My 'Keep Yer Hair On' book is now for sale! I've set it at the cost price £25.95 which is bloomin expensive, I know, but I've had a few requests from friends and family to make it available and that's how much it costs!
Anyway, if you click on the link, you can have a little preview of it without having to buy it, and if there are any budding bloggers/authors out there wanting to do the same, then you can see that it really is possible.
I've just recently received a parcel containing a little pile of books. And the author of these books?.....ME!
I have finally achieved a lifetime ambition - writing a book! Didn't think in a million years it would be about bloody cancer, but actually, when I've read through it, its not really about cancer at all - its about me, my little family and my friends, just getting on with life for 7 months.
We played our last game of the season on Sunday. The Corbridge Angels v Tynemouth.
I scored 33 before getting skittled out by a demon fast bowler. I have a bruise the size of a dinner plate on my inner thigh, my achilles are both nacking and my arms are aching like hell....but I've loved every minute of it!
This little cricket team, made up of old decrepit mothers with a few great youngsters hoyed in, has kept me going throughout the last 8 months - kept me moving, kept me motivated.
Out of the 100+ players in the whole league, I finished 5th top battter with 228 runs. Most of those were scored with a baldy head and sweaty bandana. For once, I'm not bragging here - I'm just grateful that cancer didn't take over my life for 8 months....Cricket did!
We have our own little blog too - so if you're bored pay us a visit!
Here are some of the lovely Angels that played on Sunday -
3 of my brothers kids have come up for a couple of days to enjoy some Northumbrian sunshine.
The 16 year old went shopping with my mum, so what should I do with the other 4? Hmmm.
I know! Lets go gambling with 2p's, feed our faces with fish and chips, then go to the beach!
This is becoming a regular outing!
Just thought I'd post this to give you a smile. The kids decided to do a bit of 'dune racing' at the beach on Thursday.
No children were harmed in the making of this video...they just had lots of sand up their nose!
I'm loving the summer hols.
We jumped in the car today and headed north to Seahouses and Bamburgh.
Puffins and seals on the Farne Islands, fish and chips (again!) the Grace Darling Museum and finally...Bamburgh beach - beautiful. We're so lucky to have all this on our doorstep. 2 sleepy children in the car on the way home...and one happy mum.
SPLASH! - a wet boat trip to the Farne Isles
Seals
Inner Farne
Grace Darling's grave. She was only 26 when she died.
The Annual Jazz Picnic took place yesterday. Dad got together some of his old jazz pals, 2 of his brothers and various other musical cousins for a fabulous day.
We raised £517.31 for Tynedale Hospice at Home - oh, and the 6 year old made an appearance - as Bessie Whittington!
I know I've finished this blog, but we had such a lush day today that I thought I'd just post some photos.
Gambling, fish and chips then beach...what could be better?
I think this will have to be it for the summer everyone.
Keepyerhairon will be 'closing down,' at least for the summer...but I'll be hatching a new blog for the autumn I hope.
Without going all soppy and writing terrible cliches, these last few months have been incredible. I started the blog initially as my own little diary/journal - something to focus on...and I now have over 80 entries and LOADS of fantastic comments from friends, family and even people I've never met.
Knowing that you were all reading this, has kept me going, kept me writing and kept me feeling great.
Its been the worst few months of my life, but I can honestly say that it has also been the BEST. I hope that comes across in the 80 blogs, because I don't think I could begin to explain why in just a few words!
Thank you everyone for supporting me throughout the last few months. It doesn't seem to have mattered that many of you are miles and miles away - it really feels like you've been standing right next to me for the whole darn journey....I'm so grateful to you all.
Have a wonderful summer. I intend to. And I'll let you know when a new blog emerges...with hair!
It's been a fabulous few days since the last day of zapping on Tuesday. Sorry I haven't blogged in a while, but every day has been so jam packed that I haven't had a chance to sit down and tap on the keyboard. At the moment, the kids are watching an old Batman movie (from the 70's) so I have a window of opportunity! (I suppose I should mention here that the 6 year old isn't just watching the film, she is in the film. She is dressed in woolly grey tights with the gusset hanging down to her knees, and wearing the 9 year old's batman costume, mask and cape. She looks great.)
The leavers assembly was brilliant. The school hall was packed full of parents and kids, and we were all thoroughly entertained by the happy, grinning Year 4 kids. They sang songs, told us of their memories at the school, played violins, danced to 'Its the Final Countdown,' and had us all whooping and cheering in the audience - no tears!.....until the head teacher stood up.
Mrs B. is a fabulous headteacher, and I was fully expecting her to stand up and say 'well, parents of Year 4 kids - time to say goodbye - thank God, because this class have caused nothing but mayhem since they set foot through the school doors 6 years ago...'
But she didn't. She admitted that this was a 'difficult' class, but explained that she thought it was for 'all the right reasons.' She described them as a class with LOTS of big personalities and LOTS to say. Hard work for the teachers, but rewarding too. She then stopped talking and her eyes filled with tears.
'And some of these children have had a lot to deal with this year.'
Well, that was it. The whole place started sobbing.
I looked at my little grown up lad on the stage and felt very, very proud of him. He's been a rock for me in the last few months.
And then I looked at his friend - the little lad whose foster mum died from cancer this year. Him and his 2 little sisters have been staying with their childminder since then, but in the next few days, they are leaving to join a new family - about an hour's drive away.
'This'll be my 4th mum,' he'd said to my 9 year old a couple of days ago. He's a talented little footballer, a cheeky little worky-ticket at times, but I've always had a soft spot for him - ever since I sat next to him on the bus on a school trip back in Reception class when he was 4 years old. He had stared at me for ages before saying - 'why have you got such a big nose?'
After the assembly, whilst all the kids were getting cuddles from their mum's, dad's and grannies, he was sliding up and down the hall on his knees. I went over to him, and asked if it would be alright to have a cuddle. I fully expected him to say - 'Get lost, big nose,' but he didn't.
'Yeh alright,' he said.
I gave him a hug, and babbled something about being good for his new mum, working hard at school, enjoying his footy and looking after his sisters.
'Yeh, ok,' he said, then went off sliding on his knees again.
He's a very brave little worky-ticket.
This week has been full of 'for the last time's.'
