It is part of the pressure of modern parenting, to be seen to be a good parent. Perhaps this isn’t entirely new, but certainly, these days, it is easy to feel we are being judged when we are in public with our children. There have been many occasions on which I’ve overheard a comment from a parent to a child, clearly designed with the audience of other parents in mind.
A child is throwing food off the high chair tray and screaming to be let out. The parent tempts him with tasty morsels from an array of Tupperware pots which emerge one by one from her capacious bag (my word of the week, capacious). Each morsel is met with “No!”, and she is running out of options. As the volume increases, she waits for a break in the yelling, and then says, in crystal clear tones that can be heard the other side of the restaurant
“I think you must be sickening for something. You're USUALLY such a cheerful chappie, and I've brought along all your favourite snacks: grapes and carrot sticks, and rice crackers with tahini.”
You’re in the park, and you hear a mother calling a small child.
“Come ON, Georgina. Come ON, darling. We really MUST go now. I’m going to count to three … 1 – 2 – 3 – … oh, ok then, just ONE more very quick turn on the slide. No, just one. One. That’s it. Look, there are other children waiting now. Come on, Georgina-Bear. We’ve GOT to go. I’m going to get cross now. Yes, I am. I’m leaving. I’m leaving right now.
Where’ve you gone? Oh. No more turns on the slide now. I’ll tell you what, you can watch a dvd when we get home if you come as quick as you can.
[And this is where the voice is raised just a little, for the hard of hearing adults in the vicinity.]
You know you don’t NORMALLY have television in the morning, because that’s an afternoon thing, but today, since you got up so early, I think you’re very tired, which is why you’re making a bit of a fuss here, and so – just as a special treat – let’s say you can have a dvd when we get home. Just this once, Gina-Marina.”
You know the kind of thing. We’ve all heard it. And come on, we’ve all done it. 'Fess up.
This being America, people are less inhibited about being loud in public, and also less inhibited about wanting other people to appreciate just how perfect their children are. This is a dangerous combination, and as a result of it, you hear rather more examples of the kind of thing I'm talking about.
Last time we were in Colorado, for example, we were on a steam train. It was a special “Children’s Outing”, complete with a person dressed up as a cuddly bear, and so there were lots of preschool children and parents. The last carriage was open, and the conductor had already told a couple of children not to reach out their arms over the side, and pointed to the notice which said the same. A little while later, a third child reached out, the conductor did his routine, and then pottered away up the train. At which point, the mother leant over to the child and said
“Yes, you’ll have to keep your arms inside here. That’s because it’s a rule. The people who are running this line have to have rules for everyone because that keeps everyone safe. That man doesn’t KNOW that your Grandpa volunteers on his local steam railroad, and that whenever we go to stay with him, he takes us all on a ride, and that Grandpa has taught you all about safety, and so you know perfectly well not to put your arms out when it is dangerous, and that you are careful to look ahead at what is coming up, and that you know how to be safe. And we OFTEN go to stay with Grandpa, don’t we? But that man doesn’t KNOW all that. So we’ll have to stick to the rules here. OK?”
And the rest of us in the carriage were mighty glad she’d explained all that in a voice which (because of the noise of the train, no doubt) had been rather loud, because otherwise we’d have thought that her child was just copying the other children, and having fun, and wanted to see what it felt like to stick an arm outside a moving train.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Stealing away
Cancer, the villain of the piece, is a thief.
Cancer has already stolen my boobs. Soon my hair will be stolen too. I’m lucky. Neither are functional body parts. For other people, cancer steals away organs they need.
Cancer has stolen the two-week holiday, carefully planned and much looked forward to, with grandparents, in Colorado, where the air is clean and fresh, and the mountains inspiring. Cancer has stolen the summer I wanted to have here: lazy days at the neighborhood pool, trips to museums, children jumping through the sprinkler in the back yard. I’d planned to have a go at making ice cream for fun. I have a folder full of special events, at the library, in parks, at churches, at sports clubs. Our first summer here, I had no idea how it worked, this 12-week break from school, in temperatures in the 90s, in a mosquito-ridden alien land, where all my memories of what I, my siblings and friends did as children in the summer counted for nothing. Last summer we were back in Britain. This was the summer when I was going to have a better crack at an American summer holiday. My children have made their own friends and so have I, I know what places to go, I’m no longer afraid of the heat and the sun, I understand how children here play and swim the hot summer days away. Cancer has stolen my chance at a good summer.
Cancer steals little bits of my dignity. Hospital gowns, plastic tubes emptying fluids into plastic bulbs, not being able to comb my own hair. These are undignified things. Not being able to wear deodorant, when it’s 90-some degrees, and there’s a short walk from the car park to the doctor’s office. “Stop apologizing, Hon. I've told you, you’re fine. We spend our lives in armpits!” said the nurses. They’ve used that line before.
