HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Today is my Birthday. I'm 56 years old. For the past two years, fifteen weeks and four days, I have been in a passive aggressive relationship with 'incurable' Stage 4 Ovarian Cancer. Next Friday, February 16th, I will undergo surgery for removal of a 3.5cm tumour in my left cerebellum, which may or may not be a metastasis from the Ovarian Cancer.

Occasionally in life, people are given a 'wake-up call' - an incident, or event, so catastrophic, so shocking, that we are made to take 'stock', to slow down and say 'Hey, wait a minute...' 
If we are lucky, we see it for what it is and we start to make changes...
The British Royal Family had it with the tragic death of Princess Diana, the world had it with the surreal unfolding of the Twin Towers. Some people take note, some don't...

I am lucky, I have been given two chances, this is my second...

Some souls never get to say those things they really wanted to say, do those things that they really wanted, had, to do...

In 1973, I started at a local mixed sex Comprehensive school in Bath, UK, The Ralph Allen School. I had come from a tiny C. of E. village school, with only six children in my year. We had been split 50/50 between two tutor groups at Ralph Allen, I was in Mrs. Dear's group with two 'best buddies' from my school, Debbie and Ruth, and my best friend from Primary, Andrea, had been put in the other group with Chris, and  my cousin, Paul. I was out on my own, vulnerable, without my older friend to mother me. We were only in these groups for registration and assembly and then we were split into classes. Ralph Allen was a comprehensive but it did use some academic streaming. I was in the 'top' stream, which had two classes. I was in the lower class, 1P, of the stream, the top class was 1H. After a few weeks it was clear that the streaming needed some rejigging - 1P and H were to be merged into two new classes - 1PH and 1HP, naturally!

The stage was set. I didn't have to move, the seat next to me was empty. Into the classroom came maybe 15 new kids, the 'top' 'H-ers', all bright and bouncy and smiling, and out filed the exiled old 'P's.
A blonde girl, maybe two three inches taller than me, came rushing to my desk. She was warm and vibrant and happy. 'Hi, I'm Beverley, you're Sue. My Mum knows your Mum. We were born on the same ward. I'm a day older than you!'

That was it! Friends, inseparable.  

Beverley Rowe - blonde, confident, warm - my best friend.

I had never known anyone like Beverley before. 
Very soon we we're having sleepovers at her house.
Her Mum and Dad had their own modern house on the Wells Road.
She had her own bedroom, tiny, but it had it's own fitted white furniture, with lots of drawers and mirrors and secret compartments and make-up. I shared my bedroom with my two sisters.
My Mum and Dad were proud, strict, Working Class, who wouldn't accept charity.
Her Mum and Dad were middle class, aspirational, office types - with a drinks cabinet!
I spent so much time with her. Just growing up. I loved her mum, so laid back and warm and stylish. Her Dad, on the other hand, always seemed uptight, in a hurry, out to prove something and really skinny! (Perhaps, I'm being unfair with hindsight.)

Beverley knew everything about life. She was a rebel, a free spirit.We would go shopping on Saturdays together. We had a Saturday job, together. We went roller skating, together, wearing our 'wonderbras' and 'airforceblue' jeans, and tartan Bay City Roller Scarves (pretending they were for Rod Stewart, of course, more street cred!) We shared clothes and stories, and dreams and the occasional casual boyfriend, Dave!

We went to the Odd Down Youth Club and snuck out to get chips! My Dad would have been so angry!
She told me about periods, about tampons, about french kissing, pop music - we were a soul or 50s rock music home. She told me about smoking, drugs, sex...boys. How she knew all these things? I will never know, but she did, and she had less than 24 hours on me!

Beverley was my constant, always there, always dependable, like the core of my left cerebellum, my left arm. We never fought, ever! She never criticised me, even  when I didn't return her make-up, or was late, or didn't turn up at all, or didn't stand up for her when I should have. She only ever supported and encouraged me. 
Beverley had a lisp. When she was younger, she used to worry about it. By the time she was in her mid-teens, she just didn't care anymore. I never really thought about it much.

And for five blissful years, that was my life. In the mid 1970s, Ralph Allen School 'lost' funding for it's sixth form - the politics of this, I never knew, but it meant that anyone showing aspirations to study 'A' levels, had to move on. It was the age of 'equal rights', single sex schools would be a thing of the past. Beverley and I had a plan, we would go to Culverhay Boys School - near my old village so my Mum could take us. You could only go to the school of the opposite sex, if they offered subjects not offered by the equivalent girls' state school. I was going to do Law and Sociology - a 'lefty' in the making. Literally a couple of weeks before we were due to start the sixth form, after the induction, Beverley got cold feet and pulled out. I never really knew why, she was having second thoughts and thinking that maybe, nursing might be more her thing, she was dating a boy from the other school, Beechen Cliff, I think, it all got a bit muddy there - 'But Bev...All those boys!' No, she wasn't going to be convinced, but she supported me anyway and said 'You're going!'