Cancer treatment for the last time for me on Tuesday, First School for the last time for the 9 year old on Friday, Year One for the last time for the 6 year old...and lots of last times for my 9 year old's little pal...new challenges lie ahead for us all, and hopefully lots of fantastic 'first times'.....
It's the 9 year old's last assembly tomorrow. He's been at his first school for 6 years, and he now looks like a giant compared to the weeny reception kids. It's time for him to move to the middle school.
When we go to their assembly tomorrow, all the mothers, myself included, will need to take a big bag full of hankies. I just hope I don't do one of those 'out loud hiccupy sobs' like the 6 year old does.
Its also the last day of term on Friday. Hallelulia, praise the Lord - we can lie in, no more packed lunches to be made out of nothing to be found in the fridge, no more school uniform to wash....well, for 6 weeks anyway!
Oh - and today is also THE LAST DAY OF MY TREATMENT.
Now that's a canny good 'last' isn't it?!
My dad is running me in to the hospital this morning for my 11.10am appointment. I'll be laid out on that bloody uncomfortable bed for ONE LAST TIME, zapped, and then THAT IS IT! NO MORE!
We then plan to go out for lunch, and maybe a little glass of something.
So - go on! Have a glass of something sparkly tonight - I know its only Tuesday - but its a very special Tuesday....
I feel like a walking nuclear power station with all this radiotherapy at the moment. But I've only got 2 to go.
I had the most fabulous hour in my little allotment this morning. All those seeds I planted back in March are producing a wonderful harvest. The greenhouse is like a tiny tropical rainforest with gigantic leaves filling every bit of space. Cucumbers, courgettes and tomatoes are growing in abundance, and the garden is overflowing with raspberries, strawberries, blackcurrants, broccoli, cauliflowers, peas, french beans, onions...its wonderful.
Meanwhile, our 5 hens - Rihanna, Henny, Sandy, Fluffy and Duffy are laying eggs like mad - they are very happy hens.
There was something very satisfying about gathering in all the produce this morning. I made a lovely tea out of it (well I thought it was lovely - the 9 year old twisted his face in disgust when he saw so much green on his plate)
The 6 year old and I even made 5 jars of raspberry jam this afternoon. She designed some lovely labels, and we cut out little disks for the jar lids out of a couple of my bandanas! We recycle lots of things in this family - even baldy head-covers!
As I surveyed all these lovely home produce things, I felt a satisfied little ready brek glow all around me....
It was Sports Day yesterday. An afternoon of joy, disappointment, achievement and anguish. I snapped away with the camera for the whole 2 hours and looked through all the photos as soon as I got home - you can spot all four of those emotions on the pictures - on the faces of the children...and some of the parents.
We just want our kids to be happy.
Tonight, I held my little 6 year old as she sobbed with that hiccupy-style crying that you just can't seem to stop. She had dropped and broken a precious object on the kitchen floor - much to her daddy's fury - and he had yelled at her.
The 'Apple of Dad's Eye' crown doesn't often slip, so she flew upstairs, howling - broken-hearted.
After a while, she crept downstairs to find her mum, and buried her head into my chest. She was sorry, she was very, very sorry, and she needed me to cuddle away the tears.
Of course I could. Within minutes, the hiccups stopped, and she was fine again.
At the hospital today, after my zapping treatment, I went to visit my old PE teacher. She's not too good at the moment. After-effects from the stroke are giving her excruciating pain down one side, and they are trying to control the pain in hospital. She's been there for a couple of days.
She's in her own room, and when I got there she was fast asleep. Her mum was with her.
When my teacher opened her eyes, she saw me, and as she slowly recognised me, we had a good bit of smiling and laughing. She can't speak, so she couldn't ask me why the hell I was wearing a Buff scarf with a cricket cap on top. Instead, I carefully showed her all the little bits and pieces that my 6 year old had made for her. They were in a little shoe box with her name written on it.
She dozed off again, and minutes later, she woke up suddenly, her face twisted with pain. Her 84 year old mum jumped up, and held her 54 year old daughter - she desperately wanted to make her feel better.
She couldn't - and it was heartbreaking.
'It should be me there,' she whispered, stroking her daughter's hair, 'not her.'
We'll do anything for our kids to be happy.
I came away from the hospital in tears, of course. I passed the nurses on my way out - chatting about flights from Newcastle, and what they were having for tea tonight.
'There's a mother in cubicle 13 who can't make her daughter feel better!' I wanted to shout. 'Why the hell are you talking about holidays to Magaluf? Why don't you care?!'
Instead, I walked the hundred miles of corridors to my car and drove home. I looked through all the sports day photos again. That's all I could think of to do to help make me feel better.
I can't explain this one. I can't make sense of this one. I can't think of anything wise or clever to say...I just had write about it.
I'm over half way through the radiotherapy now. 8 down, 7 to go.
When I was in on Friday, a nice fella called Ben asked if he could sit next to me. He was 61 and having treatment for prostate cancer. I think he fancied a chat cause there were plenty of empty seats. I didn't mind. He was a really nice man. He used to play cricket, so we talked tactics for a while, and he admired my cricket cap which I don't think I've taken off since I got it - my initials embroidered on in gold.
'This whole cancer thing makes you think a bit doesn't it,' he said.
'Well, it does I suppose,' I replied, wondering where he was going with this conversation.
'I've been really horrible to my wife over the years,' he said sadly.
'Oh?' I said, thinking that he didn't look like he'd be horrible to anyone.
'All the huffs and sulks. And I've been a right miserable bugger. I don't know how she's put up with me.'
'Well she has, and you can change things from now,' I said. 'Get some holidays booked, some weekends away, organise some nice treats for you both.'
He looked very upset suddenly, and I could tell that he had many regrets whizzing around in his head. It had taken cancer to wake him up. He doesn't want things to go back to normal after the treatment. He knows he has to change things.
As for me, well, I'm slowly returning back to 'normal.'
My body, despite being radioactive, is emerging out of the chemo fairly well. I'm not sniffing and dripping any more. I can frown now with the help of eyebrows. I can make a slight breeze with eyelashes when I blink, and my legs are like Kielder Forest again. Best of all, I managed to get 47 runs on Thursday before collapsing in a sweaty heap - every muscle and joint in my body groaning with pain.
