Multi-texting Driving

My daughter is seventeen. She's learning to drive. She's doing OK and I'm pleased, relieved, that she takes the process seriously. Sitting at the side of her, fingers a breath of air away from the grip of the handbrake, eyes darting, pulse slightly raised, our chat in bullet points at best, has been good for me, too. It's a reminder of just how many things we have to think about when we drive a car. It's easy to forget, isn't it? That's what I tell her when someone who clearly has forgotten, remonstrates from the car behind.

There's the choice of gear, just enough press and depress of pedals, the right-a-bit, left-a-bit, left-hand-down, right-hand-down, the reversing around a corner – six inches from the kerb and don’t forget to check for other cars as you direct the back of the car which seems, oh such a long way away, around an apparent blind corner -  the road signs (circle or triangle, are the colours significant?), the pedestrian crossings, the give way to the right - just not on this exit on this roundabout - the don't-drive-too-fast-now-get-your-speed-up…

It's a wonder anybody manages to drive at all. If I had to have a driving lesson at my age, I'd need a two hour kip to recover afterwards.

Now, I understand and indeed, console my daughter with the knowledge that after a while, it all becomes very 'unconscious' which means that while we're steering, changing gear, checking our mirrors with our unconscious brain, we're hyper-conscious of the potential for that car to pull out in front of us.

That's the theory.

Pic courtesy of  the American Safety Council

But what happens when we introduce something else into the driving mix? What happens when we glance at a text and decide we can quickly answer it? After all, 'yes' is only three letters and we could type that with our eyes closed. And what of social media and that Twitter Notification or a Friend Request that's flashed up on screen? No need to even touch the phone to know that it's – can it be? No way! It's John Smith from school. Phew! His hair's not quite as lush as it used to be! Or how about Snapchat? A photo whilst driving wouldn't harm, would it? Hey, we don't even need to take our eyes off the road to get our reaction across. What happens when we divide our hyper-conscious brain between driving and another task?

More people die.

Those are the preliminary findings of the National Safety Council in America which suggest that 'motor vehicle deaths were 8% higher than in 2015 than in 2014'. This increase is after road fatalities in much of the world had been going down. You can read more about this here. 

Nobody is suggesting that anti-social behaviour at the wheel is entirely the cause of this worrying trend but it is certainly considered to be a factor in it. So, until mobile phone usage is considered by drivers to be as dangerous as drink driving, other methods of prevention are needed.

Enter the Textalyzer.

Pic courtesy of the New York Times

Police in New York are interested in a prototype of a Textalyzer which would work much like a breathalyser at the scene of a road traffic incident by tapping into the driver's phone and confirming whether or not the phone had been used during the journey. Read more in the excellent New York Times article here. 

There's legislation to be passed and privacy laws need to be respected, but I, for one, would embrace its introduction into this country. Why? Because when I was thinking about the main character, Tori, in Glass Houses, when I was researching the reality of coma, talking to emergency staff about what it's really like at the scene of a horrific road accident, and when I was thinking about the consequences of Tori's one stupid decision to text her husband from the motorway, how it affected her life, the life of her loved ones and, of course, the families of those who died at the scene, never was it more clear to me that from behind the wheel, there is no such a thing as a 'harmless text'.

Glass Houses, ISBN-10: 1910692840, Published 9 June 2016. £8.99. Pre-order Urbane Publications, Amazon.

Busy Blogging

Phew, it's been a while. I've been busy over on other people's blogs. I know, terribly disloyal. But while I try and think of something light-hearted to say, or wait for some ridiculous, self-inflicted comical accident to befall - always useful for a blog post - I thought I'd leave you with a blog-interview for A lover of Books. This is the site of fabulously hard-working, Sonya Alford, and is taken from her week of posts about Urbane Publications authors. If you're remotely interested in books, you might like Sonya's reviews - bountiful, honest and insightful.

By the way, if that's quite enough about Tea and Chemo for you, thank you very much, please feel free to scroll down to the last few questions where Glass Houses gets a mention... 

1. Can you tell me a bit about Tea and Chemo please?When I was diagnosed with cancer in December 2013, I wanted to read about normal people who'd had cancer, made it through treatments and were waving from the other side with a smile on their faces saying that it was ok, it wasn't all bad. I struggled to find these stories so I decided that I would use my blog to talk about what a cancer diagnosis is really like from the coalface.

Tea and Chemo is a mix of my original posts on cancer and its treatments, with the addition of many more anecdotes. It's about sharing what I've learnt: advice on what to do when your food tastes as though it's been sprinkled with bicarbonate of soda and stirred with mud, your hair is falling out in handfuls and strangers are asking how come you have hay fever in February.  I hope the information is helpful but that readers will also feel my empathetic hug and have a smile at the light-hearted elements, because cancer treatment is like life; it has its ups and downs.