Cancer is stealing my future plans. I have been "employed in the home” for 11 years, with one short foray out, and I am ready for a new chapter. This August, 5-yo starts school, and who knows what job I might have tried my hand at? Certainly I don’t, but I was looking forward to delving around and seeing what the possibilities were. Now, to the already significant list of reasons why I am unemployable: brain dead stay-at-home mom, hasn’t been doing anything except watching daytime tv for the past 10 years, has qualifications from English schools which don’t mean anything to us – what’s her GPA for heaven’s sake?, has kids – oh dear, will keep taking time off when they’re sick or in a school show, says she doesn’t know how long the family will be in the States in any case… to that list, I now add a trump card: has cancer, says she’s fine now and sees no reason to assume otherwise, but heck, cancer, she’ll be running off to the hospital all the time, and then there’ll be weeks or months of chemo, and you know what? there are plenty of other candidates (pity about her, though, because that accent would have been great with the clients).
Cancer is stealing the carefreedom of childhood. “When I'm a teenager, and I grow boobies, will I get cancer too?” “Can I come in your bed? I’ve had a bad dream. Yes, I’ll tell you. I dreamt they gave Mummy the wrong medicine and she died.”
Cancer steals small pleasures. Hugging properly. A nice cup of tea (I'm doing the dairy-free thing, you see). Sleeping on my front. Reading in bed on my front. Swimming. Talking to people about ordinary things, without having first to tell them how I'm doing. Only temporary losses - I'll get these things back. But for now I miss them.
Cancer tries to steal other things, but I fight back. Peace of mind, for example. That’s a big prize. I see him swing his sack down from where it hangs over his shoulder. I see him reach out a hand clad in a black leather glove, and he takes hold. I see the swag bag opening, so I hold on tight to my end as he tries to plunder. I’m not letting go that easily. It’s a tug of war, though. He pulls hard and for a while the loot disappears inside the sack, before I take firm hold and drag it back out again and clutch it to myself. Peace of mind. I’m having that one back. The ability to concentrate on other things. Fun. Energy. Optimism. Courage. Hope. A sane perspective. Serenity of soul. Normal life. He’s not getting these. Definitely not that last one. I’m hanging onto normal life.
And there’s one more thing. My precious blog. He’s not stealing that either. He’s had it in his sack for a while, but it didn’t feel comfortable in there. “I can’t breathe in here. It’s dark. Give me air.” Blogs get lonely very quickly, you know. I haven’t given mine the chance to make friends with other cancer blogs. Perhaps that will come. Perhaps I will need the companionship of cancer bloggers. They’re probably a great bunch. It’s just that I’m not ready to find out yet. Trouble is, I’m still having too much fun with the Mummy Blogger crowd and the Expat Blogger crowd. There’s so much still to talk about. So I’m grabbing back my blog, out of that sack, whisking it past those elegant black-leather fingers, and running.
In fact, I’m running all the way to Colorado, where, at three days’ notice, kind friends of kind friends have a holiday cabin which they are letting us use for a week. It’s in the same area that we stayed in two years ago, and it will be a treat to return.
I’m not promising that Cancer won’t feature in posts to come. Pah, the vilain! I have 12 weeks of chemotherapy ahead of me when we're back, and then goodness knows how many years of hormone therapy tablets. He does tend to dominate the scene when he’s around, cutting a dash in his stripy shirt and black carnival mask. Where does he think he is, incidentally? A blooming fancy dress party? But for the time being, while he lurks in his dark corner of the closet, feast your eyes instead on this
(not my own photo, I should add, but now I can't find where I got it from, so I can't credit the image). We're stealing away to Pagosa Springs, Colorado.
Cancer has already stolen my boobs. Soon my hair will be stolen too. I’m lucky. Neither are functional body parts. For other people, cancer steals away organs they need.
Cancer has stolen the two-week holiday, carefully planned and much looked forward to, with grandparents, in Colorado, where the air is clean and fresh, and the mountains inspiring. Cancer has stolen the summer I wanted to have here: lazy days at the neighborhood pool, trips to museums, children jumping through the sprinkler in the back yard. I’d planned to have a go at making ice cream for fun. I have a folder full of special events, at the library, in parks, at churches, at sports clubs. Our first summer here, I had no idea how it worked, this 12-week break from school, in temperatures in the 90s, in a mosquito-ridden alien land, where all my memories of what I, my siblings and friends did as children in the summer counted for nothing. Last summer we were back in Britain. This was the summer when I was going to have a better crack at an American summer holiday. My children have made their own friends and so have I, I know what places to go, I’m no longer afraid of the heat and the sun, I understand how children here play and swim the hot summer days away. Cancer has stolen my chance at a good summer.
Cancer steals little bits of my dignity. Hospital gowns, plastic tubes emptying fluids into plastic bulbs, not being able to comb my own hair. These are undignified things. Not being able to wear deodorant, when it’s 90-some degrees, and there’s a short walk from the car park to the doctor’s office. “Stop apologizing, Hon. I've told you, you’re fine. We spend our lives in armpits!” said the nurses. They’ve used that line before.
Cancer is stealing my future plans. I have been "employed in the home” for 11 years, with one short foray out, and I am ready for a new chapter. This August, 5-yo starts school, and who knows what job I might have tried my hand at? Certainly I don’t, but I was looking forward to delving around and seeing what the possibilities were. Now, to the already significant list of reasons why I am unemployable: brain dead stay-at-home mom, hasn’t been doing anything except watching daytime tv for the past 10 years, has qualifications from English schools which don’t mean anything to us – what’s her GPA for heaven’s sake?, has kids – oh dear, will keep taking time off when they’re sick or in a school show, says she doesn’t know how long the family will be in the States in any case… to that list, I now add a trump card: has cancer, says she’s fine now and sees no reason to assume otherwise, but heck, cancer, she’ll be running off to the hospital all the time, and then there’ll be weeks or months of chemo, and you know what? there are plenty of other candidates (pity about her, though, because that accent would have been great with the clients).
Cancer is stealing the carefreedom of childhood. “When I'm a teenager, and I grow boobies, will I get cancer too?” “Can I come in your bed? I’ve had a bad dream. Yes, I’ll tell you. I dreamt they gave Mummy the wrong medicine and she died.”
Cancer steals small pleasures. Hugging properly. A nice cup of tea (I'm doing the dairy-free thing, you see). Sleeping on my front. Reading in bed on my front. Swimming. Talking to people about ordinary things, without having first to tell them how I'm doing. Only temporary losses - I'll get these things back. But for now I miss them.
Cancer tries to steal other things, but I fight back. Peace of mind, for example. That’s a big prize. I see him swing his sack down from where it hangs over his shoulder. I see him reach out a hand clad in a black leather glove, and he takes hold. I see the swag bag opening, so I hold on tight to my end as he tries to plunder. I’m not letting go that easily. It’s a tug of war, though. He pulls hard and for a while the loot disappears inside the sack, before I take firm hold and drag it back out again and clutch it to myself. Peace of mind. I’m having that one back. The ability to concentrate on other things. Fun. Energy. Optimism. Courage. Hope. A sane perspective. Serenity of soul. Normal life. He’s not getting these. Definitely not that last one. I’m hanging onto normal life.
And there’s one more thing. My precious blog. He’s not stealing that either. He’s had it in his sack for a while, but it didn’t feel comfortable in there. “I can’t breathe in here. It’s dark. Give me air.” Blogs get lonely very quickly, you know. I haven’t given mine the chance to make friends with other cancer blogs. Perhaps that will come. Perhaps I will need the companionship of cancer bloggers. They’re probably a great bunch. It’s just that I’m not ready to find out yet. Trouble is, I’m still having too much fun with the Mummy Blogger crowd and the Expat Blogger crowd. There’s so much still to talk about. So I’m grabbing back my blog, out of that sack, whisking it past those elegant black-leather fingers, and running.
In fact, I’m running all the way to Colorado, where, at three days’ notice, kind friends of kind friends have a holiday cabin which they are letting us use for a week. It’s in the same area that we stayed in two years ago, and it will be a treat to return.
I’m not promising that Cancer won’t feature in posts to come. Pah, the vilain! I have 12 weeks of chemotherapy ahead of me when we're back, and then goodness knows how many years of hormone therapy tablets. He does tend to dominate the scene when he’s around, cutting a dash in his stripy shirt and black carnival mask. Where does he think he is, incidentally? A blooming fancy dress party? But for the time being, while he lurks in his dark corner of the closet, feast your eyes instead on this
(not my own photo, I should add, but now I can't find where I got it from, so I can't credit the image). We're stealing away to Pagosa Springs, Colorado.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Open for comments: Part ll
Oh, you lovely, crazy, imaginative people. I remember why I missed you so much. Who’d have thought that there were so many clever, inventive, funny advantages of a bilateral mastectomy? No, seriously. Who would have? And as for the Finish the Sentence competition. What did you all do with this abundance of creative overspill before blogging was invented? If you've got a mo, you should go back and read all the comments before continuing with this.
I asked my friend Fran to judge the competition for us, since she started the whole thing off. But before I announce the winners, I have a few suggestions of my own.
My first own suggestion is one that I anticipated would be among the first that you’d all think of. It’s so obvious. No more mammograms! Not that they did much good in my case, neither the annual screening ones, nor the special diagnostic extra views ones with added ultrasound. There was just talk of my “very dense breast tissue”. I never minded mammograms. A few seconds of mild discomfort, was all they were for me. So that’s another reason why I’m the wrong person to have breast cancer. Not only did I like my breasts, but I didn’t mind mammograms. Anyway, I can’t believe none of you mammogram-haters out there didn’t spot this one.