I want to be back to normal - and, I didn't realise until that cricketing performance, just how much my lovely husband wants me back to normal too.
'Straight off the radiotherapy bed and she scores 47 runs!' I heard him boast to his cricketing friend the next day. He was bursting with pride. If his mother was still alive, she would have been reminded of the day that he had asked me out.
'He came bounding in,' she would describe, imitating him brilliantly... I always loved hearing her tell that story...(it was her favourite, and she told it many times.)
Now I know what she meant. I've seen it with my own eyes now. I've witnessed that bounding, bouncing and beaming lad - just as she described. The weight has begun to lift off his shoulders as he sees the old me coming back again - 16 years older than when he first clapped eyes on me - but its me - almost back to normal - and I'm glad that's the way he wants me.
I'm supposed to see a doctor every Tuesday after the radiotherapy, so I asked the very miserable lady on the desk where I had to go. She waved her hand over to a different waiting area. 'Hey hinny,' I wanted to say, 'try and smile a bit, man,' but I didn't, and just sat down. I did as I was told.
One hour later, I was still sitting there. In that time, my mum had painted a massive silk scarf with the nice proggy mat lady. Meanwhile, I was wishing that I'd brought a ball and a set of stumps so that I could practice my bowling down the corridor. It would make an excellent practice area there, and I'm sure if I brought a bat then some of the patients would love to join in. I suggested it to a couple of them, and they had a laugh.
There was a little old lady sitting with us who had been waiting for an hour and a half. She was absolutely fed up. My mum decided to take action and marched up to the desk to see if the miserable lady could give us an idea of how long we'd have to wait. She managed to summon a nurse for help.
The nurse came over and asked for our names.
'Ah,' she said, embarrassed, 'the doctor is on holiday. Weren't you told?'
'Er...no.' I said politely, my tummy rumbling like hell. It was 1.30pm.
She then said something which made me really laugh.
'The machine should have told you that the doctor was on holiday.'
The machine? Who the hell was the machine? Did she mean the grumpy receptionist? Was she really a robot that had malfunctioned and forgotton to smile and give important information out? I glanced across at grumpy pants. She ducked down behind her computer screen.
'Who is the machine?' I asked nicely.
'Well, yunno - there was supposed to be a note on the computer for them to tell you.'
'Who's 'them'?' I asked.
The nice nurse was genuinely sorry for the mistake. She was kind, she was caring. She didn't want to blame anyone...but I followed her eyes...to grumpy pants.
'I see,' I said calmly, and looked at my little friend, the little old lady who had spent her whole day waiting. She was really tired. She had been ready from 7am this morning - waiting for her hospital lift that was 2 hours late. She had been at the hospital for 3 hours and would now have to wait for who knows how long for her lift home....
I looked across at the reception desk.
'I think I know where we'll set the stumps up tomorrow, Patricia....'
I had an early appointment this morning, and for the first time managed to navigate myself to the hospital without the use of the sat nav. The car is learning to find its own way there.
I actually quite like spending this time in the car. I had a good blast of Fleetwood Mac this morning, and sometimes, you see entertaining things out of the window. Today, there was a lady with 2 young dogs waiting at a pedestrian crossing. She was holding one of the dogs in her arms, and the other little dog was on a lead, proudly holding what looked like a tree in its mouth. There's been a good bit of wind recently and a big branch, about 15 times the size of the little dog, must have got blown down - much to its delight. Its tail was wagging like hell... A bit like me when I found the magnum of champagne from my brother in the greenhouse. Far too big for little me...but hey, lets give it a go...
When the green man lit up, the lady set off across the road, but her dog just couldn't balance the branch properly, and refused to move. I could see her trying to rationalise with her little pet. 'Come on, my darlin -just leave the tree.' He would not let go. She was running out of time and was beginning to panic. The beeps were ringing out loudly. She had to act before she was flattened by 100's of impatient commuters.
Struggling to keep the other little dog in her arms, she somehow managed to lift the branch. The determined little dog still wouldn't let go of his prize though, and he ended up hanging from it by his mouth - all across the road.
They made it. She was happy, the dog was ecstatic, and everyone seemed to be having a damned good laugh in their car - me included.
I drove home from the zapping without a hat, scarf or wig on. As I got closer to home, I passed my hubby on his way to a call in his car. He was travelling in the opposite direction, and was past in a flash, but I could see he was grinning. He rang me up.
'Hey baldy,' he said cheerfully, 'I'm turning around - let's have a coffee.'
They warned me that the radiotherapy bit would be tiring and that the travelling would be a pain in the ass - but hey, sometimes you can meet some canny people in your car - today was one of those days.
It was Transfer Day yesterday for all school children in the county.
For the 6 year old, it was straightforward - she would spend the day in the year 2 classroom with a teacher who I know she will adore. She has been looking forward to transfer day for weeks.
For the 9 year old, however, BIG CHANGES are afoot. He starts Middle School in September, and will be sharing a building with enormous 13 year olds. His day was to be spent in unfamiliar surroundings.
As you would imagine then, the day began with a big shouting session. The 6 year old could only find 3 odd shoes, and I nearly had to send her off to school in her wellies. Thankfully, she found both of her silver, sequined party shoes and was delighted to be hoyed on the bus with those on her feet.
The 9 year old was as cool as a cucumber - lounging in front of CBBC without a care in the world.
'Here's 3 pens. You'll need them,' I said flitting around manically, 'and a pencil.'
'Yeh,' he replied, not averting his eyes away from the TV.
'And here's your PE kit, and look, I said look, I'm putting a rain jacket into your PE bag.' I stuffed his little cricket cagoul in the bag.
'Yeh.'
'And you'll need to hand this form in to your new teacher. See it? I'm putting it in your book bag.'
'Ok.'
'And this is the form you need to sign.' I wafted a piece of paper under his nose. 'You're signing to say that you wont abuse the internet.'
'Oh right,' he replied, 'what does that mean?' He scrawled his name in tiny writing in the space provided.
'It means that you musn't go on ebay or Amazon, and you musn't send rude emails to your mother.'
'Oh right, ok,' he nodded.