2. What made you decide to get this book published?
It was a combination of a few things. I felt that a few months further on, I had so much more to add to the original blog posts. People were suggesting the idea of a book, telling me that it would make a great gift for those wanting to do something positive for friends and family diagnosed with cancer and it was the opportunity to raise some money for cancer related charities and organisations. I had that little voice in my head telling me that if I never tried to get it published, I would never know…

3. Your book has already been of help to lots of people. How does that make you feel?
Oh! Where to start? I have been absolutely over-whelmed by the response to Tea and Chemo. The reviews posted on Amazon and other review sites, not to mention the emails (and even an orchid sent with a thank you note) generally bring me to tears – happy tears. It's a very humbling, life-affirming thing to learn that words I've written, could help other people. I originally said that if my book could help one person feel calmer, more optimistic and hopeful about the prospect of, and reality of, cancer treatment, then I'd feel my work was done. To know it has helped many people is job satisfaction of the very greatest kind.

4. Do you think it's a book that anyone suffering from cancer should read?
Tea and Chemo isn’t a definitive guide to cancer and there are other more factual books on cancer out there. But I like to think there's something in there for everyone, both on a practical and emotional basis, not just for those diagnosed with cancer, but also their family and friends.

Indeed, a reviewer wrote that they didn’t have cancer but that there were other strong themes, 'around the basic goodness in our society and the importance, whatever the situation we are in, of choosing to adopt a positive attitude.' He also added that, 'the final page is worth reading every morning,' which made me very happy indeed.

5. When is your next book due out? 
Glass Houses, a novel, is out on June 9^th and is now available to pre-order from Amazon and direct from the Urbane Publications.

6. What is it about?
Glass Houses is about two women who make stupid mistakes and the massive ramifications not just for their lives, but for those close to them. It's about people in 'glass houses' not 'throwing stones'. It's also about smashing up our lives: however hard we try to stick them back together again, they will never look the same as they did before.

And maybe, just maybe, this might not be such a bad thing.

Glass Houses is contemporary fiction (please note that it's incorrectly classed as a 'thriller' on Amazon. It isn't a thriller) so it's a very different read to Tea and Chemo but I hope that there's a similarity in that it tackles dark themes with a light touch.

7. Are you planning to write any more books?
Not just planning…! I have the first draft of a novel written but it's stashed in a drawer currently, covered in dust after two years of neglect while my writing life has been totally consumed with Tea & Chemo and Glass Houses. I'm looking forward to getting back to it. I also have two other novels started which vary from 'fleshed out ideas' to a 'good half of the first draft written'. Watch this space!

8. What has the publishing process been like for you?
Every bit as wonderful as I'd dreamed – and some. When I first clicked on the Urbane Publications website, I found myself plunging deep into the inner pages of Google to check that this Utopia of a publishing house was actually kosher. It is. Urbane Publications, led by the charismatic, dedicated and incredibly hard-working, Matthew Smith, is all about collaboration. I've been consulted at every step of the way and have enjoyed working in a team to make my books the best they can possibly be. Now Urbane and I work together to make sure people know my books are out there. I'm having a ball and thank my lucky stars that I discovered Urbane Publications on Twitter. 

9. What are your hopes and dreams for the future?
I've never been one for hopes and dreams, in the same way that I'm not one for regrets and mistakes. I believe in striving to get the best out of every day and if you put all your efforts into that, say yes to everything you possibly can as a matter of default, then your life will be rich. I don’t know what the next five years have in store for me and I find that exciting. I just hope that I'm alive to see them and everything else is a bonus.

10. Can you describe your life in three words?
Busy, happy, rewarding

11. What advice have you got for all of us?
Phew! I'm not sure I'm qualified to give advice so I shall steal a mantra I first saw on the opening credits of Cold Feet (a wonderful drama from the late 90s for those of you too young to remember). I saw this quote and thought, there it is, that's what I've been trying to articulate all along. Are you ready?

Life's a journey, travel it well.

Retreat West hosts Tea and Chemo

unsatisfactory words bound for recycling

As my head is deep in editing at the moment, forgive me for flying in just to let you know that the wonderful Amanda Saint over at Retreat West has interviewed me about Tea and Chemo (with a dash of Glass Houses) for her blog. Her questions were excellent, really made me think, so I hope you'll found the responses interesting. You can view the post here.

Meanwhile, I'm back to *almost* the final edit of Glass Houses, deleting 'turn' and 'saw', 'then' and, 'just' (forgive me for allowing one of the 205 - oh the shame - occurrences of 'just' to sneak into this post) and searching for different words for 'smile'. Wish me luck! I have three days… 

Tea at The Haven

Today, I am emerging from behind my desk where I have been toiling at my strange strategy for cutting the word count of the final, final, FINAL draft of Glass Houses by deleting a word and adding ten more, to visit the wonderful Haven in Leeds. 

They are hosting the Big Tea Cosy, 1-4 pm, 10th February,  the opportunity to have a brew – and cakes, certainly cakes – raffle and chat as well as a tour around The Haven, with a chance to learn a little more about what it does. Of course, all proceeds go to keeping this charity going.  If you generally need a little more notice for your day off (what do you mean, you do have a life?) then could you consider hosting your own Big Tea Cosy? There's more information here. 

For The Haven by the
amazing Ornella-Bianca

And I'll be signing copies of Tea & Chemo so please do pop along if you live locally. We’d love to see you.