We drifted slightly, stayed in touch, met for the occasional drink...then I went off to University.

In the early 1980s we had a couple of polite fun meet-ups, including a school reunion in The Crystal Palace, where the sleazy boys from Batheaston were still trying to get into our pants! No, they never did! She told me she had a special guy in her life. Tony, she loved him, I could tell. I told her about my boyfriend, and she seemed impressed - I may not have landed a degree but I did have a Junior Doctor!

I had crashed and burned at Uni, taken a golden opportunity and blown it! In the early eighties, I struggled to find a 'decent' job and started working part-time for Tie-Rack in Bath. One evening in my bedroom at home, I had moved into my Brother's old room at the front of the house, a tiny box room, but mine, that fronted onto the only lane in and out of my village, I couldn't sleep. There was a motorbike outside making a hell of a racket, going round and round and revving up. Only there wasn't, several times I looked, the lane was empty. I was dreaming. I spoke to my family the next day, no-one else had heard a thing. I told my boyfriend...I must have been dreaming.
 A few mornings later, cold November, I was sat in the car at the bus stop with my Mum, outside the Crossways Inn, waiting for the bus to take me to Tie-Rack. In my mid twenties and still relying on my Mum and Dad to chauffeur me everywhere. We put the radio on, unusually, the local station, we would normally listen to Radio 1. There had been a serious accident on that Road, with fatalities, the bus would be late. I knew, at that moment, like a bolt, that it was Beverley. I turned to my Mum and said 'Oh my God, I think it's Beverley...'

Beverley had visited her Mum and Dad that evening with Tony to announce their engagement. They had left on his motorbike, and had been involved in an accident with a car. There were no other witnesses. Beverley's body was found thrown some distance from the road in a field belonging to my Dad's employer. I hope she was already dead. I hope she never suffered.

When we were in English, at school, Beverley had written a story where she was being cremated. She had been in a motorbike accident and they were cremating her. But she wasn't dead. She was trying to scream out to them, but the music got louder, nobody could hear her, the casket shut and...

They cremated Beverley and scattered her ashes on Tony's grave.

Beverley's favourite record was 'Stairway to Heaven'. When we piled into my friend's car after the funeral, the first song on the radio, was Stairway to Heaven...

We went to Beverley's Mum and Dad's house. Her Mum showed us photos of when we had slept in a tent in her garden and the 'boys' from our class had gate-crashed! It felt surreal, so un-Beverley.
I never saw Beverley's Mum again after that. It hurt too much. I am deeply ashamed. I loved her Mum.

If you knew Beverly Rowe, of Ralph Allen, then you know me! 

I wonder what she would make of the past thirty or so years...still supporting me probably.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR YESTERDAY, BEV!
I loved you.
I always will xxx

Sick of January's Cancer? Part 1

Lately, Cancer has featured a lot in the news and press here in the UK.

The Ace of Spades

At the end of December, the sudden death of Rocker Legend Lemmy was announced.
His crowning glory 'The Ace of Spades', in the early 80s is still a classic anthem. But he also sang lead on Hawkwind's Silver Machine, prior to forming Motorhead. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lemmy 
He was such a character, a rocking icon, taken swiftly by Cancer.

In one week this month, cold hard January, we lost two more great Britons.

Genius popstar, style icon, artist, actor, writer, designer David Bowie died on January 10th, aged 69.

I can't pretend to be his greatest fan, but from the glam-rock mid 1970s, through the Punk of the late seventies and the New Romantics of the early eighties until the power dressing mid-nineties, he had a huge impact on my life. Then in 2013, David Bowie was back at the V&A in London, and I was in awe of him again. 

 

For most of my life, listening to his music, watching him on TV, taught me so many things ~ about life as art, about diversity, how to be cool, how to dress, how to dance, how to be a rebel and finally in 2016, how to die with grace and dignity.

I guess because of the time difference between New York and England, news arrived here of his death on January 11th. It was soon all over the internet, every radio channel played his songs, every TV station broadcast tributes. I woke that Monday morning to this mass grieving, and I too was devastated...not only had the world lost a magnificent artist, but I was reminded of my own predicament. If someone who seemed as eternal as David Bowie could be taken by Cancer, what chance did I, a failed lawyer, an unappreciated artist, an unestablished author, a weak 53 year-old housewife, have to survive it?

Beautiful Bowie  (his final photo session)

He died when I was going through the first week of my third cycle of chemotherapy. I was already low. 