Here’s another suggestion that nobody else got. There was a bit of talk about running and running bras, but no-one actually pointed out that if I ever take up marathon running, I won’t have to worry about Runner’s Nipple. A more everyday concern that I’ll never again have to face is that nipple-showing-through-t-shirt problem. I never did solve that problem, and now I never will need to.
Then there’s the secret, inward, delightful relishing of irony that I’ll be able to enjoy whenever someone uses the expression “tough titty”. I’ll have to start using it more often myself. The same goes for the expression “getting it all off my chest”. Oh yes. Secret irony.
I was hoping I would shed a pound or two or three as a result of the lopping off, but my scales at home aren't accurate enough to register this - even with the added factor of not eating or drinking for 24 hours. I did try, but the scales disappointed me - they're a bit hopeless, really. But even if the surgery didn't register a loss, I must confess I have lost a decent few pounds over the past month - nothing like a diagnosis of cancer to suppress the appetite. So I'm tossing that in too.
I also feel there is a certain altruistic pleasure in knowing that, since 1 in 9 women develop breast cancer at some point in their lives, there are 8 of you out there who won’t get it because I did. If I ever fall on hard times, I could ditch the altruism and run an auction for those 8 places. I'm sure lots of women would bid good hard cash for that privilege.
One more. Just imagine the social confidence I will gain, knowing that at any moment, I can reduce a roomful of men to abject embarrassment by introducing the subject. I see myself at a round table meeting with Alan Sugar and several of his ilk, and when things get difficult, I begin a sentence with “I’ve found that since my bilateral mastectomy…”, and watch them blanch into silence. Ultimate power.
Oh, and just one more. Just look how many comments on your blog you get, for the price of two boobs and a surgery. Wonderful.
Now to the judging.
For the Finish the Sentence, Fran picked Coding Mamma (Tasha) who says “A blog without comments is like… a coffee morning without mums”.
Fran found three winners for the benefits of bilateral mastectomy.
1st: Michelloui with the trampoline, as that made her laugh the most
2nd: Potty Mummy saying that I can trump anyone complaining about their own health issues
3rd (and just to prove she read to the last entry): Jo Beaufoix for the idea of still wearing a bra to carry shopping in or smuggle extra luggage on board a plane.
As for the prize, well, initially I’d said to Fran I wasn’t going to provide one. But she has your best interests at heart, and said she thought some pretty virtual M&S knickers would be fit recompense. And thus it was that I was browsing the M&S website lingerie department for a nice image, and came across a range of stuff called Fashion Targets Breast Cancer. I found this rather irritating, because I haven’t ever felt entirely easy with that whole breast cancer pink pink pinkety pink bandwagon that’s increasingly invading our retail space. I can’t put my finger on why. Perhaps I feel it slightly trivializes the disease. Perhaps I feel we should have grown out of pink things long before the age when we are threatened with breast cancer. Perhaps I have a sneaking suspicion that the proportion of the money that goes to the relevant charities is seriously outweighed by the financial and PR benefits to the manufacturers and retailers. Perhaps I think it’s awkward for the (admittedly very small) number of men who get breast cancer. Perhaps I think it’s unfair to the less marketable but equally deserving other cancers. I don’t know. (Does anyone share my unease?)
Anyway, I had a look at the M&S Fashion Targets Breast Cancer range, and was about to get irritated by the fact that it was all key rings, lapel badges and frilly knickers and nothing to do with breast cancer at all, when I noticed that it included a good selection of post-surgery bras with prosthesis pockets. So I quickly changed my tune. I say “A big Well Done to you, M&S. It is fabulous that you stock those things, so that women like me can feel normal and not freakish, because what experience could be more powerfully representative of being an ordinary woman, than buying undies in your local M&S? And I bet yours are cheaper than all the specialist supplier ones too.”
My congratulations to the winners, and my thanks to Fran. And here is a virtual pair of pretty M&S knickers for you, from the Fashion Targets Breast Cancer range. Unfortunately I can't upload the image (copyright issues? come on, M&S, this would be great free publicity for you), so you'll just have to click here if you can really be bothered to spare the time to look at a pair of, admittedly very nice, M&S knickers.
I asked my friend Fran to judge the competition for us, since she started the whole thing off. But before I announce the winners, I have a few suggestions of my own.
My first own suggestion is one that I anticipated would be among the first that you’d all think of. It’s so obvious. No more mammograms! Not that they did much good in my case, neither the annual screening ones, nor the special diagnostic extra views ones with added ultrasound. There was just talk of my “very dense breast tissue”. I never minded mammograms. A few seconds of mild discomfort, was all they were for me. So that’s another reason why I’m the wrong person to have breast cancer. Not only did I like my breasts, but I didn’t mind mammograms. Anyway, I can’t believe none of you mammogram-haters out there didn’t spot this one.