'And this,' I said waving a small envelope in front of his eyes, 'is your dinner money. It contains a cheque for £30 to go on a dinner card. If you lose the card, you have to pay £2 for a replacement, and if you lose it more than twice, I will make you pay for it yourself out of your egg money. Do you understand?'
'Uh huh,' he replied, completely and utterly bored now with his ranting, neurotic, lecturing mother.
When we finally arrived at the school - other frantic, neurotic mothers were clustered around the class lists that were sellotaped to the window - ensuring that their kid wasn't in with Horrid Henry or Dennis the Menace.
'See ya, mum,' the 9 year old said, strolling nonchalantly into the school.
'Bye darl, have a great day, and don't forget...'
'I know,' he smiled. 'Bye mum.'
He left me there, and despite all the chaos and the fussing of other mothers, and knowing exactly where I was...I couldn't help but feel a little lost.
He's growing up, the little lad. I'm so proud of him, and can't believe that he's about to start middle school. It only feels like yesterday that I was at middle school myself!
Day 1 of the radiotherapy stint is now safely ticked off on my list. It wasn't a zapping appointment - that starts today - it was a 'getting ready to be zapped' appointment, where they needed to get the machine programmed in with the right co-ordinates.
I have to say, that the radiotherapy bit of the big scary hospital is SO MUCH NICER than the chemo bit. I went with my mum, and the people in the waiting room were more relaxed, and some people even smiled! Some ladies in there weren't wearing any scarves, wigs or bandanas, and just had a fraction more hair than me. They looked really good. Maybe in a couple of weeks I'll join them. I don't look too bad now from the front, but when I turn to the side I seem to have a huge bit of skull that sticks out at the back. Gosh, I'm so vain!
There was a lady in the waiting room making a massive proggy mat. She had a wooden frame with a bit of hessian sack attached to it. She had loads of small strips of felt and was progging them through the holes in the hessian with a progger-thing. It's something my mum used to make when she was a little lass, so she got all excited when she saw it, and joined in - much to the lady's delight. (She was there as an 'official proggy mat-maker, by the way, not just a random lady carrying her hobby around everywhere she went.)
I was called by a nice chap called David, left mum happily progging away, and followed him into a little consultation room where he explained all about the next 3 weeks. He gave me a timetable with all the dates and times on and asked if they all seemed alright. The 'sports day' time was a bit dodgy, so I asked if that one could be changed.
'Ah, you'll be wanting to watch your kids,' he said.
'I'm not bothered about them,' I replied, 'I just want to run in the mothers race.'
He looked me up and down. 'I bet you run it in bare feet,' he said, a little smile appearing on his face.
'How do you know that?' I asked. I wondered if he thought I was Zola Budd.
'I can just tell,' he said knowingly, and left it at that.
A bit later, I was ushered into a little changing cubicle where I had to strip to the waist and put on a terrible little spotty tunic that had velcro-ed shoulders and sides. I didn't know how much time I had, otherwise I was going to start doing a Bucks Fizz Eurovision dance impression in front of the mirror, and whip the tunic off in one big rip. Thankfully I didn't, as they soon came in to get me, and lay me down on the zapping bed.
The radiographers were called Ruth and Robbie. I could imagine them on Britain's Got Talent, as they were a pretty impressive double act. He was slightly camp, and enjoyed dancing around the bed I was lying on, putting felt tip pen marks all over me. She was the sensible one, and kept checking to see if he'd done it right.
They got me in position, then left the room whilst the machine zooped about on its practice run. They told me that whatever happened, I had to KEEP STILL, and NOT MOVE!
Before they left, they pressed 'play' on the little cd player. I wondered what music they had chosen for me. Within a few seconds, Doris Day started belting out 'Que Sera Sera,' at the top of her voice. It was lovely, albeit a very surreal experience lying there - arms above my head, boobs out, alone in a room listening to Doris. I wanted to sway my arms in time to the song and sing along with the chorus, but thought better of it. In fact, I'm not sure I even breathed!
Anyway, job done, and all I had to do was drag my mother away from the proggy mat, grab a coffee and head home.
So when you press play on the clip above, make sure you think of me - in fact, why don't you try it yourself - and see if you can lie there throughout the whole song without moving a muscle - not as easy as it sounds!
The radiotherapy slog starts tomorrow - but so too does the countdown to the 20th July when I can honestly say...'Get in, its all over!'
My appointment is at lunchtime tomorrow at the nasty big hospital in town. I'll be home for 5 minutes, and then back into town to a place right next to the hospital...for an appointment with my cricket team! Yes, we are playing a VERY good team tomorrow evening - it'll be full of young county players, and the ground is like Lords with proper seating etc. I think they manicure their pitch there - I've never seen any clumps of nettles like we have at our place - which is just as well really, as we don't want to lose their ball when we start slogging it for four.
I hope we try a little harder than those overpaid, arrogant, petulant buggers from the England football team.
Before 'the match,' the 9 year old was playing footy for his school in a little fete tournament. They had to play 5 games in the blazing sunshine, and in one game they only had 3 players to start because the rest of the team had got held up in the sweety stall queue. They ran on heroically one minute into the game - mouths stuffed full of bubble gum and toffee chews, and went on to win the match and, the entire tournament.
Maybe that's all Rooney needed at half time - a couple of toffees.
So, at least in our household we had a football hero yesterday. He was very proud of himself and his team, but after watching the 'big boys' on the telly, he ripped down the England flag that was sellotaped to the stair window in disgust, muttering 'bloody Germans, bloody Rooney,' and replaced it with his own little medal.
With regard to the rest of the World Cup, he's in a dilemma now. I have shown him 'youtube' coverage of the Hand of God Maradonna goal - so not only does he now dislike the Germans - he would also hate to see Maradonna's Argentina team win....
...I think he needs to take a leaf out of the 6 year old's book. She is a glory seeker of the first order, and at the start of the world cup, she abandoned all faith in the England nackers, and wedged the flag of Brazil in her window. It has been fluttering there grandly ever since....go on Brazil!
Gosh - I've just noticed that a lot of my latest posts have been so long! Blah blah blah!
Time for another song then, I think.
Hubby and I have seen Mary Chapin-Carpenter LOADS of times live, and she's great. This song is one of my favourites. Best line to listen out for - 'In this world you've a soul for a compass, and a heart for a pair of wings.'
I met a little old man this week called Joseph. He was about 90 years old.