The next morning, I was booked to have a port-a-cath fitted to my arm at the Oncology  Centre. A port-a-cath is a plastic bubble attached to a catheter and line which is inserted into a vein. It's designed to permit repeated access for the chemotherapy. The line is fed along the vein from the arm to the chest area, and the plastic bubble sits just below the skin on your arm, so the oncology nurses can access your venous system from there to take bloods or give chemo drugs, without having to damage veins any further. Unfortunately nothing is ever straight forward for me. The line wouldn't pass beyond my clavicle, so after five attempts in one vein and two attempts in the other, it was decided that it would be a good idea to scan the other arm to see if that side would be better. Of course, it wasn't, so the procedure was abandoned. I had two holes, three huge bruises, a very sore arm and nothing to show for it. There was a suggestion that I could have one in my chest. My initial thought at that was to get the hell out of there, but I very graciously said that I would think about it ~ how very British. My intention was to never let them near me again unless it was my only option!

Thankfully, I was looking forward to a visit later that day, from my two dearest friends. Their second visit since I had been diagnosed. They arrived in a flurry of fun and love, all the way from Kent, somewhere east of centre. Then whilst preparing our evening meal, we all sang along and laughed along to Bowie blaring out in the background, and those lovely girls reminded me why I had to survive ~ because I was a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend who worked bloody hard at succeeding in those roles. In fact, even at the risk of sounding arrogant, I am pretty good. And do you know, they also reminded me that it's never too late to succeed at the other things ~ well, with the exception of law, which I never should have attempted in the first place!

 

I had such a lovely time whilst the girls were here. We went to the cinema to see 'The Danish Girl' ~ loved it and had a good cry too. We had to go to a midday showing, because I was having a CT scan in the afternoon. Going to the cinema at that time gave the whole experience a slightly surreal and decadent feel. We were cocooned in the darkness of the cinema, in the middle of the day, totally immersed in the fantasy of the film.

We then came home for a quick hat trying session to cover my balding head before we dashed off to the hospital for my appointment with reality. That evening, we went out for a fab Thai meal.

Then the next day, whilst we were still buzzing from the day before, Cancer struck again.

 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-35313578

Alan Rickman, a wonderful actor and director, had died, aged 69. I loved him in 'Truly, Madly, Deeply', loved him in 'Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves' and just adored him, even more than I did Harry, Ron or even Hermione, in the Potter films. 

 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-35313578

I was so sad but I couldn't allow the sadness to take hold of me because we were expecting my brother-in-law to arrive from Australia at lunchtime. We had a long leisurely lunch, talking about old times and future times. Then my dearest friends had to leave me to return to their own busy lives. As they drove off, I closed the door and had a spontaneous little cry, missing them already. Luckily, I had Hubby, First Born Darling Daughter and Hubby's Brother to keep me company so I couldn't get too sad...

Part 2 to follow shortly

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November, 2020

Make a note of Thursday 5th November, 2020...

I'm planning a huge celebration on that day.

Another date to remember is yesterday, Wednesday 4th November...that was the day I was diagnosed with Fallopian Tube Cancer.

A strange one, I hear you say, actually it is ovarian cancer, they are just able to pinpoint where it started nowadays.

Last Tuesday, I had my ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, cervix, appendix and left para-aortic lymph nodes removed in what can only be described as a brutal operation. Then began the week long wait to find out if the mass discovered on a CT scan the previous Saturday was malignant or not.

In dreams and Hollywood, the mass on my left ovary would be benign but hey, this isn't a fairytale. It was malignant, grade 3, which means that the aggressive cancerous cells are easily differentiated from normal cells and grow quickly. Which is a good thing, apparently, because they can be treated effectively with chemotheraphy - no promises though, not in this game.

And that leads me on to the next waiting game. My chemotherapy should start in three weeks time, providing my blood results are okay.

The day before treatment, I may be given steroids - no-one has told me whether I will or not yet. On the day I will be given anti-sickness and anti-allergy drugs. For four hours I will be tethered to a drip administering two drugs, paclitaxel and carboplatin, to combat any residual cancerous cells and to prevent any new cells forming. And so begins my battle against Cancer.

Such a funny phrase, 'battle against...' or 'fight against...' because at this moment in time, I don't feel very much like fighting or that I am in a battle. I feel like I have been on a rollercoaster since the initial GP visit. I have been swept along by a tide of treatment with the ultimate aim of 'kicking Cancer'! Another slogan to lift the spirit. And that is the key, isn't it? It is all about spirit and hope.

The spirit to get up and face another uncertain day of aches, pains and emotions; the spirit to wear your wig or brandish your bald head with pride; the spirit to stay strong and focussed. And hope - hope the cancer doesn't return; hope the chemo doesn't make me lose all my hair; hope I survive.