Here’s another suggestion that nobody else got. There was a bit of talk about running and running bras, but no-one actually pointed out that if I ever take up marathon running, I won’t have to worry about Runner’s Nipple. A more everyday concern that I’ll never again have to face is that nipple-showing-through-t-shirt problem. I never did solve that problem, and now I never will need to.
Then there’s the secret, inward, delightful relishing of irony that I’ll be able to enjoy whenever someone uses the expression “tough titty”. I’ll have to start using it more often myself. The same goes for the expression “getting it all off my chest”. Oh yes. Secret irony.
I was hoping I would shed a pound or two or three as a result of the lopping off, but my scales at home aren't accurate enough to register this - even with the added factor of not eating or drinking for 24 hours. I did try, but the scales disappointed me - they're a bit hopeless, really. But even if the surgery didn't register a loss, I must confess I have lost a decent few pounds over the past month - nothing like a diagnosis of cancer to suppress the appetite. So I'm tossing that in too.
I also feel there is a certain altruistic pleasure in knowing that, since 1 in 9 women develop breast cancer at some point in their lives, there are 8 of you out there who won’t get it because I did. If I ever fall on hard times, I could ditch the altruism and run an auction for those 8 places. I'm sure lots of women would bid good hard cash for that privilege.
One more. Just imagine the social confidence I will gain, knowing that at any moment, I can reduce a roomful of men to abject embarrassment by introducing the subject. I see myself at a round table meeting with Alan Sugar and several of his ilk, and when things get difficult, I begin a sentence with “I’ve found that since my bilateral mastectomy…”, and watch them blanch into silence. Ultimate power.
Oh, and just one more. Just look how many comments on your blog you get, for the price of two boobs and a surgery. Wonderful.
Now to the judging.
For the Finish the Sentence, Fran picked Coding Mamma (Tasha) who says “A blog without comments is like… a coffee morning without mums”.
Fran found three winners for the benefits of bilateral mastectomy.
1st: Michelloui with the trampoline, as that made her laugh the most
2nd: Potty Mummy saying that I can trump anyone complaining about their own health issues
3rd (and just to prove she read to the last entry): Jo Beaufoix for the idea of still wearing a bra to carry shopping in or smuggle extra luggage on board a plane.
As for the prize, well, initially I’d said to Fran I wasn’t going to provide one. But she has your best interests at heart, and said she thought some pretty virtual M&S knickers would be fit recompense. And thus it was that I was browsing the M&S website lingerie department for a nice image, and came across a range of stuff called Fashion Targets Breast Cancer. I found this rather irritating, because I haven’t ever felt entirely easy with that whole breast cancer pink pink pinkety pink bandwagon that’s increasingly invading our retail space. I can’t put my finger on why. Perhaps I feel it slightly trivializes the disease. Perhaps I feel we should have grown out of pink things long before the age when we are threatened with breast cancer. Perhaps I have a sneaking suspicion that the proportion of the money that goes to the relevant charities is seriously outweighed by the financial and PR benefits to the manufacturers and retailers. Perhaps I think it’s awkward for the (admittedly very small) number of men who get breast cancer. Perhaps I think it’s unfair to the less marketable but equally deserving other cancers. I don’t know. (Does anyone share my unease?)
Anyway, I had a look at the M&S Fashion Targets Breast Cancer range, and was about to get irritated by the fact that it was all key rings, lapel badges and frilly knickers and nothing to do with breast cancer at all, when I noticed that it included a good selection of post-surgery bras with prosthesis pockets. So I quickly changed my tune. I say “A big Well Done to you, M&S. It is fabulous that you stock those things, so that women like me can feel normal and not freakish, because what experience could be more powerfully representative of being an ordinary woman, than buying undies in your local M&S? And I bet yours are cheaper than all the specialist supplier ones too.”
My congratulations to the winners, and my thanks to Fran. And here is a virtual pair of pretty M&S knickers for you, from the Fashion Targets Breast Cancer range. Unfortunately I can't upload the image (copyright issues? come on, M&S, this would be great free publicity for you), so you'll just have to click here if you can really be bothered to spare the time to look at a pair of, admittedly very nice, M&S knickers.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Open for comments
Enough already about the woes of being a Boobless Wonder. And it’s high time I enabled the comments again, because I’ve missed y’all. A blog without comments is like a fish without a bicycle.
So here are a couple of competitions, to get you all back into the comments box. The first was inspired by my friend Fran, who encouragingly pointed out in an email one of the advantages of having a bilateral mastectomy. She said
I’m surprised that you overlooked that you will now be able to shop in the M&S pick and mix knicker department, safe in the knowledge that you won't need a matching bra anyway and can pick whatever you fancy... Think of the money us fools waste on getting coordinating sets.
