That was the week that was . . .

A huge thank you for all your kind and encouraging comments and emails, especially those of you who wrote to me about your own, very personal and very tough, journeys. You are all brave, strong, amazing women and absolute stars!

During what has seemed at times the longest and the shortest fortnight of my life, there have been a number of things that have made a profound difference to me and which, in some cases, have made me feel quite joyful. And joy, if I'm honest, was not something I was expecting.

So . . . 10 brownie points to the nurse (of a similar vintage to me) at Musgrove Park Hospital, who mopped up the tears and did my blood tests, who talked about Glastonbury and my Big Mama African beads that I had worn for luck (bought with my lovely Friend in New Zealand, on the day we walked with cheetahs at a conservation sanctuary in Eastern Cape when we were travelling across South Africa), and who urged me to go out, stand with my back to a tree and let that good old tree energy start flowing. (That's the great thing about the West Country; you get nurses who tell you things like that.)

And then there was the marvellous Rodgers and Hammerstein Proms concert over at BBC R3, which had me singing out loud and loving every minute. Available here on BBC iPlayer (sorry, in the UK only) until 5.45pm on Sunday 29 August and you can see the concert on BBC2 tomorrow evening (28 August) at 6.45pm. Trust me - it's worth staying in for.

Any number of family members and friends to thank, including (not previously mentioned) M, over at Random Distractions, who has walked this walk herself and who is still very much here, and V, the Builder's Wife, who found me looking a bit dejected in an M&S car park on Wednesday. She marched me off for a heart-to-heart over a skinny decaff cappuccino. (I'd introduced her to the habit when she was helping to transform my dear old house.)

Special mention for the basket of knitting in the women's waiting room at the Breast Care Centre at Musgrove Park, which is where I waited with Lucy, the young Russian who was looking after me on the day of my follow-up tests. Instinct kicked in and as soon as I saw the basket, I automatically picked up the needles attached to a big ball of pink (very healing, pink) wool and started knitting where a woman like me, who had waited anxiously, had left off. 

I knitted, Lucy and I talked about all sorts (including Russian literature), and then I was called in for the next set of tests. I had to put the wool down half way through a row and sent silent good wishes to the woman who would be feeling as apprehensive as me and who would pick up where I had finished - and feel better. Our efforts are forming knitted squares that will be joined together to make blankets for Romanian orphanages and I can tell you that it is a brilliant, brilliant idea and one of the most calming and most therapeutic things I have ever done.

And finally, one of those experiences that you cannot really explain or fathom but which take place at exactly the right time and which I have been urged to write about. Two weeks ago, I was having the ultrasound-guided core biopsy. If you've had one yourself, you'll know that, even with plenty of local anaesthetic, it's not a particularly pleasant procedure (well, it's several procedures actually, as four to six samples are taken), with each sample accompanied by what sounds like a muffled gunshot. It's invasive and, however hard I tried to be a plucky little woman, I started welling up around sample four and needed a breather.

"Do you meditate," asked Lucy.

"I do," I replied.

"Then take yourself to that place," said Lucy.

I knew exactly what she meant and was there in two shakes; and then . . . everything in the room faded away and suddenly, my much-loved mum, who died in 1995, was there, holding my hand. She stayed holding my hand until it was all over and then she put her arms round me and comforted me in the way that only she ever could. And then she was gone.

I have my own, private, Buddhist thoughts on what was going on and the psychologists among you will probably have a theory. Nothing like that has happened to me before and may never happen again but I had always had the (never articulated) idea that, if I ever truly needed her, my mum would find me and come to me. I think Shakespeare was right - there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in Horatio's philosophy.

When I eventually arrived home from that appointment, there was only one song that I wanted to hear, especially the opening lines . . .

Comments

[Maureen]

D, that moment with your mother may not be explained but I know how real it was. During one of the worst moments on my journey I felt my dad, long since dead, beside my bed and heard him say "It's going to be all right." I felt so comforted and knew for certain that it really would be all right. Recall the memory of your experience whenever times get tough.
I love the sound of that nurse, now I'm off to find a tree!
M xx

[Shelley]

What a totally amazing idea, the knitting basket. I'm in awe. I've had unusual experiences when help came to me in times of great stress that I cannot really explain. I don't feel the need to explain them anymore, I just go with it and appreciate the help.

[Porkchop]

Know the DD is not reading but she would be both very touched and deeply proud of you. Unlike the INXS song, definitely not a new sensation! Love and a card in the post.
Porkchopxx

[Wendy R]

Dear Boots

Even in this situation you are so life affirming. Knitting is good, but your Mum there whenyou need her is practical magic. Good feelings towards you.
wx

[Dancing Beastie]

Whoever put the basket of knitting there is a genius. Maybe touched by the same spirit which brought your mother to you in time of need. It sounds like a rather extraordinary hospital altogether - perhaps it's on one of those powerful West Country ley lines?!

Trees are an unfailing source of strength and sanity, although I've never known of them to be recommended by the Health Service before! What an inspired nurse. I hope you have a friendly tree in your garden to help you out. And yes, Hamlet was absolutely right and his words are, I often think, a useful defence against the arrogance of overly empirical thinking. I am glad that you found the support that you needed 'in times of trouble'. Blessings.