feelings, thoughts and ideas, I shredded most of what I'd written.
Strange? Probably but in a way it was self-preservation. If I got rid of it all, I didn't really need to admit it was how I really felt.
So what brought on the changes?
The first was going through my Grandma's house. It had been over a year since I'd last been in there and nothing had been moved or changed. It was quite literally as if she had just popped upstairs to the loo. I allowed myself a couple of days of just spending time there and going through her things so I could choose anything important. Whilst doing this I came upon a poem that my Great-Grandmother had written when her youngest son died at just 28. My Granny was a fierce, proud and strict lady (although I only ever remember her as a sweet and gentle white haired lady with a tartan rug on her lap) who ruled her kids with a rod of iron, slaps and belt. I had no idea that she had a poetic turn to her mind. And that got me thinking - nobody would ever know how creative my mind was as long as I continued to destroy my words.
The second was somewhat more dramatic, scary and life changing. Just three weeks before I started going through Grandma's house I found a lump in my left breast. As mum had died of breast cancer my immediate reaction was one of pure terror!
Trying to convince myself that I was feeling things, I checked again and again. But there it was in the cold light of day - a lump, in my breast! And the more I felt it the bigger it seemed to get. It's amazing how completely aware of your body you become at times like this. It was as if there was a huge sign above my head for all the world to see - 'look here! Huge Lump!'
Luckily I'm the kind of person who needs to know what she is dealing with. Not knowing is infinitely more stressful than coping with the actual situation. With this in mind I took myself off to the Doctor.
'It's almost certainly a fatty lump. But because of your history I'm going to send you off for some tests. You should get an appointment in 2 weeks.'
Rationally that should have reassured me a little bit but of course the main phrases I tuned into were 'lump' and 'tests'.
And so began my waiting game. A time of great stress and anxiety. A time to reflect on everything I'd done or not done. A time to think of the future and feel scared that I may not have one. It was during this time that I came to have an even deeper respect for my mum. How had she remained so calm for the years (not weeks) she'd spent dealing with lumps, tests and being prodded around?
I bought the first of many nice notebooks and began writing in earnest. But these weren't going to be destroyed. Inspired by Granny, Mum and my own fear I decided that I should write what the hell I liked and if other people didn't like it tough! And I'm so glad I did. My scribblings over the next couple of weeks kept me sane. I wrote pages and pages of anger filled, bitter, terrified and lonely words. All the pent up emotions relating to mum and Grandma's deaths came flooding out. All my own personal insecurities were laid bare. It probably sounds like a total Drama Queen attitude but when you face your own mortality you cease to care about certain things. I wasn't going to apologise for how I felt anymore and boy was it liberating!
Luckily for me my fatty lump was just that - a fatty lump. And I don't know if it's psychological but once I knew that, it just kind of disappeared. But it's left it's mark. It took me months to feel like a healthy, attractive and 'normal' female again. And it's left marks in other areas too. I'm even more vigilant about checking myself now. I'm even more aware of being healthy and avoiding certain kinds of food. I'm even more aware of research or developments in the fight against cancer. And I'm still a prolific writer. I don't go anywhere without my trusty notebook. Some of the things I write are total rubbish; a string of incoherent words, bizarre cliches and random thoughts. But occasionally there things I write that I think are ok.
Having taken the step of keeping my writing, the next step was sharing the books with people - what an absolutely terrifying thought! All those angst ridden emotions laid bare for the world to see and judge. But the desire to share one of the first things I wrote that summer seemed a natural process when visiting my good friend E just after my lump was given the all clear.
Like me she had found a lump in her breast, and like me she was lucky. We spent a long time discussing how it had made us feel emotionally. After a while of going round and round in circles and muddling our words, I said 'here, read this, it sums up EXACTLY how I felt.'
And this is what she read
Lumps and Bumps
Lump, bump, fatty tissue
Blocked gland, mild duct
A bit of grizzle.
The words that your bodily parts are reduced to!
Where are the lover like names and caresses?
The strokes and the touches that make you feel special?
The things that make you feel like a woman?
They are GONE!
And instead, all you're left with are these
lumps, bumps, fatty tissue.
Is this how my breasts will be seen from now on?
Inconvenient flesh mounds we need to be rid of.
Nothing exotic, erotic, attractive -
will I ever feel sexy or gorgeous or wanted?
Lump, bump, fatty tissue.