Having not experienced life in post-Woolworths Britain, I can’t quite get my mind round pick and mix being a feature of M&S shopping. If M&S rescued the pick and mix, did another retailer rescue Ladybird children’s clothes? I do hope so. And what about Chad Valley toys?
I’m digressing. Back to the competition. See if you can do better than Fran. Try and think of a few more advantages of my recent surgery. I’ll help you out with another. This week, my children have been looked after by kind, kind people every day, and we have been brought dinner by other kind, kind people every evening. Husband won’t let me do anything except restful sitting down types of activities, and it’s all adding up to a ticket to guilt-free blogging. Perhaps I could have a piece of my anatomy lopped off every month or so. That way, I won’t have to cook, clean, or entertain children, and nothing will interfere with the serious daily business of browsing the internet. If I just have a small insignificant bit off at a time, I could keep this up till Christmas.
So that’s competition number one. Advantages of bilateral mastectomy. You can be as gruesome as you like. If you think to yourself “I can’t possibly say that”, that’ll be the very suggestion that I’ve been waiting for. Let’s face it. You’re not going to shock a woman who commissions a boob cake for consumption 48 hours before losing her own.
But just in case you’re a little squeamish on competition number one, here is competition number two (and you may enter both; I don't want to curb your creative urges). Complete the following sentence, rather better than I managed it.
“A blog without comments is like a …”
.
So here are a couple of competitions, to get you all back into the comments box. The first was inspired by my friend Fran, who encouragingly pointed out in an email one of the advantages of having a bilateral mastectomy. She said
I’m surprised that you overlooked that you will now be able to shop in the M&S pick and mix knicker department, safe in the knowledge that you won't need a matching bra anyway and can pick whatever you fancy... Think of the money us fools waste on getting coordinating sets.
Having not experienced life in post-Woolworths Britain, I can’t quite get my mind round pick and mix being a feature of M&S shopping. If M&S rescued the pick and mix, did another retailer rescue Ladybird children’s clothes? I do hope so. And what about Chad Valley toys?
I’m digressing. Back to the competition. See if you can do better than Fran. Try and think of a few more advantages of my recent surgery. I’ll help you out with another. This week, my children have been looked after by kind, kind people every day, and we have been brought dinner by other kind, kind people every evening. Husband won’t let me do anything except restful sitting down types of activities, and it’s all adding up to a ticket to guilt-free blogging. Perhaps I could have a piece of my anatomy lopped off every month or so. That way, I won’t have to cook, clean, or entertain children, and nothing will interfere with the serious daily business of browsing the internet. If I just have a small insignificant bit off at a time, I could keep this up till Christmas.
So that’s competition number one. Advantages of bilateral mastectomy. You can be as gruesome as you like. If you think to yourself “I can’t possibly say that”, that’ll be the very suggestion that I’ve been waiting for. Let’s face it. You’re not going to shock a woman who commissions a boob cake for consumption 48 hours before losing her own.
But just in case you’re a little squeamish on competition number one, here is competition number two (and you may enter both; I don't want to curb your creative urges). Complete the following sentence, rather better than I managed it.
“A blog without comments is like a …”
.
Monday, June 8, 2009
More about boobs
Look, I’m sorry to be going on and on about my boobs these days. I was going to say you’re all probably fed up to the back teeth with them, but that’s not a good mental image. The thing is, we’re all grown-ups here, and if you don’t want to read, you can just click away. It’s not like you have to nod politely and smile. I’m not actually talking at you. I mean, I haven’t even got the comments enabled, so you don’t even need to feel obliged to read the last paragraph and think of a short interjection that is bland enough not to give away that you didn’t read the whole post (oh go on, get off that high horse, we’ve all done that on occasion, Old Bloggers’ dirty little secret).
Life isn’t fair, is it? The thing is, I really liked my boobs. They would have been very near the top of the list of all the bits of my body that I'd have chosen to keep. And that would be true for all the stages of my life; they’ve always been the good bit of my figure. Now, if I’d had a wobblytummyectomy, or a flabbybitattopofinnerthighsectomy, it would have been easier to see the upside. But alas! I had nice boobs, and a bilateral mastectomy. As a friend pointed out, so many women don't like their boobs, it's really unfair that a specimen of womanhood who is entirely content in that department, is the one targeted by the evil Cancer (deserves a capital letter I think, as the villain of the piece).