I had to go to the hospital to collect a prescription, and whilst I was waiting for it, he shuffled up carefully to the counter, handed his prescription in, sat down next to me and smiled. He was immaculately turned out with neatly trimmed snow white hair and a great big hearing aid clipped on to his right ear.
I couldn't help but notice as I checked him out, that he was wearing a jumper and a coat.
'Silly old fella,' I thought, 'Its 24 degrees out there, he must be daft.'
So in a big loud voice, I shouted to the daft, deaf old man, 'Blimey, aren't you hot with that jumper and coat on?'
He smiled.
'I was in India in the war,' he began.
'Oh God, not the war,' I thought, 'I'll never get away now.'
'I was with the RAF there for 3 years. I was only 18,' he continued, 'and they said to me that if I got used to the Indian heat, then I would always be cold when I came home to England. And they were right.'
I smiled back. He wasn't such a daft old fella after all.
'My uncle George was a spitfire pilot in Burma,' I said.
'I spent some time there too,' he replied, 'and also in Singapore.'
At this point, he stopped, and I could see that he was thinking back to when he was a young lad. His eyes misted over slightly with tears, and then he looked at me, wondering whether he should continue. Should he open up that little memory box in his head and share what was tucked in there with this young stranger.
'There was a bomb,' he said quietly. 'which was the start of my deafness.' He pointed to the big hearing aid. 'But my friend was in the next room, and he was killed. His face looked so serene.'
I didn't know what to say. The prescription lady came to the rescue and called my name. I signed for my drugs, then sat down again next to the old fella. I wanted to say sorry for thinking that he was just some doddery old deaf bloke, and sorry that he'd had to experience such awful things, but instead, I said that it was lovely to meet him, and thanked him for telling me his story.
There'll be lots of people wandering around with their own boxes of memories in their head. Some they'll be glad to open, some they'll keep firmly locked away. I'm not quite sure what I'll do with my cancer memory box yet. Will it be an open box or will I lock it away. I suppose by writing this blog, the box is well and truly open...at the minute. Maybe on the 20th July it will be time to stash it away in the hoy in room in my head, just like old Joseph had done with his memories of the war.
I don't know why that lovely old man opened his locked box for me the other day. Maybe he read my mind and thought - 'I'm going to put this young whippersnapper right,' or maybe, as I'd rather believe, he had sussed me out with my bandana head and thought he'd let me know that however hard it is to go through difficult times, you can stare those days in the eye and move on - all the stronger for it - even though it may still bring tears to your eyes - many, many years later.
When I was about 10 years old, my dad drove me and my brother all the way to the South of France in a Citroen 2CV to go camping for 3 weeks.
Before we set off, my brother and I were placed in the car, and the tent, the lilos, food boxes, clothes, and all other manner of kitchen sinks were packed in around us so that we couldn't move. The little car was stuffed to the gunnels. Apart from the ferry crossing, I didn't see my brother for 2 whole days when we finally fell out of the car, blinking in the blazing sunshine, at Les Arcs campsite.
We had the most fabulous time. Dad and my brother ate nothing but the 4 million Vesta currys they'd packed, and I ate hot dogs. Loads of them. In fact, I ate so many, that I puked up one night.
'I've been sick,' I reported to dad.
'Oh that's good,' he replied, 'whereabouts?'
'In the sink.'
'Oh God.'
Poor dad had to clear up 10 hot dogs from the campsite sink. He couldn't believe that I'd swallowed them whole.
He took us to Monte Carlo, and as a good, responsible father, left us outside whilst he wandered in to one of the fancy casinos for a look. Two minutes later, he was hoyed out by 2 french bouncers. Seemingly, you weren't allowed in wearing a cheesecloth shirt, brown shorts and Jesus sandals. We laughed for ages about it over ice cold litres of panache each - (that's shandy in English.)
He took us snorkelling in a lovely secluded cove one day. My brother set about collecting clams. The only place he could store them was down his trunks, and when one of the little buggers decided to 'attach' itself to him, my dad found super-human strength to prise the mighty clam apart. Thanks to my dad, my brother went on to have 4 beautiful children.
I, of course, laughed and laughed until sundown, when I discovered that I had 10th degree burns on my chest from the sun. 'Dad, man, that NACKS!' I squealed as he roughly slapped the aftersun on like lard on an English Channel swimmer.
My brother was pleased to see me in pain. Served me right for laughing at his clammed 'bits.'
Dad also locked me in an outside toilet for 30 minutes. He didn't mean to, but as him and my brother tucked into the lovely french nosh at the restaurant, they suddenly realised that I was missing. He had bolted the door from the outside to keep me safe - not thinking that his daughter wasn't Houdini, and wouldn't be able to get out. I was fine about it. I knew he'd come back to get me eventually, and God knows why, but I sang an old geordie song - 'Cushy Butterfield,' 87 times to keep my spirits up. My brother smiled quietly when I sat down to eat my cold cheese omlette. He had enjoyed his half hour of peace.
I got my own back on my dad by sending him into a shop to get me some envelopes. I told him that the word for envelope was 'singe.'
Poor dad spent 15 minutes in there with the 2 bewildered shop ladies asking, over and over again - 'Avez-vous des singes? Singes? Singes!'
He didn't realise that he was actually saying, 'Have you any monkeys? Monkeys? Monkeys!'
Not sure I've ever been forgiven for that one.
Other minor things happened on that trip. An articulated lorry crashed into the side of our 2CV with me shouting 'Dad man, Dad man!' helpfully in the back as it got closer and closer to us on the roundabout.
Our tent also collapsed in the middle of the night, and my lilo burst, so I had to sleep the rest of the trip in the dinghy. Yes - we also took a dinghy.
With dads in charge, anything can happen. With my dad, this is still the case, whether he's walking into glass doors, falling into pizza restaurants or booling up to ancient Roman bath houses with his trunks rolled up in a towel asking '1 to swim please,' to the horrified English Heritage lady.
My 9 year old sometimes says to me - 'That's what Granda would say,' or 'That's a Granda face,' or 'that's what Granda would do.'
'Jolly good,' I say, 'because if I can be half of what Granda is, then you'll be a very lucky lad.'
Happy Fathers Day, dad - and to all you other dads out there. Have a lovely day.