All these things to take in, whilst trying to recover from the surgery that has meant normal bodily functions such as passing wind become tortuous milestones. And of course, the tiredness. I am so tired.

Thankfully, it isn't all doom and womb. I have lots of love and support. My husband is in the business, (an anaesthetist), so fills me in on the bits that go over my head in consultations. My family are incredibly strong and loving and have all rallied round. My friends have been unanimous in their support. Now I just have to make sure I don't let them down, that I believe all the propaganda - the fight; the battle; the pride and the cancer kicking. Am I scared? What do you think?

Once in a Lifetime Part Two

Where have the past couple of months gone?
I intended to do this post just a week after the last one but the time came and went. I have so many excuses and reasons for my absence from Blogland; I won't bore you with any of them.

I am now back and raring to go, equipped with Youngest Darling Daughter's cast-off and slightly squiffy old Acer laptop wired up to a screen with a  Mac Mini for support, a sort of PC Mac marriage. So lets get on with it...

Back to this year's catchphrase: 'Once in a lifetime...'

The month of June saw Youngest Darling Daughter having a painting selected for an exhibition at the Royal West of England Academy sponsored by the local Police Constabulary. I am so proud of her and very flattered that she chose me as her subject.

Hubby and I spent a weekend in Whitstable to attend the 50th Birthday Bash of one of our oldest friends. I had so much fun and couldn't help but think that I don't make the trip to Whitstable often enough nowadays. I intend to remedy that in the coming months.

And the end of June was when Darling Daughter First Born celebrated her twentieth birthday. Her teenage years now just memories, she completed her first year at university with very good grades and came home for the summer, no longer a university fresher, no longer a teenage girl. Another once in a lifetime notched up for this young woman, my Daughter. She has matured into a lovely person, full of warmth and humour and I smile inside and out whenever I think of her.

July saw Youngest Darling Daughter celebrating her eighteenth birthday and leaving school. So my little girl will never be a child again, or at least not in the eyes of the law or society at large.  It makes me a bit sad to think of the end of childhood. It's silly, I know.

This month was when the judging of the exhibition took place, too. We went along to a very pleasant presentation evening at the Academy. Alas, Youngest Darling Daughter didn't win a prize for her effort but she did receive lots of critical acclaim. She is such a talented girl and so modest. I am so very proud of her. In fact, you know, I am a very lucky woman because I have two wonderful daughters, so just forgive me for a moment whilst I gloat :D

Off to watch Team GB!

The end of July brought us the Olympics. What can I say that hasn't been said already? I was and still am proud to be British after such a fantastic Games. And August brought the Paralympics - strength, prowess, inspiration and admiration in bucketloads. Then, Youngest Darling Daughter received excellent A Level results, confirmation of a place at her first choice university and had a painting selected for another exhibition for young artists at The View Gallery in Bristol. We attended another very pleasant private viewing and presentation evening. I could get used to this...

September arrived and Youngest Darling Daughter started her Art Foundation course. Hubby and I made plans for a short break in Dubai. Hubby was taking part in a training conference there. I was a bit lonely at times during the day, but I loved Dubai. The heat was a bit much for me, so I spent most of the daytimes in the hotel - thank goodness for air conditioning and the hotel pool. I would love to go back to Dubai soon, with my girls, and share the experience with them. I hope that wasn't a once in a lifetime. It is a lovely place and the people are very friendly, polite and helpful. I highly recommend it.

As September came to an end, we set off on the drive to London to take Darling Daughter First Born back to university. Another year of study ahead of her, new experiences to be had and friends to meet, I know she will continue to blossom. I miss her so much when she is at university, but I am so glad she is able to have this experience. We chat regularly on Skype so it feels like she isn't so very far away.

In early October, I met my two dear university friends in London to celebrate one lovely lady's fiftieth birthday. We had a gorgeous lunch at The Roux at Parliament Square and shared lots of stories and laughter. I have known these ladies for over thirty years but I never tire of their company. We have shared so much over the decades, lots of joy and some very sad times too and I love them both. Friends like that only come along once in a lifetime. I hope I never take them for granted. And now I am up to date...October is drawing to a close.

When you stop and think about it, many things, many ordinary events and encounters are once in a lifetime. Birthdays, yes, they happen every year, but they are never the same. To quote T S Eliot: 'All time is unredeemable.' I think I know what he means. We can't change the past or expect the same to happen in the future. We can't alter time or save it, but we can learn from it. We have to treat each moment as unique, even if we follow the same routine every day. And those things that we do everyday, are different in some way from the previous day. So whether we are trying for an Olympic Gold Medal, joining friends or family to celebrate a birthday or just popping to the local shop for some milk, I want to embrace every day from now on as a once in a lifetime.