Here are some other unfair things about having a mastectomy (and remember, we're grown-ups, you can click away, and I’ll never know – you don’t even have to look at your watch and say “oh my goodness, is THAT the time? I’ve got to pick up Orlando from taekwondo.”):
It makes your tummy look huge. That’s so unfair. I have a friend who works out like mad and is very conscious of the tiny few millimetres of bulge on her otherwise supremely flat tummy. She has always complained to me that because she is flat-chested, she has to try harder in the tummy department as there is nothing to divert the eye. I always poo-pooed her claims, but I have now had to eat humble pie. When I look down, there is nothing to see except a huge tummy. I’ve been looking at women on television with this theory in mind, and it’s true. A good bust is a perfect distraction from other bodily inadequacies. If you have a tummy to hide, having a mastectomy is like removing the more interesting top bulb from the hour-glass. Not a good strategy.
Those silvery stretch marks that were completely invisible because they were on the underside of a boob, now have their moment of glory as stripy decoration on the lower side of the scar. It must be a little like entering Britain’s Got Talent. For their whole lives, they’ve been tucked away, hiding their lights under a bushel just above my bra strap. I hardly knew they were there. Now they’re centre stage, giving it their all. The public will be voting for them next.
PMS. You still get PMS. Last week-end, before the operation, I was feeling particularly miserable, had the gloomiest of mornings, and thought “I guess coming to terms with breast cancer is like this. Bummer.” Then a few hours later I realized it was PMS. No fair (as they say round here). If you have been recently diagnosed with breast cancer, you should definitely pick up a “get out of jail free” card for use with PMS.
Drains. From the surgical incisions. Enough to put anyone off a career in medicine, I’d have thought. Bad enough dealing with your own… And because you are so careful not to lie on them, or tweak them, even in your sleep, you wake up not having moved a muscle all night, stiff as a board.
You miss things you never thought you’d miss. No, not the boobs this time. Your children’s bad behavior. As requested in a serious talk about "helping Mummy get better quickly" before the operation, they are quiet, and helpful, and keep out of your way, like small grey shadows of themselves. They don’t demand that you arbitrate between them, they don’t ask for things they already know you’ll say no to, they don’t say that swimming lessons are the worst thing in the entire world and that their summer is ruined because you are making them go. I can’t wait for the day (surely not far off?) when the playstation is far too loud, and they are bickering, banging doors, shouting, jumping on the bed, throwing wet towels at me with a “here you are, Mum” because they can’t be bothered to hang them out, and expressing outrage because they can’t have a huge chocolate chip cookie just before dinner time.
I liked my boobs the way they were, and I liked my family life the way it was.
Life isn’t fair, is it? The thing is, I really liked my boobs. They would have been very near the top of the list of all the bits of my body that I'd have chosen to keep. And that would be true for all the stages of my life; they’ve always been the good bit of my figure. Now, if I’d had a wobblytummyectomy, or a flabbybitattopofinnerthighsectomy, it would have been easier to see the upside. But alas! I had nice boobs, and a bilateral mastectomy. As a friend pointed out, so many women don't like their boobs, it's really unfair that a specimen of womanhood who is entirely content in that department, is the one targeted by the evil Cancer (deserves a capital letter I think, as the villain of the piece).
Here are some other unfair things about having a mastectomy (and remember, we're grown-ups, you can click away, and I’ll never know – you don’t even have to look at your watch and say “oh my goodness, is THAT the time? I’ve got to pick up Orlando from taekwondo.”):
It makes your tummy look huge. That’s so unfair. I have a friend who works out like mad and is very conscious of the tiny few millimetres of bulge on her otherwise supremely flat tummy. She has always complained to me that because she is flat-chested, she has to try harder in the tummy department as there is nothing to divert the eye. I always poo-pooed her claims, but I have now had to eat humble pie. When I look down, there is nothing to see except a huge tummy. I’ve been looking at women on television with this theory in mind, and it’s true. A good bust is a perfect distraction from other bodily inadequacies. If you have a tummy to hide, having a mastectomy is like removing the more interesting top bulb from the hour-glass. Not a good strategy.
Those silvery stretch marks that were completely invisible because they were on the underside of a boob, now have their moment of glory as stripy decoration on the lower side of the scar. It must be a little like entering Britain’s Got Talent. For their whole lives, they’ve been tucked away, hiding their lights under a bushel just above my bra strap. I hardly knew they were there. Now they’re centre stage, giving it their all. The public will be voting for them next.
PMS. You still get PMS. Last week-end, before the operation, I was feeling particularly miserable, had the gloomiest of mornings, and thought “I guess coming to terms with breast cancer is like this. Bummer.” Then a few hours later I realized it was PMS. No fair (as they say round here). If you have been recently diagnosed with breast cancer, you should definitely pick up a “get out of jail free” card for use with PMS.
Drains. From the surgical incisions. Enough to put anyone off a career in medicine, I’d have thought. Bad enough dealing with your own… And because you are so careful not to lie on them, or tweak them, even in your sleep, you wake up not having moved a muscle all night, stiff as a board.