I remember dad once took me and my brother to Gateshead Stadium to watch an athletics meeting in the 70's. He was pals with Brendan Foster, the distance runner, and so we went armed with 4 bits of cardboard - each with a letter on - 'B' 'R' 'E' 'N'.
I remember the buzz in the big stand as he ran. I held up the 'B' and the 'R' proudly and shouted 'Bre-en, Bre-en!' as he cruised down the home straight to victory. It was brilliant, and I became a big fan of athletics. When you see these athletes in 'real life' you appreciate just how amazing they are.
During the 80's I used to love watching Sebastian Coe, Steve Ovett and Steve Cram - three British middle distance runners that competed against each other on all the great occasions. Seb Coe was the posh looking one who seemed to sail effortlessly around the track looking lovely, Ovett was the ugly one who also sailed around the track, but who didn't look as nice, and then there was Crammy, the local boy with the golden curls, who on his day, ran like a gazelle.
There were some occasions, though, when I'd find myself yelling at Crammy on the telly. Whenever he got tired, and hadn't paced himself as well as he should, he would run down the home straight, his head wobbling all over the place, and his feet looking like they were running through sticky tar. 'Howay man Crammy, keep yer head still for God's sake!' But you knew his body had 'gone' as the competitors flew past him to victory.
I kind of know now, how poor Crammy must have felt when his head went all wobbly and his legs just wouldn't work properly. He would know that all he had to do was run another 100metres - a simple task, but his body wouldn't let him - just as my body protested last night at the cricket. Angels v's 8 young county whizzkids.
Dad and I had been to the hospital in the morning for my ct scan. It wasn't so bad. I came out with 4 little tattoos. The only trauma of our visit this time, was when we were leaving. The revolving doors moved slowly around, and as I left the building through the door safely, dad walked straight into the glass.
We are probably the only people ever to leave that horrible place roaring with laughter.
Dad turned up to watch the cricket. I'm surprised he didn't have 6 bits of cardboard with him, 'S' 'H' 'E' 'N' 'T' 'S.'
I knew what I had to do. Bowl straight, field the ball well, don't lose my wicket early, and get a few runs.
In my first over, I hit the young batter in the guts with a full toss, hoyed the ball so wide and so high that it almost hit a couple of seagulls innocently flying past, and pretty much 'went all to hell.'
In the field, I ran about like a new born lamb for 10 minutes, then brought myself off after only 14 overs - my head was wobbly, my legs were like lead bollards. I felt like a knackered Crammy.
Opening the batting, I faced the 4th ball, went for a whack, and the bloody stumps and bails went flying. I wanted to shout 'B*S*ARDS!' but this was cricket, ladies cricket, so all I could do was trudge off and pretend I didn't care.
Husband was furiously frustrated with me. All that practice in the garden. 'Why the hell did you try and slog it?!' he cried, as I arrived back at the club house. Just like me, yelling at the telly all those years ago - 'why the hell didn't you pace yourself, Crammy?'
BECAUSE I DESPERATELY WANTED TO DO SO WELL, BUT MY BODY WOULDN'T LET ME!
'Have you had a tattoo today?' my protective dad, and biggest fan, asked husband quietly.
Frustration. It brings out so many emotions. We can yell at Steve Cram and Robert Green on the telly because they are supposed to be better, we can yell at our wives in a village cricket match because you desperately want them to be better (in their performance and their health) or we can just say 'hey don't worry about it, you've had a bad day, just do your best next time...'
I'll go with my dad on this one. I do have a bit of an excuse I suppose, and I will have to work hard to gradually build up all the fitness that's withered away over the last 6 months. Its bloody frustrating knowing that only a few months ago, I would have bounced around that pitch all day long.
In the clip above, Crammy is at his very best. He sits at the back, then gradually pulls away and wins the race by a mile. Patience, and I'll get there too - my own little Commonwealth Games.
Meanwhile, I'll continue to do my best with the lovely Angels and I'll still yell at all the athletes, the lazy, useless, overpaid footballers (unless they win the world cup) and all other sportspeople on the telly, whether they've had a tattoo that day or not....
When people go away on their hols, they usually bring something home to remind them of their stay. This year, I bought 2 nice mugs that were on 'spesh' in the shop, and some shortbread for our neighbours who had looked after our hens and had watered my tomatoes.
The kids spent Nanny and Grandads pocket money on a jigsaw, a bubble wand and a clever little device that was a telescope and a microscope, but they also brought back some other special treats that were completely free of charge.
The 6 year old, for the last couple of days, has been scratching her head in a frenzy-like way - a bit like the last time she had nits.
'You're head will still be full of sand,' I said, 'Gizza look.'
I inspected her head closely, and sure enough there was still half a beach stuck in her head, but I also saw a little creature, and another one, and another one. Bloody nits! Jumping and dancing around in her hair like they were at a party. How the hell has she caught nits when she's been off school for 2 weeks?!
I did the usual mad scratch of my own head, and then remembered that I didn't actually have any hair to infest! Lucky me!
The 9 year old, meanwhile had one big fat nit in his scarecrow hair, but nothing else.
'I think you'll be ok,' I reassured him, but as I looked closely at his face, I noticed a little dot of mud on his eyebrow.
'I thought you'd just had a shower?' I asked, squinting at the dot of mud. He assured me he had scrubbed every last bit of his body. 'Well what's that bit of mud on your eyebrow, then?' I asked, trying to brush it off.
'I couldn't get it off,' he said, flinching, 'it's just a spot.'
'Keep still, then, and I'll scratch it off,' I said, pinning him down.
I got my nail, and scratched of the mud spot thing, then inspected it closely.
It was a bloody tick!
'What's a tick?' he asked, horrified.
'Its an insect that sucks your blood and can give you diseases,' I replied, reassuringly, 'nothing to worry about, but just have a good check all over your body to make sure there's no more.'
After a minute of frantic searching, he couldn't find any more, but inspected the little creepy crawlie tick and half a dozen of his sister's nits closely through his brand new microscope. I think he was wondering if they were from Scotland. How would he know? Well, they'd be tartan of course!
I actually cried on the way up the 126 steps as we left last night. The 9 year old thought he'd upset me by covering my back with that sticky-jack weed, but it wasn't because of that - even though it was a little sod thing to do.