Is this my life sentence?
My God I sure hope not!
Not brilliant by any stretch of the imagination but when she finished reading it my friend turned to me and said thank you. Bewildered I looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
'I've never been able to voice how I felt about my lump, but that is exactly it. I feel as if you are the only other person who understands'
I have to admit there were a few tears shed! I know there's a lot of rubbish spoken about female bonding but it was so important for us that night. We had both been through something that had made us question our femininity and attractiveness. We had both been through something that made us face our mortality and we had both been scared, bewildered, angry and frustrated.
I wouldn't wish that fear on anyone. It is truly awful. But if writing about it encourages just 5 men to tell their wives, girlfriends, sisters to check themselves and 5 women to check themselves and tell a friend or loved one to do the same it will be worth it.
Showing posts with label Fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fear. Show all posts
Friday, 18 June 2010
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Edith
As you travel on life's little journey you gather more and more memories. More dates to remember, more photos, more people to add to your address book. Unfortunately, the circle of life being what it is, you also start to lose people too. This weekend marks yet another anniversary.
After my Mum died, understandably I was devastated. I felt like a leaf on top of a madly rushing river. Pulled this way and that by the tide but no control over where it took me or what I bumped into. One of the many people who tried to keep me sane during the following weeks, months, years was my Grandma (mum's mum).
My Grandma was an amazing woman. In fact the whole of my maternal side is full of strong, amazing, selfless and wonderful women - it's quite something to live upto believe me. But for now, let's return to Grandma.
Her life had been far from rosy. Her first husband was a violent alcoholic who broke most of the bones in her body in his drunken rages. Back then society was less supportive. It was just after the second world war and many women had lost their husbands. The general consensus was that my Grandma should be grateful - at least he had come back! And so she continued to take the knocks for more years than she should have done.
Because of his drunken behaviour, my Grandma had to bring up her kids with no money (it went on booze) as he would spend his wages before he came home and then take it out on her when there was no food to cook! One day she even came home to find that he had sold every stick of furniture in the house just so he could buy his latest fix. 'Even the children's beds' she told me once in disgust.
Grandma spoilt her grandchildren rotten. Birthday's, Christmases and special occasions were something to celebrate. My Grandma could put on the best spread at a party so I'm sure it must have killed her not being able to provide a decent meal for her children. It must have broken her heart not being able to buy them proper presents for their birthdays.
Eventually she got rid of him and married the man who to all intents and purposes was my Grandpa. A lovely, kind, gentle man who cherished her and would have wrapped her in cotton wool to protect her from the East wind if he could.
But Grandma's knocks in life had not ended. In January 1996, my Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer and then in November 1997, her eldest daughter, died from the dreaded C. My aunt was a Matron and kept her illness secret from the family. She didn't want any fuss, didn't want to be treated with all kinds of drugs and so she kept quiet. To this day, I'm not entirely certain what kind of cancer she had but I think it was lung. This was a devastating blow. I cannot imagine anything worse than having to bury your own child. It goes against the law of nature. Parents are not supposed to outlive their offspring. Grandma did not let this break her.
Nor did she let it break her when in 2001, my Mum also lost her long battle against cancer. And this was despite my Grandpa's Alzheimers taking hold with a vengeance. Talk about timing. On the morning my mum died, my Grandpa (the gentle, lovely man) descended into the worst part of Alzheimer induced confusion. He accused Grandma of lying about about mum's illness so she wouldn't have to spend time with him. And then to top it off, he threw his zimmer at her. She was 82, frail with acute Angina (and though we didn't know at the time, riddled with bladder cancer) - the eternal creaky gate. So as well as dealing with everything else that day, we also had to contend with getting my Grandpa out of the house and into a nursing home so he could no longer be a threat to my Grandma. I've got to be honest it was pretty damn horrific.
And through all of this, my Grandma remained strong, brave and dignified. This is just a snap shot of the woman she was. Of the woman I adored. The woman who became my second mum. The woman who in so many ways read from the same page as me. It was amazing how in tune we so often were. So now you have got a glimpse of her we'll return to 3 years ago and the anniversary in question in this blog.
Once again, the Hospice had become a refuge for my relatives. Grandma had been taken in for some respite. She had finally been diagnosed with Bladder cancer after years of being fobbed off with tablets for cystitus about a year earlier. By now my brother was living in Newbury and I was still in London. We had the routine down to a T. When Grandma was taken in it was my cue to pack a bag and keep it in the boot of my car.
