Seven years on; two years back; five years out

Well, life trots on, doesn't it? This blog started off, in May 2007, seven years ago for heaven's sake, as the witterings of a lonely expat Brit mother, deep in the heart of the Midwest, trying desperately to make sense of her new environment, and heartily grateful for every other expat blog, and every other parent blog, which made her feel not alone. We called writers of parent blogs "Mummy Bloggers" in those days, and I seem to remember I used to put a hyphen in "expat". Things change...

What I'd never really thought, until I read this post, was that I was one of a small number of women, who got the whole Mummy Blogging thing going in the UK. It was pretty well established in the US, but I guess I was part of the small wave that traversed the Atlantic. I feel a bit proud of that.

I haven't really kept up with the great surge that that small wave became. Blogging for me was always about writing, and the social media side of things didn't really appeal. I'm now having to get to grips with social media, as I'm in charge of "Commmunications" in my job. I've been saying for this first year that fundraising has got to be my priority, and that's right. There'll be nothing to communicate about, unless the money comes in and the salaries are paid. However, I'm thinking that in time, I can get myself off on a few training courses, and maybe develop a new interest and expertise. The organisation's website is hosted on Wordpress, and though I've never used Wordpress myself, my experience in blogging has given me a definite headstart there. If nothing else, it means I can talk to our lovely volunteer who is revamping it, without sounding too totally ignorant.

Life, as I said, trots on. I'm now two years back from my expat adventure. I always think it takes two years to settle in a place - especially if you have children and are bound into the school year. The first year, everything is new and you feel like an outsider, and it's all a huge effort. Life is exhausting, just trying to be in the right place at the right time, with the right child, and armed with the right equipment. Because you're trying to make friends, you're having to be super-friendly all the time. Yes, it's tiring. Then the second year is much easier. You're no longer the newbie. The new newbies don't know if you've been there one year or ten. To them, you're just part of the fabric, and so you begin to feel so. There's still that sense of newness though - this year it's become a sense of relief, that you know what to expect at each event you go to, each thing in the school calendar. You won't be the person in jeans, when everyone else has dressed up. But that sense of relief is in itself a signal that you're still a bit new. It's a detachment, as if you're looking on yourself from outside the action, reflecting "this is better than last year, because last year I was new, and now I'm not so new". I always think that it's the third year when you feel properly settled, because you stop stepping back and analysing. You're just getting on with your life.

But here I am, in blogging indulgence as ever, by which I mean that blogging always allows you that stepping back and analysing. Two years back... Yes, we're settled here, and I don't miss my life in the US any more. Just occasionally, like when we were driving through Normandy on holiday, and it was so flat, and the way the light looked and felt as evening drew on, at the edge of the flatness, made me think of the Midwest, and our long road trips there. But it feels like a memory now, not a loss.

The other milestone that I've passed this summer is that I'm five years out from my cancer diagnosis. That really feels odd. When you're going through the treatment, the idea of being five years out seems like a long-distant mirage in the desert. Life will be all well, if only you can reach it. Well, it's not quite like that. For me, approaching the five years made me rather agitated and churned up. I found a thickening around my mastectomy scar, which I went and got checked out, and which was nothing. It's probably been there for most of the five years! But of course that was quite an anxious process to go through. The doctor was so nice and kind, though. I asked him whether other people get panicky in the run-up to the five years anniversary, and he said, yes, it was very common. He gave me the impression that his diary is littered with women finding unnerving lumps and bumps, just as they approach that five year point. It's always so reassuring to know one is normal!

I've got an appointment later in the autumn, to assess what medication is best for me, and I'm not relishing that prospect. It's so long since I've had to make decisions about cancer, and it's often a trade-off: side effects of medication versus percentage risks of not taking it - those kinds of things. It always used to give me that feeling of "But I didn't want cancer in the first place!", and though I'm not in the same place emotionally now, I'm guessing those feelings can come flooding back.

However, I'm making it sound all a bit negative, and it really isn't. I do think that coming through cancer has given me a bigger zest for life, and an ability to tap into a well of joy that sits deep within me. Is this what people call "faith"? It was always there, but I can access it much more quickly now. And because life is full of joy and hope and is to be celebrated, I'm having a big party in the autumn, when I turn 50. It'll be a birthday party, and a thanksgiving. It's going to be a ceilidh, so there'll be dancing. Also curry, puddings, and wine. The guest numbers are a little out of control, but I'm in exuberant mode. I'm celebrating!

.