Something and nothing

Bodies are weird things aren’t they?  And brains are even weirder.

In early May I developed a symptom of breast cancer.  The night I discover it, I lie awake for hours imagining all kinds of scenarios, none of them happy.  In the morning, I tell myself I am just being silly and try, extremely unsuccessfully, to forget about it for a few days.  But I know I’m not just being silly, so I go to the GP.  He says it is probably nothing to worry about but he’ll refer me to a consultant just in case.  I try to focus on the nothing to worry about part of that sentence, but it’s almost impossible.

It takes less than two weeks to see the consultant.  The NHS provides a truly outstanding service.  But two weeks when you probably don’t but might have breast cancer is pretty much like two years of normal life.  Overlaid with a constant unshakeable anxiety, which makes everything in your body so tight it’s like you’re a cashmere jumper that’s been boil washed.

On a biblical flood of a day, I see the consultant. She’s about the same age as my mother and very kind.  She sends me down the corridor to have a mammogram.  It hurts a lot.  I say ow out loud, and the mammogram lady says sorry.  I want to tell her that I’m not a wimp, that I’ve done childbirth without even gas and air, but I don’t.

There’s something there.  I’m sent to have an ultrasound, which shows up two things.  They might be nothing.  But we’d better check, just in case.

So I have a biopsy.  It’s horrible.  Really horrible.  But I feel an odd kind of relief.  I’m going to find out what’s wrong and knowing is better than not knowing.  Because I’m sure something IS wrong.

Back to the consultant who says I’m brave and there’s no point worrying.  I drive home through the torrential rain and cry.

Another week to wait. Another week of imagining unhappy scenarios at three in the morning.  There’s no point imagining the worst until it’s happened, I tell a friend who is worrying about something. Ha.

Back again to see the consultant on a warm sunny morning.  A month to the day since I discovered the symptom and she tells me it’s good news before we’ve even made it into the consulting room.  Whatever it was doesn’t require treatment or follow up.  I can go.

I expect to feel flooded with relief but instead I’m numb and my scalp still feels like boiled wool.  It’s as if my brain has got so used to worry that it can’t loosen it’s vice like grip.  Intellectually I’m happy, but it’s hard to actually feel it.  I know I’m lucky.  Really lucky.

Life moves on but I’ve still got a headache.  Brains are funny things.

Here’s one I made earlier: dog tag necklace

 

It started life as a bone ring.  A relic ring to go with the relics and charms on the pin brooches I make.  The first thing anyone who saw it said was, “It’s a dog ring!” There’s a round of Family Fortunes in there somewhere; I’m betting religious relic would be a big fat cross and dog would be top answer.

Then a the owner of a lovely Labrador called Harry saw it, and asked if it could be turned into a necklace.  Anyone with a Labrador must have good taste, so I said yes.  I made a Harry tag, a dog tag if you will, with an oversized jump ring, to echo the ring of the bone and the ring of the catch.  Soldered the bar and ring onto the chain and that’s pretty much it.  It’s simple, but I like simple.  And the ring could still be worn as a ring, so it’s two pieces of jewellery in one.  Bargain.

 

 

Here’s one I made earlier: protect pin badge

 

When I rescued these once-loved religious charms from a Brussels flea market, they were dangling on a little safety pin.  A used-to-be-married-to-a-catholic friend said it’s because you pin them to your bra for protection.  Which got me thinking.  We all need a bit of protection from time to time, don’t we?

So all I’ve done is give them a new lease of life.  I’ve made a sterling silver pin, just like the tiny brass one they came on, adding a brooch bit at the back for attaching to your coat or jumper.  I wouldn’t recommend attaching it to your bra, it’s a bit pointy.  And I’ve made a geniune, silver clay relic, guaranteed from the body of an actual saint*, for extra protection.  Just in case, I’ve also cut and stamped two little tags saying ‘devotion’ and ‘protection’, partly because I like words, and partly just because.

This actual one in the photo has been sold, but I have lots of lovely charms and bones, just waiting for a new owner who will love them and look after them.

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*please read small print, bone authenticity not guaranteed

I don’t like to boast but…

He’s having a little rest on his way to the summit, it’s hard work.

I made this little guy (this photo is about twice life size) for a show I had last week at Craft Central in Clerkenwell.  It went pretty well, I sold a few things, got a couple of commissions too, and best of all got some really lovely feedback.  My ex-tutor said that my prices are way too low, something she’s always nagging me about.  She pointed out that I’m charging less than a decent meal out with a bottle of wine.  What I make is worth more than pizza.

But she also said that I should sell my stuff in galleries, which is something I’d not even considered. Thought that was way out of my league.  She said my stuff is quirky and unique, and I should make more of this.  Limited edition mountaineers and the like.  I mentioned gift shops and craft fairs and she rolled her eyes.  I’ve never thought of myself as an artist, it all seems like a lot of nonsense half the time, but maybe that’s the way I’m heading.

*shuffles off in an embarrassed British manner*

Marrakech

The seven seater taxi whisks us along the dual carriageway in the warm darkness, the children excitedly pointing out palm trees and Arabic signs.  It’s not long before we are driving through a narrow archway in the city wall and the open desert is replaced by alleys, enclosed by looming walls.

The alleyways are dark and largely deserted.  The taxi turns corner after corner, slowly gliding ever deeper into the labyrinth of the city.  Eventually we reach a street that’s ablaze with light, the taxi crawls past tiny hole in the wall grocers shops with towering piles of round loaves on the counter and bulging bags of crisps hanging from the shutters.  The driver valiantly pushes on but we are travelling slower than the streams of people flowing past us.