All profit from Tea & Chemo is divided between three charities of which The Haven is one and I hope the extract below will explain why.

So, I was having physio after breaking my foot running and then I was diagnosed with cancer on December  27^th 2013.

…

I didn’t know if a cancer diagnosis had any bearing on physio but as far as I was concerned, I was waiting for my mastectomy, hadn’t started chemo, wasn’t teaching and wanted to run. I also knew that if I could run during treatment, that it would help get me through. And it did.

So I kept my appointment with Helen, (she's not really called, Helen) my physio.

"Good Christmas?" she asked.

"A bit different," I said.

After years of chatter while Helen had pummelled my sore hamstrings, calf, other calf, bottom and, oh, the pain, my back, she’d never told me about her auntie. Until now. I learnt that her auntie had had breast cancer in her 50’s and The Haven had been her, well, haven. Helen said that it had also been good for her as a relative. She said that I would have to go. I’d get lots of free treatments which would really help in chemo and I’d meet other people in the same situation.

"Right," I said. I didn’t want to be rude but I intended on running my way through treatments and going for cappuccinos with my existing friends in between. I wasn’t sure I’d have time to meet new people – or whether it would be helpful.

"And you’ll have to model in the annual fashion show," she said.

You can probably imagine how I felt about that. Aside from the fact that nothing ever fits me at the lofty height of five foot one and three quarters, walking down the stage with only one boob and a bald head? Thanks for the offer but I think I’ll be at home pairing socks that night.

Back to the task in hand and I was told that I wouldn’t be able to have my usual physio that week but that Helen could gently massage the affected area in my foot, which sounded a fairly pleasant alternative.

The only hint Helen gave that my news had shocked her was when I became aware of her massaging the wrong foot. At first I wondered if this alternative to the usual bending and prodding was a 2 for 1 deal, but when she tapped the wrong foot and said, ‘All done!’ I realised that my fiercely organised physio was flustered.

Flash forward a few weeks and yes, I did visit The Haven. On my first trip I sat for an hour with the manager, Debra Horsman, and cried. I very rarely cried about cancer in the early days. Normally, outside of The Haven, I think I was scared to lift the lid in case I couldn’t get it back on again. I was sent away with a programme of treatments including reflexology, a nutritional consultation and acupuncture. Acupuncture saved me from sleepless nights from chemo and Tamoxifen induced hot sweats – plus I loved our chats.

And guess what? Nine months after diagnosis I was involved in my first ever fashion shoot, wig still firmly in place, for LK Bennett in aid of The Haven. And just over a year later I was part of the Bo Carter modelling group in the annual Haven Fashion Show, without the wig this time. It was the most uplifting experience and I feel privileged to have had the opportunity. I hasten to add that the rigorous selection process for the modelling involved sending an RSVP to say that I was available. 

My physio was right. The Haven is a godsend for people with a cancer diagnosis and their family and friends. But it is RELIANT on fundraising.

Punctual People

I have a severe affliction of OneMoreJob-itis, GreenLight-itis (or Travel Utopia) and AllThoseFiveMinuteJobsAddUp-itis.

Or dare I say, I had?

Today I had a hospital appointment booked for 9am. Anybody who knows where I live and the location of my local hospital six point eight miles away, will know that if you cross your fingers, have a good wind behind you, an impressive grasp of alternative car parking spaces and leave home at around 4am, you'd be unlucky not to make it in time.

I decided to go on the train.

I toyed with the idea of catching the 8.22 as per my normal way of being. The train would arrive at 8.36 (no, punctual people, of course it wouldn’t be delayed), the one point one mile walk would take twenty minutes, thus leaving me with a couple of minutes to check in at the well-staffed, all systems working like clock-work desk for Out Patients.

But today I decided that I would step away from living on the edge and just for once, I'd take the earlier train. Even with delays, I'd still have time to walk over the slightly further but very much drier path rather than run/walk in heels (hey! I'm five foot two on my tip-toes, people tread on me if I don’t wear heels), with my cross over bag tossing like a caber on my back, over the shorter (as the crow flies) muddy fields.

Besides, if I got there early I could have a coffee and do some writing. And that, dear readers, is how I come to be writing this blog post now.

I confess I did run onto the train from the station for my out-bound journey, which is only three minutes from my house, (well actually, it's forty seconds, providing the road you're trying to cross has been blocked off or it's FA Cup Saturday) but once the train had arrived perfectly on time and I'd begun my walk, I experienced something new.

I walked fairly briskly, I'm not sure 'sedate' is really in my psyche, but without even a whisper of needing to do my run/walk. I stepped without adrenalin pumping into my feet or angst puncturing my every thought that I might be late. I walked over crunching frost and noticed the blue of the sky. I enjoyed the cold air on my face with my hands nestled deep in my favourite gloves, without concern I might be sweating.

I arrived at the hospital half an hour in advance of my appointment, bought myself a take-out coffee - no queue – decided I'd have time to get my blood test done – no queue – which I'd originally planned to do after the 9am appointment and probably would have forgotten until I was on that return train home. I checked-in, took my seat and my pen and paper from my bag and am now waiting for my appointment. Let me say that again: I am waiting for my appointment.