So when the phonecall came in at school telling us that we should probably get ready to say our goodbyes, I took to the tarmac (again) collecting Lenny on the way. Once again, we arrived at the Hospice and were shown through by the amazing staff. As we rounded the corner I stopped dead. Oh my God I thought she's in the same bed as mum was. It probaby seems like such a selfish thing to think of at such a time but all I could think was 'Bloody hell, I'm gonna end up there too'. Swallowing my fear, I walked to the bed.
It really was like de ja vu. A frail lady who looked vaguely like my Grandma lay there twitching on the sheets. She seemed to realise we had arrived and once more I was able to tell a wonderful woman I loved her. She seemed to understand and at that moment that was all that mattered. The twitching continued, as did the moments of lucid speech. After several hours Len and I decided we could take no more and we left my Uncle and Aunt there.
It probably sounds awful but I just couldn't do another bed side vigil waiting for someone to die. It is draining and awful and exhausting and the harsh reality is they no longer know you. They no longer recognise you. They no longer call your name or ask how your day was. I squeezed her hand, told her I loved her again and then had to walk away.
Yet again, true to the tradition of the females in my family (we are a stubborn, strong lot), Grandma didn't die that night. She held on til May 22nd. Lenny and I weren't there. We had made a joint decision that we would return to work and just wait for the news there. And this time, I didn't feel guilty. I'd done all I could. I'd told her I loved her. My Uncle and Aunt were with her. She wasn't alone.
And now I'm carrying on her tradition. My Granmda kept a blog but back then it was called a journal or a diary. She even started to type it up on her typewriter. It makes fascinating, funny, tragic and inspiring reading. And that's something else I'd like to live up to.....I can only keep trying.
After my Mum died, understandably I was devastated. I felt like a leaf on top of a madly rushing river. Pulled this way and that by the tide but no control over where it took me or what I bumped into. One of the many people who tried to keep me sane during the following weeks, months, years was my Grandma (mum's mum).
My Grandma was an amazing woman. In fact the whole of my maternal side is full of strong, amazing, selfless and wonderful women - it's quite something to live upto believe me. But for now, let's return to Grandma.
Her life had been far from rosy. Her first husband was a violent alcoholic who broke most of the bones in her body in his drunken rages. Back then society was less supportive. It was just after the second world war and many women had lost their husbands. The general consensus was that my Grandma should be grateful - at least he had come back! And so she continued to take the knocks for more years than she should have done.
Because of his drunken behaviour, my Grandma had to bring up her kids with no money (it went on booze) as he would spend his wages before he came home and then take it out on her when there was no food to cook! One day she even came home to find that he had sold every stick of furniture in the house just so he could buy his latest fix. 'Even the children's beds' she told me once in disgust.
Grandma spoilt her grandchildren rotten. Birthday's, Christmases and special occasions were something to celebrate. My Grandma could put on the best spread at a party so I'm sure it must have killed her not being able to provide a decent meal for her children. It must have broken her heart not being able to buy them proper presents for their birthdays.
Eventually she got rid of him and married the man who to all intents and purposes was my Grandpa. A lovely, kind, gentle man who cherished her and would have wrapped her in cotton wool to protect her from the East wind if he could.
But Grandma's knocks in life had not ended. In January 1996, my Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer and then in November 1997, her eldest daughter, died from the dreaded C. My aunt was a Matron and kept her illness secret from the family. She didn't want any fuss, didn't want to be treated with all kinds of drugs and so she kept quiet. To this day, I'm not entirely certain what kind of cancer she had but I think it was lung. This was a devastating blow. I cannot imagine anything worse than having to bury your own child. It goes against the law of nature. Parents are not supposed to outlive their offspring. Grandma did not let this break her.
Nor did she let it break her when in 2001, my Mum also lost her long battle against cancer. And this was despite my Grandpa's Alzheimers taking hold with a vengeance. Talk about timing. On the morning my mum died, my Grandpa (the gentle, lovely man) descended into the worst part of Alzheimer induced confusion. He accused Grandma of lying about about mum's illness so she wouldn't have to spend time with him. And then to top it off, he threw his zimmer at her. She was 82, frail with acute Angina (and though we didn't know at the time, riddled with bladder cancer) - the eternal creaky gate. So as well as dealing with everything else that day, we also had to contend with getting my Grandpa out of the house and into a nursing home so he could no longer be a threat to my Grandma. I've got to be honest it was pretty damn horrific.