Maybe it was because during this last week, as Confucious dad said, it was a chance to be fun and frivolous. No hospital appointments, no drug taking...and no wig-wearing. Trudging back up the steps meant that I would have to start focusing on the ct scan, the boob tattoos and the 3 weeks of radiotherapy.
But hey - I'm psyched for all that, and at the end of the 3 weeks, on July 20th to be precise, it will all be well and truly over - apart from follow ups etc.
So I don't really think it was because I was having to face reality again.
Maybe it was relief.
A bit like when I left the chemo ward for the last time. I'd made it, I'd done it. I'd crossed a finishing line. We didn't think we'd get to the cottage, but we did - thanks to 2 little oystercatchers.
But I think it was more than that.
For many, many years as a kid and as a wife and mother, I have turned to say goodbye to the little cottage on the 100th step, before it disappeared behind the wild garlic, the nettles and the sticky jack weed. I'd always looked back and thought - 'Ahh what a shame, we're leaving, but we'll be back next year - bye for now.'
This time, as I turned to look back at the little cottage for one last time yesterday, I think that I'd lost a bit of my 'indifference,' and my 'taking things for granted attitude.'
Has the last 6 months just turned me more emotional? Or am I starting to see people and places with new eyes and with a new attitude. I love that cottage by the sea, and instead of giving it a couple of air kisses, I wanted to give it a great big hug and a heartfelt, teary farewell.
And so, back to reality - ct scan on Tuesday morning....and a cricket game on Tuesday evening with the Angels....and, of course, many more wonderful memories to look back on at our place by the seaside.
'Don't forget!' The chemo nurses reminded me as I left ward no. 1 for the last time, 'you'll burn more easily in the sun!'
'Yeh, Yeh, I know,' I said, skipping out. I'd read about 4 million leaflets about chemo side affects. Of course I knew about the bloody sun. What do they think I am for God's sake? Stupid?
Last night, I had a little chuckle when I saw the weather forecast - 'It'll be hoying down with rain in the north east,' the lady said, 'and glorious sunshine where you are, Shents.'
So what did I do the next day? I went to the play park with the kids, left the suncream at home and sat watching the kids zoom around in the blazing sun. It was lovely....until I looked in the mirror this evening. I have a bandana tan. If I just added a little bit of red face paint vertically over my head, it would be more of a St.George's cross tan - well alright, St. George's BURN - on my face - a red stripe across my forehead, and a red stripe down my long pointy nose....just in time for the world cup - I look like I have been branded with the England flag. Take the bandana off, and I look like the perfect England hooligan. Come on England!
I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be here with my little family.
The tide is way, way out, and it’s the kind of day where the pale blue sky and the sea merge into one. There’s a small sailing boat in the distance and it looks as though it’s suspended by a thread in the air.
Husband has spent the first few days sleeping. He needs it. A combination of working hard and worrying hard. His body has been winding itself up into a tight spring over the last 6 months, and if we’d left it any longer to come away, someone or something would have suffered when the spring snapped. Thank God, then, that this place can unwind him gently and safely. I’m beginning to see the bloke that I know and love emerging out of the stress and worry. He’s relaxing. It’s good to see.
For me, well – my junky veins are still nacking, but my mother of all coldsores has nearly gone and my mouth ulcers have finally disappeared which means that I can enjoy eating and drinking again. AND, guess what – my hair is making a brave attempt at returning. It’s peeping through my skull, whispering ‘is it safe to come out now? Has the nasty chemo gone?’ There’s a layer of white, fluffy downy stuff which is about 3 millimetres long, and a hint of a dark brown 6 o’clock shadow. It’s quite exciting!
The kids, meanwhile, are in their element here. We managed to climb up a treacherous gorge this morning for a couple of miles. We were doing really well until we came across an extremely tricky bit. We were faced with a deep pool of water flanked by steep, slippy, mossy sides. I managed to cling to the side and edge myself along to safety, but the 9 year lost his hold and slid down the sheer drop desperately trying to save himself by clutching onto wild garlic, stones and soil. He landed in the pool of icy water – right up to his waist. His sister, clinging for dear life further up the slope was laughing so much she nearly joined him. The irresponsible mother loved it. I feel like I'm getting stronger by the day.
I’ve had all sorts of medicine to treat this bloody cancer, but this place definitely has healing powers that no other drug can match...and what’s more, it doesn’t make your hair fall out!
Well, today I was going to write about our rockpooling session, the 10 cygnets on the swan pond, the 6 year old on the monkey bars in the play park, the 9 year old and his dad playing football like Brazil on Port Carrick beach, and the lovely sunny day.
But then, at 7.30pm the kids had a bit of an adventure.
We decided that we’d have a bonfire on the beach. The sun was out, and it was still warm, still and bright.
‘I’ll build the bonfire, if you two get gather some driftwood,’ I instructed, sending them off down the beach.
I set about collecting some flat stones, arranging them in a small circle and building them up like a little dry stone wall. In the middle, I scrumpled up some newspaper and placed some skinny little sticks on top. All I needed now were some bigger pieces of wood. I looked down the beach, expecting to see the kids, arms full of sticks, traipsing back along the shore. No sign.
‘Where the bloody hell are they?’ I thought, setting off to find them, following their little tracks. They’d completely disappeared.
I wandered along to the point where you can see onto the next beach, and was relieved to see a red and yellow dot in the distance – the 9 year old. Trailing behind him was a pale yellow dot with red rubber shoes – the 6 year old. They were miles away.
I yelled and whistled and gestured madly for them to come back at once. I had my furious, shouty shirt face on – not that they could see, but they obviously felt it because they both turned around and started trudging back. I glared at them for a while, and then, happy that they were on their way home, I muttered all the way back to the bonfire.
After 15 minutes, there was still no sign of them. Surely to God they’d have made it back onto our beach by now? I waited another few minutes until finally a 9 year old boy appeared, holding a red rubber shoe and looking slightly distressed.
‘Oh God,’ I thought. ‘Where is she? What’s happened to her?’
The 9 year old walked towards me, close to tears, saying ‘sorry mum’, over and over again.
‘She’s been captured by Somali pirates,’ I thought, ’or swept out to sea by a tsunami.’