Punctual people, I get it now.

Two Years Hence

It slipped itself in between Christmas Day and New Year's Eve, waved, smiled, winked and left. I gave a nod of appreciation, lifted an imaginary glass of champagne (imaginary because you know The Body That Got Cancer likes to keep a firm eye on its units and the bubbles had been flowing since Christmas Eve) and took just a moment, a quiet moment - I'm still not ready to dance on the tables - to say thank you.

With the 27^th December came my second Cancerversary. I'm superstitious. I know enough to know that we can never dismiss the potential for secondaries or, indeed, that any of us can be complacent about the potential for a primary cancer to form, but I'm grateful for the relative peace and calm that my Two Year Cancerversary brings.

Last year I wrote about my first Cancerversary here. It was a cautious celebration in a sort of raw, new girl at school kind of way: knowing it should be fun but not quite ready to let down all my defences. This year I feel more settled in, comfortable, that I understand the post cancer diagnosis and treatment world into which I was plunged and most days I can cope with it quite effortlessly, thank you.

The Fear which I wrote about here, does still haunt me from time to time. I've had a few scares, just admirable vigilance on behalf of the medical profession, and although my style is to busy myself so that I have no room left to fret, the fear does nonetheless manage to settle itself in over the top of my brain sometimes and leak into my thoughts. It's not an undue pressure, nothing like the early days of The Wait and The Not Knowing, nothing like the fear of recurrence when chemo finished and for a few months after, but it's 'just there', in an annoying little tic kind of way.

So, from the position of being two years post cancer diagnosis, I would like to say to anybody who is further back on this rocky road than I am, it does get better and it gets a whole lot easier.

So much had happened since my first anniversary a year ago. Last 27^th December, I hadn't even heard of the pioneering publishers, Urbane Publications, let alone submitted to them and here I am with Tea And Chemo published and Glass Houses on its way out of the door next June.

Most of my work was on hold during my year of treatments so I only really started back to teaching and editing at the beginning of 2015 and you know, I'd really missed the buzz of writers excited about their stories. My return to work this year has been a baptism of fire with the writing and promotion of Tea And Chemo to throw into the mix, plus the small matter of my final edits on Glass Houses, which we'll gloss over because I'm a little behind on those. But it's been wonderful to be back to full busy-ness again. Although sometimes I curse the stairs up to my office after dinner or at the weekend, cancer taught me, if I didn't already know, that sitting still doesn't really work for me.

This year other people I know have been diagnosed with cancer, some very young people in my online group have developed secondaries. Some have died from them. My heart breaks a little every time. Not for me, so far I continue to be one of the lucky ones, but because cancer is still such an enormous thorn in the side of human health. Great strides have been made in all areas of cancer diagnoses, cure and care but until we can take a pill to rid ourselves of cancer before it even suggests any danger, until we have 100% accurate diagnostic tests to take action before it dares to become a possibility, we must keep fundraising, caring and raising awareness.

This Cancerversary, in addition to the wonders of the medical profession that blasted the cancer cells and my family and friends who kept me sane and continue to do so, I'd also like to thank Matthew Smith, owner of Urbane Publications. Right from the start, when Tea And Chemo was a collection of blog posts and an idea, Matthew determined that Urbane Publications would also give every penny of profit to the three charities I was keen to support:The Haven in Leeds, The Sir Robert Ogden Macmillan Centre in Harrogate and the national charity, Breast Cancer Now.

If you are interested in buying a copy of Tea And Chemo, your purchase will help the three charities. If you are not interested in buying a copy of Tea And Chemo, that's ok, I need never know… but you could still give your pennies to one of these three charities and then you wouldn't feel half as bad :)

Meanwhile, I'm off to celebrate because it's New Year's Eve and the new year coming, the adventures we don't yet know, now that's something I really love to celebrate. Have a wonderful new year lovely readers, may 2016 be filled with life-affirming moments.

A Reminder

Seeking help from The Top

Because the Christmas Goddess crown is still sitting somewhere around my midriff and because I can't remember a year when I have been quite so ill prepared for the festivities which I can unfashionably say, I nonetheless adore, I thought I'd share this post with you. I wrote it a staggering five years ago and when I stumbled across it this morning, felt compelled to seek out the Christmas Crooners. Dean Martin's Silver Bells has been playing on repeat ever since. Phew! I even wrote some Christmas cards - only the ones for America and Australia, granted. 

Confessions of a Christmas writer

Not everybody likes Christmas starting in November.  I respect such frustration, understand the logic but don’t count myself among these protestors.  The anticipation, the decoration, the spendification just can’t start early enough for me.  I’m the dreadful mother who allows her children to play the Christmas CD in the car in September, actively encourages letter writing to Father Christmas and Mother Wrapalot in October and remembers she should have made the Christmas cake in November.  (I write Christmas cards two days before Christmas but that’s another story.)