And through all of this, my Grandma remained strong, brave and dignified. This is just a snap shot of the woman she was. Of the woman I adored. The woman who became my second mum. The woman who in so many ways read from the same page as me. It was amazing how in tune we so often were. So now you have got a glimpse of her we'll return to 3 years ago and the anniversary in question in this blog.
Once again, the Hospice had become a refuge for my relatives. Grandma had been taken in for some respite. She had finally been diagnosed with Bladder cancer after years of being fobbed off with tablets for cystitus about a year earlier. By now my brother was living in Newbury and I was still in London. We had the routine down to a T. When Grandma was taken in it was my cue to pack a bag and keep it in the boot of my car.
So when the phonecall came in at school telling us that we should probably get ready to say our goodbyes, I took to the tarmac (again) collecting Lenny on the way. Once again, we arrived at the Hospice and were shown through by the amazing staff. As we rounded the corner I stopped dead. Oh my God I thought she's in the same bed as mum was. It probaby seems like such a selfish thing to think of at such a time but all I could think was 'Bloody hell, I'm gonna end up there too'. Swallowing my fear, I walked to the bed.
It really was like de ja vu. A frail lady who looked vaguely like my Grandma lay there twitching on the sheets. She seemed to realise we had arrived and once more I was able to tell a wonderful woman I loved her. She seemed to understand and at that moment that was all that mattered. The twitching continued, as did the moments of lucid speech. After several hours Len and I decided we could take no more and we left my Uncle and Aunt there.
It probably sounds awful but I just couldn't do another bed side vigil waiting for someone to die. It is draining and awful and exhausting and the harsh reality is they no longer know you. They no longer recognise you. They no longer call your name or ask how your day was. I squeezed her hand, told her I loved her again and then had to walk away.
Yet again, true to the tradition of the females in my family (we are a stubborn, strong lot), Grandma didn't die that night. She held on til May 22nd. Lenny and I weren't there. We had made a joint decision that we would return to work and just wait for the news there. And this time, I didn't feel guilty. I'd done all I could. I'd told her I loved her. My Uncle and Aunt were with her. She wasn't alone.
And now I'm carrying on her tradition. My Granmda kept a blog but back then it was called a journal or a diary. She even started to type it up on her typewriter. It makes fascinating, funny, tragic and inspiring reading. And that's something else I'd like to live up to.....I can only keep trying.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
F.E.A.R
I've got to admit, I'm feeling a bit stressed out! Actually, if I'm totally honest, I'm feeling more than that: anxious, nervous and worried will do for starters. But the over riding emotion is Fear.
As I've said on several occasions, I love my job. And (more importantly for the children involved) I appear to be quite good at it. Living and working in this mad, amazing and crazy city has done wonders for my career. I've worked with some brilliant people who have taught me so much. I've taught some great children who have overcome hurdles higher than any I have ever had to clear. I've worked for some excellent Headteachers (and some not so great) who have encouraged me and allowed my creative mind the freedom to teach the children in a fun and imaginative way. In many ways, I'm a lucky girl.
So why the fear?
At the end of July my time in London will be at an end. I'm moving lock, stock and barrel back up North. But isn't this what you want I hear you shout in frustration!?
Yes, absolutely I want to live somewhere less hectic; somewhere I can actually afford to buy a house, somewhere with fresh air and open spaces. Plus if I'm honest, being a single girl in this city can be a pretty lonely experience. I would like to meet a nice guy. Actually forget that last statement 'nice' is a bit too bland. I'd like to meet a funny, exciting, creative, romantic (but not sick inducing!) imaginative, fun, dependable, adventure seeking guy who wouldn't think twice about heading off around the world if we won the lottery. Oh and own hair and teeth are also essential! Not much to ask for...
At the moment, there's just one flaw in my careful plan - I HAVE NO JOB!!!! For the last few weeks I've done nothing but fill in application forms, write letters of application and sit with my fingers crossed. Without wishing to sound like a big head, my CV is pretty good. I have a wealth of experience in the classroom and on the management team. I'm dedicated and hard working. I have a great rapport with children (kind of essential really). And yet Nada, nothing as yet!
I have a couple of theories about this.