I was about to shriek at the 9 year old when suddenly Icaught sight of a little girl clutching the other red shoe, covered from head to toe in seaweed. She was wailing.
‘What the hell happened?!’ I yelled.
‘Sorry mum,’ said the 9 year old, still on the verge of tears. ‘We got stuck in sinking seaweed...’
The 6 year old wailed her way towards me. Seaweed was clagged and hanging from every part of her body. She looked like a mini sea monster, and she stank – absolutely STANK of sewers.
They had tried to take a short cut back and had walked through a huge pile of rotting seaweed. The 6 year old had lost both her shoes and had sunk and squelched up to her waist in the stinking heap. Her brother gallantly went to her rescue, recovered her shoes, and was totally traumatised by the whole event.
‘Next time I ask you to get some sticks,’ I said calmly, hoying them both in the shower, ‘just get some bloody sticks, will you?’
The neighbours, meanwhile, smiled politely, quietly closed their door and stayed inside for the rest of the evening.
We’ve finally made it...we have arrived at our bonny wee cottage in Scotland and it is beautiful.
As I write, I am gazing out across a mill-pond sea as the sun sets. The tide is on its way out, and the Isle of Arran has emerged out of the haze in the distance. I can see a heron, and my little pals the oystercatchers are wandering along the sand looking for their supper.
The journey was painless. The kids were stuffed neatly in the back of the car with all the buckets, spades, wellies and....a Concept 2 rowing machine. Yes, the husband has insisted on bringing it along with us and is currently rowing like mad outside whilst taking in the splendid view. The couple in the neighbouring cottage must think we’re bonkers. They’ve already been treated to the 9 year old’s Britain’s Got Talent act. He can take his t-shirt off and put it back on again whilst hula-hooping. He’s practiced it all evening at least 152 million times – right in front of their window.
The 6 year old, meanwhile, arrived for lunch at the Burns Country Smokehouse en route to our cottage, and pointed to a sad looking teddy bear sitting on a shelf in their kitchen.
‘That’s my teddy!’ she exclaimed.
Sure enough – it was! She’d left it there 12 months ago when we last visited, and the owners had kindly kept him safe on the shelf until we came back for him. He stank of cullen skink and smoked salmon, but he recognised his careless owner and she was pleased to be reunited with him.
So you see, our neighbours seem fairly nervous of us at the moment, and I suppose with a strange rowing man, a hula-hooping boy and a girl with a teddy bear that stinks of fish, they have every right to be. Maybe they’re clinging to the fact that ‘at least the wifey seems normal.’
Hmm, I wonder how long I should leave it before nonchalantly walking past their window, scaring them to death with my skinheed look?!...
When I was at uni in Birmingham, I shared a house with 4 other pals - the pals that I went to Beijing with last October.
In our 2nd year, our house was a dilapidated old terraced house. When you flushed the toilet, water dripped onto the fridge in the pantry below. Our TV aerial wire came in through Pete's open bedroom window, across her room, into the hallway and into the lounge. In the winter she would freeze to death, just so that we could watch 'Neighbours.'
I won the best room in the big raffle when we moved in. It was a big, cold room with a double bed, and it had a great view of people on the top deck of buses that stopped outside my window. I would often wave to them when they stared in at me whilst I was getting ready for a busy day of PE lectures.
The downstairs bathroom wasn't really fit for bathing in, so we turned it into a garage, or 'hoy in room.' Anything that we didn't know what to do with, we hoyed it in the hoy in room. Bikes, rocking chairs, broken tellies, cardboard boxes, beer bottles...it all got hoyed in.
We were quite embarrassed about our awful house. My dad often laughs about the time he drove 4 hours from home to pay us a surprise visit, and knocked on the sky blue door, expecting me to embrace him warmly and invite him into our lovely home. All he got was a very reluctant 'do you want to come in?'
Our 3rd year house was very palatial in comparison, and having lived and survived the 2nd year together in 968 Pershore Road, we were all extremely good friends. Such good friends, in fact, that we would often borrow each others clothes...well, Niki's clothes actually...when she was away for the weekend and didn't know.
Pete and I had a great time wearing all Niki's outfits when she wasn't there. She shopped at Next and had a wardrobe full of lovely gear. She only found out that we'd been wearing her things when she discovered snotty hankies stuffed up the sleeves of her jumpers - left there carelessly by Pete. On one of the weekends that Niki was away, we stuck new labels in her clothes to hide the Next tags. All her clothes suddenly came from Mark One, Littlewoods or Oxfam. We thought it was hilarious.
So, when Niki came to visit on Wednesday this week, she finally got her own back. Never before have I had anything that she would consider wearing in my wardrobe...until now.
After exchanging hugs and kisses, she didn't wait to be offered a nice cup of tea or a gin and tonic after her long drive. No. She marched straight into our bedroom sniffing out the wigs like the childcatcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
'Aha!' she exclaimed excitedly, and picked up the shorty wig which had been dumped on the dressing table. By now, the 6 year old had appeared on the scene. Without hesitating, Niki stuck the wig on and admired herself in the mirror.
'Put it on backwards!' said the 6 year old, 'mum does that sometimes.'
So Niki put it on backwards, and we roared with laughter. She looked just like a Badger's arse. (Not that I've ever really seen one.) She then tried the other wig and rather liked it.
The 6 year old thought it was fabulous that this mad woman had been in the house 2 minutes, and was trying her mums wigs out.
I thought it was great that I have friends who don't feel like they have to nancy dance around delicate subjects like wigs and baaldy heeds. That's the way it should be, and that's why I love her. She represents true friendship.
Another friend, Jill (my best friend from schooldays) came all the way to Brampton on the Lands End to John O'Groats bikeride just to deliver some knickers for me and Suze. On this long journey, instead of knickers, she managed to organise, from Canada, 3 family meals delivered to my door for the freezer. They were delicious.
Other friends have given me bottles of fizz, flowers, scarves for my baaldy heed, travel magazines, and much to the posties amusement, a sherbet fountain even arrived anonymously in the post yesterday. LUSH!
And finally, by taking the time to read this blog, sending me words of encouragement and thinking about me, I think you are all brilliant. I love you all, and you can come and try the wigs anytime...just don't leave any snotty hankies in them!
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