It’s best when the children break up from school a week early so we can wrap presents together in front of Wife Swap USA, make another batch of mince pies as soon as the next pack of pre-rolled pastry has defrosted and play Winter Wonderland on the piano pretending not to notice the unintentional rhythmic alterations. 

I tend to have a tear at the school’s Nativity, even when I can only hear every second word and my own children have long since graduated.  There’s something just so appealing about a three foot Mary.  And I even like the slightly over zealous Vicar pleading with us to stop and think.

I like snowy walks with my family, meeting friends in the pub en route.  I like my presents, scant in number certainly, perhaps not of the highest quality but chosen so very much with me in mind.  I’m wearing those pink USB heated slippers now, for example, reluctant as I am to put on the heating when it’s only me in the house.

I even ‘get’ turkey; fifth day turkey, curried turkey. I read that 86% of people eat turkey only because they feel they ought. I read a tweet about eating duck instead.  I eat duck but I’m not so keen on it curried.  I like, no I love, people coming to stay, leaving late morning after two jugs of coffee and more chat after the chat and wine and food and chocolates of the night before, the children all playing dutifully on the Wii, still in their pyjamas.

Then it’s back to normality.  They all go back – back to work, back to school and I go back to my desk, to writing again from 11pm, to going to bed late and waking four hours later with a sense of foggy satisfaction about the volume of words written when the house was quiet.

I miss them all on their first day back: hubbie with his cold, eldest with her hormones, youngest with her scruffy old pinafore when I can’t coax her into one of the skirts which hangs pristine in her wardrobe. 

But I have to admit to a small smile as I wave goodbye to the last to leave at 8.45. 

And so I run.  I stuff the remaining breakfast items in the dishwasher, yank some sopping clothes from the washer and toss them over the drier, flick on the kettle, write a cheque for the milk, trip over the forgotten PE kit and make my way upstairs to my desk.  I switch on the computer - an unusual phenomenon caught as it is in a perpetual energy loop over the holidays.  I remove plastic heart shaped key rings, miniature playing cards, screwdrivers and whoopee cushions from my desk and replace them with 344 pages of A4 manuscript. 

After an hour or two I make tea.  I take a few pages of the manuscript with me to read through as the kettle boils and luxuriate in the lack of a call to find the recycled batteries, the guinea pigs’ spare water bottle, the Christmas cake.  After forgetting to eat lunch I set the alarm on my desk to 3.20 to remind me to return to this world before my children get home.

When they’re all back, I smother them with ridiculously large bear hugs.  I’ve missed them, you see, I really have – as much as I’d missed my writing over the past couple of weeks.

Late for Christmas

I have lost my Christmas Goddess crown. Not that I ever really had it. Truly. I've never sent a Christmas card before the 23^rd December and console myself that at least my card wouldn't be lost in the deluge of those arriving before Christmas from properly organised people. 3am on Christmas Day was when Mother Christmas finished wrapping presents when our children were small (Father Christmas there in spirit as he snoozed on the sofa) and the mince pies? Bought pastry and a jar of mincemeat have always served me well.

However, I have normally pretty much bought all the presents by the time that page on the calendar flips over onto crisp white snowy lanes and blue skies.

Not so this year. I have spent one day Christmas shopping with my Mum. It was great fun, but the amount of coffee stops was greater than the presents bought.

If you're joining me in your own Christmas tardiness (thank you for the solidarity), you might like to look at pages 40 and 41 of the gorgeous Christmas issue of Chase Magazine. Obviously, I wrote my pages a few weeks ago but fell in love with the books all over again when I saw my reviews in print. All suggestions for your Christmas shopping list, or even better, for your own present list, were hand-picked. I adored them all, even The Runaway Smile for small children (I always think that's a funny expression because you do get some very tall children who haven't yet seen the lofty heights of double figures, in fact, most children are taller than me by the time they reach their fifth birthday), which I wish had been written when my children were young.

Happy reading and enjoy the preparations! I'm off to buy some pastry and mincemeat.

 

A Week in Publication

Monday morning started on Sunday night, just as a reminder if I needed one that writers can often be found at their PC at midnight and, admittedly, relishing it. Although nothing as exciting as writing for me, I was catching up on admin from the day job.

No matter. My late night typing meant that I would watch the calendar flick from Sunday 22^nd to Monday 23^rd November, the day of Tea & Chemo's publication, and witness the Amazon Page flip from 'pre-order' to, Yes! Absolutely! Buy it now!

At one minute past midnight I clicked the link. I shrugged my shoulders: no change. Of course not. The day doesn't really start at 12.01 but at 9am. I'd check again in the real morning. I did. Having already checked at 12.30, and every few minutes thereafter, you know, just to be sure, until I finally wandered off to bed.

The next morning, publication day morning, I had a quick hospital appointment. It was no more cancer related than those pesky, potentially life-saving drugs giving me annoying side effects. Nonetheless, the irony of being back in hospital on my publication day wasn't lost on me.

And it transpired that I was to spend slightly longer there than anticipated. As I waited to be called, I heard the fairly earnest voice of a doctor directing a patient to, 'Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, that's it, well done.' I didn't like it. Nobody likes to hear other people unwell. But, ever the diligent writer, I forced myself to focus on tomorrow's talk which needed editing down from about three days in length to the requisite ten minutes.