We edge past a donkey and cart, piled high with vegetables.  There isn’t room to fit a carrot between us, the cart and the shop on the other side.  As we overtake the donkey, a teenage boy peers grinning through the taxi window, waving as he shouts hello.

Just as I wonder if we are ever going to make it out of this street, because the taxi can barely move, the driver stops.  He phones someone on his mobile, talking in short, clipped Arabic sentences, then tells us to get out.  You are here now, he says.  We know we are staying in a house in the medina, but have only the vaguest idea where.  The street is teeming with people.  People hurrying with their bags of shopping, people gossiping at the tea seller’s on the corner, people cooking kebabs on smoky charcoal grills, people standing and staring at us, the tourists with the cumbersome back packs and the yawning children.

Out of the crowd steps a middle aged lady in Western clothes and headscarf, asking “Victoria?” I reply in the affirmative and she tells me in French that her name is Jamilla and she will show us to our house.  She sets off at a fair lick and we trail behind, dragging children and bashing bags into people hurrying past in the opposite direction.  We pass bakeries with shelves full of smooth, white, proving loaves, a mosque with men in jellabas and skull caps sitting in the entrance, watching the world go by, a stall selling sheep heads and cow tongues, a fluorescent lit tailor’s shop with an elderly man puttering on an ancient Singer, a doughnut stall, the smell of hot oil wafting through the dusty night.  Boys on bikes career in the opposite direction with alarming speed, laughing as we try to jump out of the way.

Suddenly, Jamilla darts down an unlit alleyway, opposite a bakery.  We follow her along the twists and turns, trying not to feel too scared by the tiny, inky-dark, passages leading left and right and hiding a multitude of possibilities.  After a couple of minutes, we reach a dark wooden door in a mud-coloured wall and she retrieves a set of keys from her bag.  We are here.  She shows us around our tall, thin home for the week then leaves us to wonder how we’ll ever find our way out again.

We’d been worried that Marrakech would be a bit tame.

Becoming a parent

I wrote this a while ago, but it’s perfect for my entry to The Aptaclub Blogger competition, so rather than reinventing the wheel…

I’m lying on the bed in the dimly lit, stiflingly hot, hospital room.  I am sore.  Stitches pulling and knees and hips aching from hours spent swaying backwards and forwards.  If I stand, my organs dangle in my insides like bats on a cave ceiling and my feet are so swollen it’s like being on one of those moving fairground floors that’s designed to trip you over.  I think I am in shock.

I’m on my own for the first time in many many hours, without midwives, doctors or relatives.  Facing me is a seven pound stranger, slate grey eyes staring intently at my face.  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel.  I think I’m supposed to feel love, but I’m too bruised for that.  Numb would be a good word.  Scared another.  I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next.  Go to sleep?  The thought of closing my eyes while she is still watching me is unsettling.  Shouldn’t she sleep?  Isn’t that what babies are supposed to do?  She stares.  I stare back, and tentatively place a hand on her tummy.

In the semi-tropical room, after the marathon day, sleep eventually overcomes me and I drift off.  Seconds later, I am awake again as she makes a noise.  It’s not proper crying, more the sound I imagine a baby dinosaur makes.  I shift uncomfortably to try and feed her.  I’ve no idea if we’re doing it right and it feels bizarre, like a string deep inside my breast is being tugged by someone standing behind me.

Everything about this is faintly terrifying.  I can’t believe that I actually have the care of this tiny, defenceless being; I’m so overwhelmed I have to remind myself to breathe.  I feel utterly unequipped for the task ahead.  I might has well have been pushed off the top of a mountain and told to fly.

Eventually everything will be OK.  She will grow and thrive.  I will feel like I’m actually not doing too badly as a mother. I will have more children and life will become chaotic and messy; but I will love them all, with a love as strong as the terror I felt that day.

I wish I’d known that then.

 

 

Dyslexia

It’s not exactly a huge surprise that one of our children is dyslexic.  After all, the husband is, and so are my father and brother and from what I understand, there’s a strong hereditary link.

In a lot of ways it’s a relief to know.  The middle child has cried about school more times than it’s snowed this winter, convinced that he’s stupid, despite his teachers being very supportive and not half as gloomy as he is about his skills.

But lots of little red flags kept popping up.  How much harder he finds certain things than his younger brother, how catching up after our round the world trip has been such a struggle, how his obvious intelligence doesn’t match his written words.  I know I’m his mother, so I’m bound to think he’s bright, but he really is, you should talk to him.

So we booked an assessment with an Educational Psychologist who has confirmed what we thought. His reasoning skills are in the top 1% for his age group, which puts him closer to a 13 year old than an 8 year old.  (See, I said it wasn’t just me.)  But his maths, spelling and handwriting are below average.  And he has significant trouble with his working memory and processing speed (I’m learning a new vocabulary).  All of which point straight in the direction of dyslexia.

Like I said, it’s actually a relief.  The child in question is really quite chirpy about the whole thing, he’s pleased that there’s a reason he finds things hard.  I’m pleased that we’ll have specific recommendations for how to help him.  I’m also pleased that I wasn’t just being a neurotic pushy mother what-do-you-mean-my-child-isn’t-top-of-the-class type.

So there you have it. I expect I’ll blog as sporadically about this as I do about everything else. But I wanted to chart our journey from the beginning.

If I ever use the term journey again, you have my permission to slap me.