You miss things you never thought you’d miss. No, not the boobs this time. Your children’s bad behavior. As requested in a serious talk about "helping Mummy get better quickly" before the operation, they are quiet, and helpful, and keep out of your way, like small grey shadows of themselves. They don’t demand that you arbitrate between them, they don’t ask for things they already know you’ll say no to, they don’t say that swimming lessons are the worst thing in the entire world and that their summer is ruined because you are making them go. I can’t wait for the day (surely not far off?) when the playstation is far too loud, and they are bickering, banging doors, shouting, jumping on the bed, throwing wet towels at me with a “here you are, Mum” because they can’t be bothered to hang them out, and expressing outrage because they can’t have a huge chocolate chip cookie just before dinner time.
I liked my boobs the way they were, and I liked my family life the way it was.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
A Tale of Two Bristol Cities
Looks like they may find it easier to get rid of my breast cancer than my blogging addiction.
Just thought you'd all like to know I'm through the surgery. Initial investigation showed that the cancer hadn't spread to the lymph nodes, although we won't know for sure for a few days, when the pathologists have had a chance to slice and dice the one node they took out.
I was home after 24 hours. Have had almost no pain at all, which is a little spooky, and makes me feel like I've been in some kind of Star Trek surgical facility, but it's nice too. Who needs pain? The nurses told me that the patients of my doctor do better than other patients, one reason being that she puts lots of local anaesthetic round the surgical site. Bless that woman.
Am generally in good spirits. Was able to do a few renditions of that Bay City Rollers favourite "Bye Bye Boobies, Boobies Bye Bye" for Husband's benefit on the morning of the surgery. And was amused by the headline feature on the front cover of the magazine in the waiting room "4 weeks to your best bikini body ever", when I knew I was about 4 hours from any hope of ever having a bikini body again. Irony, you see. It'll get you through most things in life.
I am sad, though. I feel I have to write this, so that you know that I'm, well, normal, as well as a relentless believer in positive thinking. My middle name might well have been Pollyanna. But you have to acknowledge this is a sad thing. Breastless at 44. Not everyone's first choice of life happening. A month ago I didn't know any of this. I was just getting on with the daily round. Now, it's all happened, and the boobs have gone. And I did like them.
I know I must be very sad at some deep inaccessible level of my psyche, a level that was working away even when I was under general anaesthetic. As I was coming round, my first sensations of awareness were that I was being wheeled along in the bed, that it was over, and that tears were sprouting out of my eyes even though they were closed and running down the sides of my face, and - most of all - that some kind, kind person was wiping them away.
Just thought you'd all like to know I'm through the surgery. Initial investigation showed that the cancer hadn't spread to the lymph nodes, although we won't know for sure for a few days, when the pathologists have had a chance to slice and dice the one node they took out.
I was home after 24 hours. Have had almost no pain at all, which is a little spooky, and makes me feel like I've been in some kind of Star Trek surgical facility, but it's nice too. Who needs pain? The nurses told me that the patients of my doctor do better than other patients, one reason being that she puts lots of local anaesthetic round the surgical site. Bless that woman.
Am generally in good spirits. Was able to do a few renditions of that Bay City Rollers favourite "Bye Bye Boobies, Boobies Bye Bye" for Husband's benefit on the morning of the surgery. And was amused by the headline feature on the front cover of the magazine in the waiting room "4 weeks to your best bikini body ever", when I knew I was about 4 hours from any hope of ever having a bikini body again. Irony, you see. It'll get you through most things in life.
I am sad, though. I feel I have to write this, so that you know that I'm, well, normal, as well as a relentless believer in positive thinking. My middle name might well have been Pollyanna. But you have to acknowledge this is a sad thing. Breastless at 44. Not everyone's first choice of life happening. A month ago I didn't know any of this. I was just getting on with the daily round. Now, it's all happened, and the boobs have gone. And I did like them.
I know I must be very sad at some deep inaccessible level of my psyche, a level that was working away even when I was under general anaesthetic. As I was coming round, my first sensations of awareness were that I was being wheeled along in the bed, that it was over, and that tears were sprouting out of my eyes even though they were closed and running down the sides of my face, and - most of all - that some kind, kind person was wiping them away.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Party fare
I thought you'd like to see a picture of the cake. You know you would.
We had a good time. I made my speech. We drew faces on the balloons, and wrote messages. And then we popped the lot, with great glee.
Here's one that is reflecting the light-fitting above the dining room table.
It looks suspiciously as if it's under the operating theatre lights. Gulp.
.
We had a good time. I made my speech. We drew faces on the balloons, and wrote messages. And then we popped the lot, with great glee.
Here's one that is reflecting the light-fitting above the dining room table.
It looks suspiciously as if it's under the operating theatre lights. Gulp.
.
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