More voices sounded and all of a sudden, a nurse rushed past, picked up the phone and called for the registrar to come immediately to the unit. I was worried for the patient now and also felt that I shouldn't be there, that I was intruding as the voices were just on the other side of a curtain.

Shuffling further back in my seat, I continued with my scribbles as inconspicuously as possible. And it was useful having no mobile or Wi-Fi signal at the hospital so that my page on Amazon had a break from my clicking for news.

A nurse explained that my appointment would be delayed. Of course. The other woman was much more in need of the staff than I was and besides, I was doing quite well with the rampant deletion of my drivel.

The same nurse ran past again. This time she called for the Crash Team. Now I was really worried for the patient. Moreover, other people arriving for appointments were being turned away. A doctor came to speak to me, asked if I wouldn't mind going to get a coffee and coming back in half an hour. Mind?  I took the stairs two at a time.

Ninety minutes after my appointment slot, I returned to the unit to the altogether softer sound of the same doctor's voice saying to the patient that if she ever came back to the unit, would she call first so that he could make sure he was on holiday, and with this I suspected the situation had taken a less sinister turn. The lady, excruciatingly apologetic, was discharged having recovered from her panic attack whilst having a cup of tea after her appointment.

I left the hospital two hours later than intended, happy I wasn't prone to panic attacks and slightly more confident that my talk might be over before tomorrow's bedtime.

My dentist's appointment followed suit, taking forty minutes instead of ten because my sparkly new mouth guard to stop me grinding my teeth at night (it's a long story) didn’t fit correctly and needed some re-moulding. By this time I was due to pick up my car from the garage. I'd taken it in for a new exhaust and it had emerged with a brand new set of ball bearings and four new tyres instead. Wholly necessary but more expensive. And the half an hour walk back to the garage was looking particularly uninviting through the pouring icicles.

Several times during the day I'd looked down at myself from above: oh, the glamorous lifestyle of a freshly published writer! And Tea & Chemo was still only showing as available to 'pre-order'.

Then came Monday evening.

Friends had organised a celebration in my local pub. With these people, in that pub, with the Tea & Chemo bunting, the Tea & Chemo cake and biscuits, my box of books (and people buying them) the cards and presents and excitement and abject giddiness, right there, in that moment, all the late night, early morning typing and the slap in the face rejections, were worth it.

Tuesday and D Day for the ten minute talk I mentioned. My brief was to inspire two hundred 14 and 15 year old students and their parents with my story of having a dream and going for it. Except these students were all award winners and I couldn’t help thinking that really, they should have been talking to me about hard work and achievement. The best, and only award I remember getting at school was for hockey: my half colours, note, not even the full ones…

It would be an accurate account to say I did a ridiculous amount of preparation for this talk. Engage a hundred teenagers for ten minutes, you say? The hours spent were directly proportionate to my fear. 'It's ok,' somebody consoled a few panicky days before, 'They'll all be on their phones.' That was what I was worried about. Actually, I had a ball. Nobody was on their phone and everybody gave me the courtesy of listening and many thanked me afterwards. Teenagers constantly, and usually, buck the stereotype I find.

Let's fast forward over a couple of days when Amazon still wasn't admitting to Tea & Chemo being published. Meanwhile, I was cursing webmail for not sending any of my e-mails over the previous two days, tantalising me with the first line of every incoming message yet refusing to show me anything else. And let's forget the hours, (was it days? It felt like days) spent in phone calls to the EE helpline, in the vain hope of cajoling 21^st century speed Wi-Fi into our house as opposed to the dribble reminiscent of the nineties. Let's gloss over these days because then it was Friday. Joy of joys, finally Tea & Chemo was leaving Amazon's grasp and so many wonderful people were posting on Facebook that their copies had arrived. 

And then this:

Tea & Chemo ranked 10^th in Amazon for Health and Fitness? From this point forward, I've been doing what I vowed I wouldn't do: checking Tea & Chemo's ranking every few minutes.

You know, it hasn’t been all tiaras and red carpets but, after a frustrating labour, Tea & Chemo has made it out into the world and yes, it feels every bit as sweet as I'd hoped.

Nope, it's gone

For anyone who's ever said, Nope, it's gone, or, Run that past me again, or, I didn't just say that, did I? and for anyone who's ever wondered why the tin of beans was outside the front door and the milk in the cupboard, a note about Chemo Brain. 

If you’ve ever had, or been around anyone who’s had, a touch of the Pregnancy Brain or its natural rite of passage: New Baby Mush, barely passing Go before it descends into Menopausal Mind Slush, then you are on the way to understanding the effects of Chemo Brain. Just magnify the lack of cognitive skills, difficulty in concentrating beyond the fourth word in any sentence and lack of recall for anything which happened say, over ten seconds ago, and you start to get the picture.

Experts aren’t sure what causes Chemo Brain, or if it’s even the chemotherapy itself – it may simply be the having cancer and any treatments for it - but it is recognised as a debilitating side-effect seen in cancer patients. There’s a good article about it on the Cancer Research UK website here.

I’m not your archetypal control freak. I yearn for those moments where I can take a back seat because somebody else has taken the reins. But I do like a certain control in my personal and working life. The moment my to-do list gets a little messy, it ramps up the stress levels. Chemo Brain certainly added a layer of stress to my life and I think that if you asked my children what the worst aspect of my treatment was, they’d say it was having a Mum who was away with the fairies. I couldn’t retain even the most simple of information – from whether I’d brought in the milk to where my children were.

And one of the most stressful things was, wait for it, the washing. Oh yes, when you can’t remember your teenage daughters having a pair of black skinny jeans to die for, let alone whether they were dry (or even if you’d washed them) and the party for which they must be worn was a few sweet hours away, it’s depressing. I was used to being on top of such matters, and being on top of those meant that I could concentrate on arguably more important things, such as work. In truth, every time my children flashed me that look of disappointment that I’d forgotten something, anything, again, it sort of broke my heart a little bit more. Maybe it was inter-twined with being a mother and having cancer treatment because when you have children (or a partner, friends or family), it makes you feel like you are a bad mother (or wife, friend, daughter or sister) sometimes. 

But please don’t despair. It gets better.

Almost the moment the other side-effects of chemo disappeared a couple of weeks after my final dose, I felt the fog lift a little, too. It would be wrong of me to pretend that I’m back to the old – skinny jeans you say? What colour? The black ones are in the machine as we speak, green ones are drying on the airer (I’d say two hours forty seven minutes and they’ll be dry as a bone) and the grey ones, sorry, still in the washing bag, we could spray them with Febreze? – ‘all-over-it’ mum. Cancer seems to lodge a lump of goo in your brain as its final (we hope) hoorah when it leaves. It’s a store for The Cancer Fear to be dissipated around the body whenever you cough, get a spot or have stiff legs, and dusts an annoying layer of fuzziness over all other thoughts at other times. I’m afraid hormone treatments, such as Tamoxifen don’t help either. Nor does a chemically-induced, premature menopause.

But none of that, categorically none, is a patch on Chemo Brain.

My advice? Be kind to yourself. It isn’t a failing; it’s a side-effect. It isn’t forever and life will feel oh so much better when it’s gone. There are strategies to help. Keep lists, lots of lists, and keep them by you at all times so that you don’t forget where you’ve put the list (!) Keep healthy too: the endorphins you release when you exercise are proven to improve cognitive skills and I certainly write better after a run. And water. I swear water cleans your brain. No scientific papers will back me up on this but I’ve experienced it myself regularly, so it must be true. Too much tea? The fog in my head is so heavy I can practically feel the weight. Glass of water? Instantly lighter. Try it, seriously, I think water is the ultimate medicine. And educate those around you. I think my children, even as teenagers, were too young to really understand what I meant when I said that I couldn’t remember. It was beyond their comprehension and life experience to imagine how this could be. But friends and family will understand and they’ll make allowances and even send you helpful text messages just to make sure you know where you’re supposed to be.

Chemo Brain isn’t as soft and cuddly as it sounds but, sixteen months post chemo, I can say with some authority that it does get better.

And remember, chemically induced or otherwise, you're probably not alone. 

I originally wrote this post for the Young Women's Breast Cancer Blog and you can read more about Sarah, its wonderful pioneer, here.

Chemo Brain

I was recently asked if I'd like to write a blog post about Chemo Brain. I would, I said. How many pages of examples of the ridiculous memory gaffs that have blighted my life since Chemo Brain took hold would you like?

Shall I stop at ten?

You'll be relieved to know that I haven't listed every example, in fact, I've only elaborated on one. I have written about the frustrations of Chemo Brain however, but also, that it does get better – honest.

I wrote the post for the Young Women's Breast Cancer Blog and you can read it here 

The blog was set up by the tirelessly grafting Sarah Perry who was diagnosed with breast cancer at the desperately young age of 32, eighteen months ago – not that she's let anything as trivial as cancer put a dent in her stride. It's a place for bloggers and particularly people who've never blogged before to post a piece. If you'd fancy writing something cancer related for the site, check out the site here. And you can contact Sarah here - she'd be delighted to hear from you.

On the subject of Chemo Brain, have I mentioned I have a book coming out soon? I *can't* remember (you see, it has its uses). The publication date for Tea & Chemo is Monday 16 November and it can be pre-ordered from Amazon  or direct from the wonderful UrbanePublications.

Exciting times! Thank you, as ever, to my wonderful readers. You know, you are where Tea & Chemo started :)

Inspirational Age

I don’t wake up every morning rejoicing at being 40 winks closer to old age as I adjust my hairnet (no need for curlers, have you seen my hair?) and sip the tea brought to me via the Teasmaid. But I’ll take the lines that could fill an A4 ruled notebook and accept these legs won’t run forever, or that one day I’ll lock up my bike for the last time (just as long as it’s when I’m a hundred plus a few years, please) in exchange for a touch of longevity with a few of my marbles, friends and family by my side.

As well as a positive, go-getting outlook.