1. I'm too expensive! I may well have worked my way up the professional ladder. I may have all this experience to offer. I may have excellent references but this counts for nothing in this economic down time. At the end of the day I cost too much!
2. I'm just not right for the jobs that have been advertised.
Either way, it's a lowering thought. I've built up a reasonably comfortable life style with a busy social life and a great mix of friends and hobbies. I think nothing of going out for dinner or the cinema (or even both) once a week. I splash out on gigs and theatre tickets without a thought. I have got used to this way of life. Whatever happens, I won't be out of work. I never have been. Even if it means getting a job in Tesco, I'll find something. But it's not what I want to do. I want to teach. I was born to teach. I love teaching! Plus I've got used to a certain standard of living. If I'm blunt, I've become quite spoilt.
So there's the fear right there. Fear that I won't get a job. Fear that all my plans of moving North for a better lifestyle will come crumbling down around my ears. Fear that I'll be living back at the family home for the next 5 years (not a prospect that either Dad or I would relish). Fear that my career will take a nose dive. Fear that my terribly Middle Class existence will become a little frayed around the edges. Fear that despite moving North, Mr Right will still remain as elusive as the Scarlett Pimpernell.
And breathe Jude! Once again in times of stress I turn to music to try and retain my hold on sanity and rational thought. My signature tune at the moment is a classic by Ian Brown. F.E.A.R....For Everything A Reason.
And that is what I keep trying to tell myself.
As I've said on several occasions, I love my job. And (more importantly for the children involved) I appear to be quite good at it. Living and working in this mad, amazing and crazy city has done wonders for my career. I've worked with some brilliant people who have taught me so much. I've taught some great children who have overcome hurdles higher than any I have ever had to clear. I've worked for some excellent Headteachers (and some not so great) who have encouraged me and allowed my creative mind the freedom to teach the children in a fun and imaginative way. In many ways, I'm a lucky girl.
So why the fear?
At the end of July my time in London will be at an end. I'm moving lock, stock and barrel back up North. But isn't this what you want I hear you shout in frustration!?
Yes, absolutely I want to live somewhere less hectic; somewhere I can actually afford to buy a house, somewhere with fresh air and open spaces. Plus if I'm honest, being a single girl in this city can be a pretty lonely experience. I would like to meet a nice guy. Actually forget that last statement 'nice' is a bit too bland. I'd like to meet a funny, exciting, creative, romantic (but not sick inducing!) imaginative, fun, dependable, adventure seeking guy who wouldn't think twice about heading off around the world if we won the lottery. Oh and own hair and teeth are also essential! Not much to ask for...
At the moment, there's just one flaw in my careful plan - I HAVE NO JOB!!!! For the last few weeks I've done nothing but fill in application forms, write letters of application and sit with my fingers crossed. Without wishing to sound like a big head, my CV is pretty good. I have a wealth of experience in the classroom and on the management team. I'm dedicated and hard working. I have a great rapport with children (kind of essential really). And yet Nada, nothing as yet!
I have a couple of theories about this.
1. I'm too expensive! I may well have worked my way up the professional ladder. I may have all this experience to offer. I may have excellent references but this counts for nothing in this economic down time. At the end of the day I cost too much!
2. I'm just not right for the jobs that have been advertised.
Either way, it's a lowering thought. I've built up a reasonably comfortable life style with a busy social life and a great mix of friends and hobbies. I think nothing of going out for dinner or the cinema (or even both) once a week. I splash out on gigs and theatre tickets without a thought. I have got used to this way of life. Whatever happens, I won't be out of work. I never have been. Even if it means getting a job in Tesco, I'll find something. But it's not what I want to do. I want to teach. I was born to teach. I love teaching! Plus I've got used to a certain standard of living. If I'm blunt, I've become quite spoilt.
So there's the fear right there. Fear that I won't get a job. Fear that all my plans of moving North for a better lifestyle will come crumbling down around my ears. Fear that I'll be living back at the family home for the next 5 years (not a prospect that either Dad or I would relish). Fear that my career will take a nose dive. Fear that my terribly Middle Class existence will become a little frayed around the edges. Fear that despite moving North, Mr Right will still remain as elusive as the Scarlett Pimpernell.
And breathe Jude! Once again in times of stress I turn to music to try and retain my hold on sanity and rational thought. My signature tune at the moment is a classic by Ian Brown. F.E.A.R....For Everything A Reason.
And that is what I keep trying to tell myself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
