writing, not drowning

In which Glastonbury prompts me to action

I lost my blogging mojo rather, at least for a few weeks. But I tried not to get all angsty about it. The mojo, I thought, will either return or it won't. