Chatty Monday

Monday this week was Very Chatty. After my third un-instigated conversation with strangers, I decided to close my notebook and embrace it. This was clearly not a day for productivity but for conversation.

My first memorable encounter was in the waiting room for the audiologist with a man, a good few years my senior, who clearly had better hearing than mine as we managed an entire conversation without so much as a whiff of a 'pardon' from his side, even though his hearing aids lay broken in their box. He told me one of those horror stories about call centres on the other side of the world trying to repair a phone line in his living room. While speaking to the engineer who'd finally arrived a month after the relatively well-hearing man's first request and was testing the line, he took a call from a man wishing to plan his funeral. 'I'm really excited about this one," he said to the engineer, who gave him a slightly disapproving look, unaware that he was an undertaker. I made a mental note that I'd be happy for this man to carry my coffin when the time came. He had one of those chuckles which made him bob up and down and cheeks which pulled themselves up into gobstopper balls when he laughed.

Next came a lady in her sixties who was comforted to see someone in our hearing aid party who was even younger than she was. Hearing centres have their upside. They, and the cancer ward, are the only place where I ever feel, and indeed am ever described as, young. We chatted about our first hearing aid encounters and the relief of suddenly being able to hear whole sentences instead of every first, fifth and eighth word and how it had been the rustle of a plastic carrier bag which had made her rush her hands to her ears when she first installed her hearing aids. For me it was my footsteps. It took me two days to stop tiptoe-ing.

A few words with the stand-in audiologist and I was compelled to ask where he was from. 'Morpeth,' he declared, which is twenty miles from where I was brought up in Wylam. We exchanged chat on the beauty of Northumberland and how Yorkshire was a wonderful county too. But I spent the rest of the appointment with a firm hold on my replacement Nottinghamshire accent so that he wouldn't think I was taking the mickey out of his lilting vowels. Anyone who's ever changed their accent – mine principally because the scariest girl in my new class of eleven year olds told me she'd 'nut me' if I called her 'man' one more time – will know what I mean.

It was now two hours since I'd left my study. I had my notebook with me and an empty stomach so I sought out the nearest large, oh so British department store which can be found on most high streets and settled myself down with a voucher-bought coffee and scone.

'Excuse me,' said a well-dressed lady, with roll-up curls you'd like to poke your finger through and bright pink lips to match her scarf, 'didn't you have a little boy with you when you came in?' Now, I do spend half of most days in the land of the fairies and have bashed my head so frequently on open cupboard doors that I've put a conservation order out on my brain cells, but I think that even I would remember whether I had a small son (I don't) and that one of us was missing when we sat down. This led us onto teenagers (of which I do recall I have two), the generous free hot drink voucher scheme and how this lively lady was 81 and her equally adorable young friend, a trifling 76. The friends had met on a coach tour three years ago when they were both recently bereaved and were quick to tell me that the passing of their husbands was the end of any relationship with men. 'I don't want to meet a man,' the 81 year old said, 'why would I want to do that? He'd be old!' I learnt that she was a 'bit of a spender'. Today she looking for some red knee length boots and April was a great time for bargains. Currently, she'd been unsuccessful; they were all too wide for her calves. We agreed this rendered them more like wellies and wondered for whom, exactly, knee length boots were designed to fit as her (slim) friend couldn't even get them over her ankles.

Then they told me the secret of eternal youth and happiness: get out of the house.

Back on the train, I finally started writing. I was supposed to be editing but instead penned this post as I'd come over all grateful; happy to be alive. I hadn’t done the work I’d planned but decided it's a mistake not to grab life when it’s lifting our spirits. The women of-a-certain-age- reminded me of my Gran before she died at the age of 92, weakened physically by Stroke but still sparkling with joie de vivre.

I've always believed that the spirits of those close to us watch over. It isn't a particularly religious feeling, nor indeed scientific - they never see us doing anything embarrassing or hear us saying anything odd, which is helpful because in my case they'd be rolling their eyes and shaking their heads so much they'd wobble themselves out of the sky - but I do believe in ghosts. Not the white sheet variety but the Good Samaritan kind who hold your hand sometimes.

I like to think that my Gran had a smile as she watched Chatty Monday and that she’d be relieved to see that exchanging tales and giggles with strangers was still one of life's simple pleasures – when we manage to leave technology in our bags, of course.

Books and Chocolate

The latest copy of Chase Magazine is available online here and features my reviews of Vigilante by Shelley Harris and Elizabeth is Missing by Emma Healey (pages 90/91). These are two books I absolutely adored and devoured at pace. Both tackle big issues, speckled with wry humour and smothered in wonderfully observant story-telling. 

If you fancy a book to read while you negotiate your way through your chocolate eggs this Easter, I thoroughly recommend both of these.

Oh! And I've also included a sneak preview of Seaglass, the anthology in which my short story, Fly Joe! appears... 

The Fear

Ouch.

I am not immune to The Fear, unfortunately. I had hoped I might be. Forget piano certificates, gymnastics badges and swimming awards - actually, scrap the swimming awards, I failed the level below my Bronze Survival and had to do the launch of shame from the pool after only the first discipline. I should add that I had told my teacher I couldn’t tread water but she hadn't believed me - never do I feel more proud than when hospital staff praise my apparent bravery, my 'high pain threshold'.

Ouch.

I like to test it from time to time – with the odd break of a foot or a knee or the smashing of too many bones in my forearm and wrist to count or a chance burst artery following a fairly routine operation. How's the pain? the nurse asked, as the blood spewed so fast into my chest cavity that, mercifully, the vessels carrying blood from the miscreant area couldn't cope and thus blocked, saving my life (thank you blood vessels) but oh, at a painful price.

OUCH!

Out of how many? I asked, or rather, wheezed. 10, she said. It's 10, I answered. It couldn't have got any worse than it was and I had to wait three desperately long hours until I could have any form of pain relief. The 'ten' conversation was useful however, as it meant that as the big hand struck 7.05am, the nurse was there, at my side, pouring in the first dose of morphine which she'd set up a few minutes before.

Is this a good point to mention my love for nurses everywhere?

So, with this so-called high pain threshold I'd hoped I'd have Nerves Of Steel and The Fear wouldn't consume me.

And it doesn't consume me. But it does visit often.

Provided The Fear proves unfounded, the further away from initial cancer diagnosis you can step, the more it retreats, I'm told. But for the moment, The Fear of recurrence of cancer is loud; concert pitch on occasion. And although I stuff my fists into my ears, shake my head to disperse the debilitating thoughts, fill my life with family, friends, chocolate and busyness, The Fear is sometimes just too powerful.

My hearing has always been my bug bear. I wear hearing aids. They are wonderful. My tiny friends discretely do their job and I can go about my daily life barely affected, save for the odd mishear, just to keep my interlocutors amused. My hearing is going through a bad phase. I'm constantly reaching for the remote control to turn up the volume of my aids only to realise it's already on maximum. BC – before cancer – I'd have said that my ears must be blocked (I have tiny ear canals, they're easily blocked). BC, my hearing would have sorted itself. Post cancer, when I can't hear well, I fear I have a brain tumour. The most likely cause is actually a side effect of Tamoxifen, the hateful drug we truly love because it may be keeping us alive.

Last week I felt sick and wondered if the cancer had gone to my stomach. In reality, it was simply that-type-of-cold. I could go on.

It's The Fear of those evil little cancer cells dodging the medication, laughing in the face of the operations and lodging themselves into a new area of the body, one not being routinely checked. We tell ourselves that the medication is advanced, clever and designed exactly to deal with the evil little blighters but The Fear reminds us that they are clever, too.

It can be paralysing when The Fear muscles its way into our lives, lodging itself into our psyche and, as we try to ignore it, tell it to be quiet, to leave us alone, on the battle axe goes, beating us pitilessly with its rolling pin.

But I will not be beaten.

I will not let The Fear win. I ring my doctor. I apologise for my post cancer paranoid hypochondria and she understands. They all understand. That's the lovely truth of the Cancer World. They expect it. They expect those of us who are lucky enough to have survived and feel guilty that we let The Fear strike when we should be shouting hallelujah for our fortune, to be sitting in their surgeries. And they don't mind; they really don't mind and that does make us feel better.

And each time The Fear comes knocking and the door is answered with a reassurance that all is well, each time that The Fear proves unfounded, then another chip is shaved from the lump lodged in my consciousness, another stone ricochets off the side of Goliath's head, The Fear gets pushed a little closer to the back of my mind and normality is dragged a little closer to the front.

I do not feel the same as I did BC. I do feel a little on my own fighting what sometimes feels like inevitable recurrence now that the heavies of operations, chemo and radiotherapy have done their bit and the only remaining super power, Herceptin, is drawing to a close. I have two more due before I finish my year of three weekly dosages. I shan't miss the time out of my Tuesday or the water retention (otherwise known in my house as Herceptin Bum) and general grogginess which follows for a few days, but I shall miss the reassurance and friendliness of the nurses and the partial piece of mind this powerful drug gives, when it's just me and Tamoxifen fighting the good fight.

The Fear will keep attacking me but I will win eventually because I will not let it affect my here and now. It's madness, isn't it, to waste the glorious present worrying about the unknown future.

Madness, yes, human, also, but helpful, no.

Number One Career

The big news on Twitter last week was that being a writer was voted the most desirable profession. I was reminded of my youngest daughter years ago, not averse to the odd scribble herself, when she was asked whether she'd like to be a writer like her Mum.

No way, she said, you have to sit in the study all day, even at weekends.

Forget the home-cooked seven-a-day delicacies, the 3am home-baked birthday cakes, hugging my children before and after school, taking them - and half the team - to sports matches, stirring the vat of hot chocolate to the delight of parents stuck at work knowing I'd be on hand to take in their equally delighted freezing toe-d children when snow closed the school early.

No, 21^st century Rapunzel, that's what I was.

Writing is about hours and hours spent alone, no or little pay (for a while or forever) and rejection.

And I love it.

I love it for the flexibility writing gives me with my family life, even if my children may need to become parents themselves before they really appreciate it.

I love starting with a blank page and even before the bottom of my first cup of tea, seeing words on the screen which didn’t exist before I put them there. I decided on the plot and created the fictitious people required to bring that plot to life and that, well that blows my mind.

And I love it for weeks like this.

I love it because my stories are the only workplace where I am totally absorbed and my mind doesn't wander, the to–do list is forgotten and worries shunted to the back of my mind. I love it because it allows me to teach and nothing is more rewarding than watching light bulbs igniting in fellow happy scribblers.

And I really love it for weeks like this.

But I can't tell you exactly why. I will. Just as soon as we've agreed on a title, something on the lines of making lemonade when life gives you lemons, or it not being all bad, or silver linings.

Clearly there's still some work to do on that ...

Fly Joe!

Enough of this dull January nonsense, I have two publications to tell you about and they're making me feel very sparkly indeed.

The first is Seaglass, the anthology of short stories published by Black Pear Press in which my short story, Fly Joe! features. Seaglass is the name of the wonderfully evocative winning entry in the Black Pear Press short story competition from where the twenty short stories hailed.

And mine, well, it's about- Oh! You didn't think I was going to make it that easy for you, did you? Here's the beginning:

Hesta placed the food on the table in front of him, took the napkin and shook it to reveal a worn square.

"I've brought you lamb with redcurrant sauce and dumplings," she said, tucking the napkin into his collar. "Well, strictly it's not lamb but a couple of pieces of rubber from the bottom of me boots. I gave them a quick spruce up with the hose before of course, although being in the chicken pen, some of the poo does get a bit squashed in the grooves. We didn't have as many redcurrants as I'd have liked - been too hot, surprisingly - so I had to take the ones from near the ground; the ones you tell me not to touch because the fox might have pee'd on 'em. And the dumplings? Well, they're just dumplings, like me Mum used to make, the very finest with snips of bacon. But you were never too keen on dumplings, were you? Anyway, there we are, shall I feed you now?" she asked, finally sitting down on the edge of the bed and picking up the spoon.

Joe would have smiled if he could. Instead, he raised an eyebrow.

I hope you're intrigued and would like to see Joe fly. The rest can be bought here and to learn more about Black Pear Press, click here.

The second publication, the latest edition of Chase Magazine where I recommend three books which must be read this year, isn't new, I've been writing for Chase for years. However, it's just had a revamp and, personally, I'm delighted with what I see. Clever editor, Joe Cawthorn, has kept its Yorkshire identity but also afforded it much more of a professional glow, in my humble opinion. To access the on-line copy for free, click here.

I hope you enjoy my musings. Comments, good, bad and indifferent, always welcome :)

De-junking

I don’t do New Year's Resolutions. I've spoken before about how September generally feels more like a fresh start to me; the time to make changes for the better. In January I'm Resolutely Not Making Resolutions, I'm usually exhausted and too full of Christmas cake to do little more than tidy up.

I start teaching creative writing again tomorrow after a year away. I admit, I'm nervous. I was a big sufferer of chemo brain. It's a recognised but misleading medical term as it makes the condition sound quite cuddly and appealing. It isn't. This lack of cognitive function made my pregnancy brain look like Einstein's and the inability to remember the next word in my sentence, or even the theme of the conversation, lost its novelty very quickly. Sadly, I've yet to completely banish chemo brain to the past. Of course, writers tend to be good with words and ask erudite questions. Will I stand in front of my students and wonder what the question was? It would be good to remember what I was doing there, standing in front of a group of adults in the library of a secondary school, otherwise the two hour class is going to seem a very long time for all of us.

My usual solution in this type of situation is to over-prepare. However, this is harder to do these days as I don't have as many hours to play with. My Larkism was a wonderful experiment which turned into a very manageable reality, providing ten extra hours a week. Alas, the cancer fighting world took a dim view of my elected insomnia which knocked that little idea on the head.

So, the only hours I now have are the pre-midnight, post sunrise ones and I could fill each of those twice over. Couldn't everybody?

I can't decide whether I'm not very good at time management or whether it's just tricky juggling lots of jobs, any one of which can mushroom at any time and edge the others out of the question. It's a bit of both, I imagine. Whatever the reason, I decided that to free up some time I had to de-junk. And that meant clearing my mind as well as the rooms in the house.

* I threw out everything to do with cancer. If I need it again, that will be the least of my worries. There were shopping bags full of it – leaflets, redundant letters I was supposed to drop off at the GP (Sssh!) and tips and tricks for dealing with treatments - much of it duplicated information. It was helpful at the time, comforting also, but an obstacle later.

* I had this great idea back in the new-born days of emailing that I would have separate email addresses so that when I was working on one job, I wouldn’t be distracted by an email pertaining to another. This evolved into a separate email address for editing, writing and submitting, teaching, my little business, PA work for my husband, public paranoia (for the likes of Facebook, Google+ and Twitter, an address which wasn't allowed to come within a mile of my bank account details) and life (shopping and friends). My phone, infuriatingly, even after several calls to helplines across the world, as well as visits to that fruit shop in various cities, wouldn't send emails from all those addresses and thus I'd be forced to send some emails from the wrong account. It was carnage. Understandably, not everybody could remember which email address was assigned to them and thus would send me a message in sevenlicate. Every day I would spend several trips to my phone and pc to delete the excess and I'm sure the amount of time spent in this futile pursuit added up to hours every week.

So, I moved all my work and personal emailing to one address. The shopping and paranoia ones remain but have been removed from my phone so I have to visit them specifically.

* I unsubscribed to every junk email provider. It took a little adjustment at first, not receiving ten emails every few minutes. But I reminded myself that the lovely people at Wiggle, although with the potential to add warmth and happiness, were not really my friends (or colleagues) and would still be there if I needed them.

* I splashed out. I bought myself a large desk calculator. It's purple, you'd love it. Now I don’t have to do the accounts on my phone. It saves time and an inordinate amount of stress not having to re-key in a multi-layered addition because my pointer finger was too large for the button and typed the ninth entry incorrectly. It's a small thing, not the calculator, that's large, but I do think that removing the little bug bears in life goes a great way to sorting out the grizzlies.

* This next item is a work in progress. I threw out all the plastic pots which had lost their lids. Now when I need a box with a lid, I can find it. I shredded three box files of tax returns and all the paperwork which goes with them from the early millennium. I decided that if the tax man visited and was disappointed not to find them, I'd probably get away with a slapped wrist rather than a prison sentence. And it means that the information which I do need more regularly than in a blue moon, is now much more accessible. I removed the half eaten bags of nuts and dried fruit from the kitchen cupboard and transferred them into neatly labelled, recycled jam jars. The order pleases me (I do like to be grown up sometimes) and now I don't waste time clearing up spilt food or arrive home from the supermarket to realise that the three bags of pine nuts were an unnecessary purchase. Once I'd sorted the dried food, I felt compelled to move on to the baking accessories and food colouring. I have learnt that opened packets of fondant icing do not survive from one birthday cake to the next, even when wrapped in foil and popped in a plastic bag. OK, I probably knew this before but pre the de-cluttering, I was ever hopeful. The bench seat in the kitchen filled with felt tipped pens, paints and tissue paper from a pre-Instagram age, is next.

Honestly? Forget the New Year diet, I've lost two stone.

I feel better about starting teaching again. I still worry that I'll stand up in front of the class and forget what I went there for. But now that my brain is less of a dustbin, I remember that when I have time off from any job, even for a mere two week holiday, I feel I've forgotten what I do until, oh at least two minutes back in the role.  It's interesting how over-loading on the preparation wasn't the key to feeling calmer, but de-cluttering my life – and my head – was.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Meanwhile, I'd love to hear your time-saving and de-cluttering tips – please share!

My Cancerversary

Today is my one year cancerversary: twelve months to the day I learned I had cancer.

What do you think I'm going to tell you today? the consultant surgeon asked at 2.30pm a year ago, a nurse by his side. My heart slipped a little closer to my stomach.

During the mammogram and ultra sound tests a week earlier, a couple of comments about the lump (which I'd satisfactorily convinced myself prior to the appointment was the innocuous result of hormones) made me nervous. I asked the radiographer what he was looking for. The mammogram suggests pre-cancer, he said. Pre-cancer, I considered, I like the sound of 'pre'. Yes, he said 'pre' is good.

I left the tests to enjoy Christmas, knowing I'd be returning on the 27^th December for the results. Then they'd tell me whether I had no cancer or pre-cancer. Or so I thought.

I'd learnt about pre-cancer over the festive period. I didn't go near the internet - am way to cautious to trust my sanity to Mr Google - but instead consulted with my wonderful friend who, rather fortuitously for me, happens to be an oncologist in breast cancer. Pre-cancer wasn’t to be taken lightly, I was told. Dependent on the extent of these cells at the first abnormal stage, a mastectomy might be necessary, together with hormone therapy, perhaps, even a dose or two of radiotherapy. But no chemo and, crucially, no risk of death at this pre-cancerous stage. If there's a sentence containing 'cancer' as well as, 'no risk of death', it's hard to feel anything but relief.

I looked at the surgeon and the nurse and I think I smiled. It was OK, I'd prepared for this and the way he'd phrased the question made me certain. You're going to tell me I have pre-cancer, I finally answered. The surgeon and the nurse continued their gaze, not even a twitch from either of them until the surgeon said, I'm afraid it's much worse than that.

February: 8 inches cut off my hair

And thus I trot towards 2015 with three operations, chemotherapy and radiotherapy behind me and with much more optimism about the future than I had last New Year's Eve. Nonetheless, I'm celebrating my cancerversary small; just poking a superstitious toe into the festivities. No parties this year, just gratitude for the brilliance of modern medicine and for the love which has helped me step over the pebbles. Some people have to deal with cancer and other crises on their own and I can't begin to imagine how hard that must be. Being with my family around the gold star-bedecked table, clutching a tiddly wink cracker, brought me to tears this Christmas and not just because I burnt the pigs in blankets. I'm lucky to be here and my cancerversary is a time to give thanks for that.

September: first re-growth

Next year I hope to celebrate two years clear, then three and four and onto five. Five years is a milestone I pray to reach and a significant goal in the life of Grade 3 breast cancer. That's when we can really believe it's finished: every last stray cell gone, no new little blighters gaining strength and preparing to strike. December 27^th 2018 is going to be one heck of a party.

Meanwhile, I shall keep thanking my lucky stars for no signs of recurrence or secondaries. I shall keep checking - you must too, because early detection is your biggest weapon against cancer. Do it on the same day every month and then you won't forget. Boys! Enough sniggering at the back, you know you have to check yourself too, right?

2014: not all bad by any means...

And most of all I shall keep having fun because none of us know where our life is headed. In the inimitable words of the Cold Feet opening credits: Life's a journey, travel it well.

Please raise your glass with me for my cancerversary and here's to a happy and healthy 2015 for all of us!

Change the Record

Thank goodness, a frost at last! The fire's stoked, Harrogate smells of mulled wine and cinnamon and I've had my first mince pie – or two. I love the change of season, love Christmas and never more so than this year.

I was just thinking that it was time to change the record, that I wanted to talk of something different to the thing-I'm-not-going-to-mention today. Then late one Friday night when I really shouldn't have been messing about on the pc but felt the urge to do yet more research into an all singing and, err, spinning, spinning bike to replace the tired one in my not very Homes and Gardens kitchen, an email plopped into my lap. It was from Black Pear Press and it hoped I would be pleased to know that my short story, Fly Joe, had been shortlisted in its annual short story competition. Pleased? I'd have screamed if the rest of the house hadn't been sleeping – as much out of relief as delight as I'd done my usual of convincing myself that the story was ridiculous and I'd been a fool to enter the competition. 

And then I learn that the story is to be published in their anthology, hopefully before Christmas. Who needs Christmas presents?  

Next I hear from the talented and oh so studious, Judith Arnopp, writer of intricately researched historical fiction, that she's awarded me the One Lovely Blog Award in recognition of bloggers who share their story or thoughts in a 'lovely' manner. Thank you, Judith, I'm honoured to have been chosen. Judith writes her own lovely blog packed with book reviews and news of her own seven titles which can be found here.

Something I must do when accepting the award is declare seven cool facts about me. However, in the absence of anything cool - embarrassing moments, on the other hand, give me a minute and I'll fill you a page -  I found myself rambling about my life, all 46 years of it. My seven points currently read more like a memoir. I shall spare you the read, as it's Christmas, and return with a pruned and smoothed version just as soon as I've written some Christmas cards, iced the cake – oh, baked the cake – finished present buying, made the Stollen (no, I'm buying the Stollen), and made more mince pies than I eat.

This is Jon Bon Jovi, not my husband...

One more piece of news before I go. I have had my first haircut. I sat for an hour, read my book, chatted and drank their tea. It was a most pleasurable step back into a more normal reality. It's funny the things you miss. The style is not one I'd have chosen but to use a writing analogy, I see it as a Work In Progress, an advanced enough draft to expose it to an audience, and a cue for me to wash and pack away my wigs. They've served me well but I'm oh, so tired of them now.  Even better, my husband has also had his hair cut and so for the first time in ten months, my hair is longer than his. He's not exactly Jon Bon Jovi himself, but it's a step in the right direction.

Have a great week! I'm off to prune my words. 

What do you do?

In my last post I talked about those well-meaning throwaway comments made to people with cancer which might have less than the desired effect. I found it a tricky post to write as uppermost in my mind was the fact that nobody wishes to offend and everybody means to say the right thing. With one man's compliment being another women's slap in the face, it's a minefield for those without privileged entry into a cancer sufferer's chaotic mind. Nonetheless, I hope the post was useful. Your responses were, as ever, thoughtful and touching.

I'm happy to say that I'm back in my comfort zone with this post. It was inspired by the lovely Chriss Green, prolific sharer of my blog for which I'm supremely grateful, who suggested I list things people have said which hit a good spot.

I started scribbling immediately but quickly realised that it was the things people had DONE rather than those they'd said, which stuck more in my mind. So, instead of words, I've listed some of the bountiful gifts and good-deeds people have bestowed upon me over the past ten months. This isn't a definitive list of how to empty your money box or eat up your already hard-pressed time when you find out someone close to you is suffering, and it won't be for everyone, but I hope my experience might offer a few nuggets of usefulness.

And at least I get the chance to say thank you :)

Meals on Wheels

People would ask me to let them know what help I needed. They truly wanted to help - but it feels wrong to ask somebody with a job, various children, a dog, family taxi service and clean toilets to provide, to run around for me when I'm confined to the sofa.

This doesn't mean that help wasn’t gratefully received - even getting dressed was a bit of an effort on my worst treatment days - and so to open my door on several mornings to find a meal for four requiring only a re-heat and transportation to the table, was wonderful. My Meals on Wheels deliveries made me smile and I'd just like to say a public thank you here, as well as an apology for not always returning the Tupperware in a timely fashion.

Picking my children up from clubs and feeding them
Thank you.

Picking me up from home and taking me for a coffee

(and appointments) Thank you.

Supermarket delights
With special thanks to the Marks and Spencer Dine-in initiative.

Bags of healthy food, home-made chocolate brownies, cakes and bought cakes (I'm not choosy)

Thank you.

Loans of DVDs and books
Again, thank you.

Messages

Personally, I'm not a great fan of speaking on the phone. I blame my poor hearing which makes the process excruciatingly painful for all parties involved. But I had some sleepless nights and painful days through chemo and receiving texts out of the blue saying simply that I was in people's thoughts, was a great tonic. With my treatment induced lethargy however, responding could take chunks out of my day so I hope you'll accept my apology for the tardy replies.

Cards

As above. I have kept them all :)

Gifts

This may sound terribly materialistic but to know that someone is thinking of you when they go shopping (and I know that often presents came after much research and probing of shop staff's knowledge) touched my heart.

Most practical gift? There were so many! Warm items of clothing went down well – I wore my fluffy pink angora wool socks constantly as well as my Bamboo Chic Lite cardigan. It isn't particularly that treatments make you cold, it's just that our house is Baltic if you aren't running up and down the stairs every second minute.

Most used item? Probably my Anastasia Beverly Hills eyebrow kit. People expressed their delight that I'd held onto my eyebrows – I hadn't ;) Luxury hand and body creams were also a great buy as cancer treatments really dry out the skin. I was lucky enough to be given lots of luscious products I wouldn't normally afford which I'm still using now.

Most tear-inducing? My four-leaf clover bracelet, four-leaf clover necklace (there's a theme here), message and pocket sized hearts. And don't get me started on the hand-made ring given to me shortly after the wedding of one of my closest friends, which I couldn't attend due to an incredibly poorly timed third operation.

Home visits?

I learnt something about myself during chemo: I don't like to see people when I'm ill. I prefer to lick my wounds on my own, cushioned by my home, cancelled appointments and my texting fingers for when things are improving. And then when I'm recovered, that's when I like to see people. Of course, one person's nightmare is another's delight so it's probably worth asking the question.

Showing you know

Everybody wants the cancer to be treated and consigned to the past post haste. Having treatments behind you is wonderful but the fear that the cancer will return is massive. I've needed my friends and family more mentally post treatment than during it. While you're to-ing and fro-ing to hospital for the potpourri of chemicals and radiation assigned to you, you're invincible. The brilliance of modern science and your medical team are all over this little cancer blighter. Pah! Those piffling little cancer cells wouldn't have a chance against drugs which make your hair fall out and turn your bones to putty. 

But when treatment ends and it's you, your body and a measly little tablet fighting the good fight, staying mentally strong enough to banish the fear to the back of your mind can be tough -particularly when every drug-induced side-effect or contact with bugs with a weakened immune system feels incontrovertibly like the return of cancer. Those of us who have beaten cancer or who are in remission are the lucky ones and I never forget that but sometimes the dark thoughts can be over-powering and it's easy to feel a little alone at this post-treatment time.

We're all so busy and I personally find that as soon as one person I know edges out of a crisis situation, another moves in. But showing you know doesn't have to be time-consuming. A word or a hug to remind your friend that you know the shadow of cancer is still pretty overwhelming, or that the side-effects of drugs can be depressing, might be all your friend needs to help them get on with the business of living.

Timing

Anyone who's had a baby will know that when your new-born is tiny and cute and sleeping a lot, everybody comes to visit. Then the visits stop and you're left with the magnitude of looking after this new little person who is sleeping less, feeding more and making more washing. Right now is when you could really do with someone holding the baby while you put the tea on.

Cancer is a little bit like that. Lots of people visit at the beginning and it's a very human, touching reaction. But if you're well before treatment starts, this period can be very busy. The same pending-birth-nesting need kicks in and suddenly having clean bed linen, every item of school uniform washed and neatly pressed, full cupboards, full freezer and a sparkling toilet in place before your operation, becomes monumentally important. And then there's the children's schedule to organise for the three weeks post op when you won't be driving - the cancer will not make them miss out on any of their activities mantra beating inside your head - supper to arrange because you won't be entertaining for a while and work to finish for previously made deadlines set smack in the middle of a dose of morphine.

So, I'd like to suggest you take the pressure off yourself. Visits are lovely but don’t feel guilty if you can't rush around the moment you find out – sending a message and arranging to meet once your friend is out of hospital might actually be more relaxing and helpful for both. 

So, that's my list. Can you add any top tips? I love to read your comments.

By the way, did I say thank you enough?? This wouldn't have been a year I'd have chosen but nonetheless, I look back upon it with a smile. I've seen lots more of my friends and family than I normally would and who could possibly complain about that? 

What do you say?

What do you say to someone diagnosed with cancer?

I've hesitated about writing this blog. Of course, everyone reacts and deals with their diagnosis differently so there can be no rights and wrongs – after all, one man's compliment is another woman's smack in the teeth.

But in my own experience, and in listening to other people who have cancer, there are some common statements issued in good faith by caring souls who believe them to be soothing and consoling, which prove to be the opposite. And as it's frequently said that people don't know what to say when they find out their friend, relative or colleague has cancer, I thought I'd pick out a few classic comments where I suggest you proceed with caution.

Please don’t have nightmares. Much more than the clangers, we talk about the wonderful love and support which gets us through the tricky times. And I can honestly say that nobody has said anything that's made me cross or any more upset than I currently was – apart from the person who insisted on telling me a statistic about prognosis she'd read, but even that was said in good faith.

Compassion, whatever the wording, should never be criticised.

Besides, I'm sure I'm guilty of some of these myself…

We could all be run over by a bus.

Yes, we could, and I appreciate the sentiment. But crossing the road is a risk we take; having cancer is somewhat forced upon us and when we have it, the reality of a premature end is so much more blatant than the potential to find ourselves under the wheels of a bus. I would also say that if we were particularly worried about being run over by a bus, we could take precautions to prevent this unfortunate incident such as never crossing a road. I, and everyone I know who's been touched by cancer, would like to be told the one thing we must do to prevent cancer coming back. And we'd all do it. Unlike not crossing a road, this hasn't been discovered yet.

My friend's brother's sister's cousin had breast cancer twice and is fine.

I understand this one entirely. We all love a success story. Surely when someone has cancer, they also want to hear success stories, right?

Sort of.

But it's a certain kind of success story. Having cancer is about having your mortality thrust in front of your face; however aware you were of it before, it's just so much more immediate now. On diagnosis, I'd suggest there are two questions that people need answered – hopefully in the affirmative: Can I be cured? and, Can I stop it coming back? With cancer, one of the hardest things to believe is that if you're lucky enough to survive the first time, that your body won't get it wrong the next time. When those rogue cancer cells called, your body was found wanting. What logic says your defences will perform better next time? Much logic, actually. There's plenty of research and a wealth of stats to show that your body won't get caught out again and drugs such as Tamoxifen and Herceptin also help your body change its attitude. But whatever the scientists tell us, it takes time to trust your body again after cancer. If you have breast cancer and have had one breast removed, it's really hard to rationalise that you're not going to get cancer in the other one. And next time it might be harder to detect. It might have spread further. It might be more difficult to cure. And even if all the answers were positive, who would relish the idea of another round of treatments?

So, I suggest proceeding with caution in the choice of success stories. Those where people have survived multiple incidences of cancer are another resounding endorsement that recurrence happens. And that isn't something that somebody who's currently dealing with their first bout, wants to think about.

I've just read an article that if you snort three pieces of seaweed (freshly picked that morning from anywhere along the beach between Seahouses and Alnwick on the north coast) on the hour, every hour, they said it could reduce the risk of cancer.

I'm all for well-researched information which has scientific backing. Trust me, I'm as keen as anyone to discover a food source which will give me that piece of mind. But one person's chance hearing can be another person's 24 hours of research and if you magnify that up by all the good folk who've heard a rumour, all of a sudden you're wading through a confusion of unsubstantiated research where much better for your health might have been to relax and read a book. The most helpful suggestions are from those who hear something, carry out the research and only pass on the findings when they've done the work for you. Some people have done this for me and I really appreciate it.

We’re all going to die anyway.

Yes, we are. However, most of us hope that if we do our best to treat our body with respect, we'll live beyond retirement. It isn't something I take for granted but it is a hope. So yes, we will all die one day but when you've just been diagnosed with cancer at 45, your biggest fear is that the day could be forty years earlier than it might have been.

What's the prognosis?

No. Just no. Nobody has asked me this but I was staggered to hear that it was quite a common question and generally from relative strangers. Eeek! I don't think you need me to point out that if somebody hasn't discussed their prognosis, they probably don't want to talk about it. It isn't something you'd forget to mention.

Re chemo aches and groans: at least it means it's working.

It doesn't mean it's working; it doesn't mean anything significant and the inaccuracy of this upsets some people.

Re pending chemo: does it make it easier now you know what to expect?

I think this might be acute paranoia on my part but it feels like the awfulness of chemo is belittled with this question. It's as if, had you'd been stronger or braver rather than fearful for previous doses, the experience wouldn't have been as bad. In truth, knowing what's coming is more likely to make it worse.

You look great.

- when you don't and /or you feel terrible. This offends some people but not me, you can tell me as many times as you like ;)

A Little Less Squished

I have mentioned the inimitable A Squash and a Squeeze by Julia Donaldson here before; such is the impact this favourite rhyming book of my then toddler has had on my life. I'm not sure how much of the moral my youngest took in at the time – that everything in life is relative and happiness lies in appreciating what you have –but she certainly went to sleep with a smile after numerous renditions of, 'Glory me! It was tiny for two and it's titchy for three'.

Little did I know that I'd still be quoting, A Squash and a Squeeze long after the screams of, 'Take in my hen? What a curious plan,' had turned to the killing fields of the Hunger Games.

Roll over Dickens and Tolstoy.

In A Squash and a Squeeze, the wise old man asks the farmer's wife to trust in his philosophy. Her poky house is getting her down and she doesn't have room to 'swing a cat', let alone her farm animals of assorted sizes, which the wise man asks her to add one by one into her already straining abode. It's only when he directs her to remove them, that she realises quite what she had before.

2014 has been a bit of a squash and a squeeze for me and none more so than the summer holidays, rammed with radiotherapy appointments at the expense of work and being with (and transporting) my teenage children. Where the old lady filled her house one by one with extra animals varying in size from a hen to a cow, my 2014 was filled with treatments for cancer. But as in the book, it's all relative; I am one of the lucky ones.

That doesn't mean I haven't lamented the lack of time.

Throw in chemo! the oncologist said.

I can't I cried. I teach, I edit, I write

I work for my husband (badly), have a small business

(which suddenly seems humongously large)

and short stories and a novel I'm trying to type.

And I want to ride my bike.

I can't take on chemo, my life is a squash and a squeeze.

But in the chemo went.

Take out a week every three to recuperate

And add in Herceptin every three weeks for a year

And radiotherapy.

Oh! don't shed a tear, after 15 sessions you'll be out of here.

And then add in Tamoxifen for the next four years and one

It's only a pill, with any luck, it won't make you ill.

And then I blinked and it was September. The big cow had stopped dancing on the dining room table. I locked the door soundly behind it. Goodbye chemo, farewell, I hope. Radiotherapy has been winched out of the top window. In the kitchen there are still a few hens pecking at my feet; a reminder that this cancer journey still rolls on but you know, I can manage perfectly well even with a constant tickle at my toes.

So sympathetic, professional and advanced has been my treatment that although I breathe in the less cluttered air with relish, there is a part of me which hasn’t disliked the squash and a squeeze of the last nine months. I've found it interesting, supportive, friendly and hopeful. I'd have gladly done without it but without the brilliance of the medical profession and the incredible love and support of those around me, the path life has forced me down would have been much less bearable.

And let's face it, I might not have been walking it at all.

My cancer journey isn't over. I can't imagine it ever really coming to an end, although an all–clear after five years is a milestone I wish on every wishbone to meet. Nine months after diagnosis, however, emotionally and practically, I'm feeling a little less squished. 

Story-telling Charades

Asking me for a book recommendation is a commitment to a game of story-telling charades. I can give you un-abridged plot, swear my undying love for the characters and unbridled respect for the author but rarely can I give you their name or the title of the novel, without a little mental gymnastics first.

You just have to read, I say. Ok, it's a summer theme, same author as the one everyone's read with the blue cover, a desolate beach scene, silhouette of lovers holding hands. Don't recognise it? Oh, then put that on your list too. You'll cry, I warn, but it's uplifting as well.

The author? You'll know her, she's written loads! She must have been there, I add, sagely, must have had a close encounter with death because it was the little things she mentioned; the not washing the pillow cases. Edinburgh, you know?

After You'd Gone! You call. Yes! You've read it, I say, brilliant isn't it? I'll never forget it. So, what's the author's name? I can picture it on the cover in block white print. Same surname as a funny male writer. No, they're not married, not even related, shame. But she is married to a writer, another funny bloke, he's not O'Farrell though. He's William Sut…

O'Farrell! We scream in unison. Maggie O'Farrell. Phew! Instructions For A Heatwave, I say. Read that on the beach.

So, even though I'm never knowingly without a novel by my bed and another in my bag, putting together my list of recommended reading can be quite an undertaking. After much jumping up and down to my book shelves, family tree-esque diagrams and a convoluted path around Google, I've come up with my list of ten recommended stories old and new for the summer edition of Chase Magazine* – see page 54/55 - to spare you the charades. 

A new edition to Chase Magazine is Kids Corner on page 56 where a young writer has the chance to see their piece of short fiction in print. This issue's contributor is Georgia Buxton, age 13, (and no relation to me :D) with her quirky insight into Planet Zarg. If you know any keen writers under the age of 16, living in Sheffield, Rotherham or elsewhere in South Yorkshire, who'd like to see their writing in print, please encourage them to give it a go. 

All submissions should be emailed directly to the editor: joe.cawthorn@rotherhamadvertiser.co.uk 
as a Word attachment. Short stories, poetry and flash fiction up to 500 words in length all welcome and successful entrants will receive up to five free copies of the edition of Chase in which their article is printed. Good luck!

So, what have you been reading lately? Please share. Charades-type descriptions always acceptable...

*You may have to register with Chase the first time you click on the online edition but it's plain sailing after that.