For that is what I have decided really keeps you ‘young’. This is what I’ve learnt from the people who I think ‘do old age really well’. There’s my 83 year old neighbour who is, to all intents and purposes, the church manager. Regularly she walks the mile to church at sun rise, to open up, sort out flowers, hymn books and harvest festivals, and then she stays to do the clearing up afterwards. The secret to happy ageing she says?

Have something to do.

Then there are the ‘widowed shoppers’ I met in Leeds. I wrote [here]  about their shopping list of red knee length leather boots and their disdain for the idea of a new man in their lives because ‘he’d be old,’ stated with an appropriate grimace. And their advice for happy old age?

Get out of the house.

Today I’d like you to meet Ruby. This 86 year old lady is a member of a group of writers who are all quite inspirational in themselves. The eight members met on a course years ago, set up their own group and have been meeting once a fortnight ever since. They’re written screen plays and short stories, some of which they’ve published in two anthologies. The second would make a great stocking filler and you can buy it here. 

The group have now decided that they shall each write a novel – in a year – and that’s where I come in as tutor.

Ruby is the oldest of the group by quite a few years but only in a cellular way. Her mind is as flexible and vibrant as the rest of them, and is certainly no less energetic than mine. And thus she doesn’t seem a moment ‘older’. In the latest session we were talking about character and I’d decided to do a personality questionnaire with the group. I asked them to answer the questions first for themselves and then ask the same of their characters. It’s a light-hearted way of ascertaining whether our characters are sufficiently different in personality and behaviour to the rest of the cast and, just as importantly, sufficiently different in character to the author because it’s easy to fall into the trap of creating a cast of, ‘mini me-s’. I’d been in two minds whether to conduct the session in this way. Personality quizzes and psychology are really the stuff of my generation and younger, something of an alien concept to some older than me. But I forged ahead – with an escape route if necessary.

There were no tears, an element of bemusement at times, perhaps, but no crossed arms and head shaking. Still, I asked how everyone felt about the session. Ruby said that she'd found it fascinating and admitted that at the beginning she hadn't thought she'd get to grips with any of it but she had, and more's the point, she'd enjoyed it. 

More’s the point, it never occurred to her not to give it a go. She wanted to see what it was all about.

And then she gave me some flowers, sweet peas, smelling wonderful, hand-picked from her garden, which she opens up to visitors a few times a year. She caters for them, too, three course lunches apparently. Of course she does!

Ruby is an inspiration to me. It isn’t her health so much, even though I’m sure she looks after herself but there’s also a huge element of luck and genetics involved in that, it’s more her drive, energy and can-do attitude. She, too, gets out the house and she, too, has something to do.  Forget surgery and hair dye, a sunny, can-do, not going to be beaten kind of outlook is how you defy ‘old age’, I reckon. 

Mistaken Identity

I am a self-confessed hypocritical Luddite. My favourite soap box rant is generally in the field of technology and yet I use my new version of windows 10 (it’s ok, not sure I quite understand all the excitement about it) to carry out my work and much of my life. I blame my phone for stealing any potential spare moment and yet I have arthritis in my thumb from an over-use of texting.

And then there’s Facebook. It seems to me that the concept is brilliant, less so the actualisation, perhaps. It allows people to stay in touch without needing to turn up or phone. Speaking to each other has its merits, of course, but unless you’re going to find a platform and give a speech, you are limited to how many willing participants you can communicate with at any given moment. Use Facebook and not only can you tell all your friends about your holiday, but all their friends as well, if you so choose.

The great thing about posting photos online is that you don’t see people yawn.  I still cringe at the memory of my poor sister travelling over from America to stay with us. After settling her down on the sofa with a cup of Yorkshire Tea and a block of Dairy Milk, the fire crackling and the snow falling softly outside (ok, it was raining, it's a minor detail), we decided that now would be the perfect opportunity to show her the photographic evidence of our summer holiday, using our ‘new bit of kit’ (it was a few years ago): the television through which you could magnify your photos to the size of a small painting. Wonderful if you’re under ten, automatic soft focus would be kinder for anyone over 35. Said sister was stoic for the first 10% of the photos but after that the head began to nod and the eyes roll and as she really needed to stay awake until at least 8pm, all parties were unanimous in the decision to save the photos for 4 o’clock the next morning instead, when she had her jet lag induced insomnia.

So, I click on Facebook at the weekend, wander around, see who’s also frittering away their Saturday, and I see that ‘Tom’ - we’ll call him, ‘Tom’- is ‘at an event near you.’ That’s nice, I think, but what if Tom doesn’t want me to know that he’s at an event near me? Or, put it another way, if Tom wanted me to know he was at an event near me, I’m sure Tom could have told me. I was amused at the potential for misunderstanding that this technology could cause. What? You were two miles up the road and you never popped your head through the door even for a measly cup of Yorkshire Tea? 

I mentioned my amusement to Tom and he said that it was funny because actually, he wasn’t at an event near me at said time. Definitely not. In fact, if I looked on Facebook I would see photographic evidence of him in an entirely different place.

Oh! If ever there was a story to be written.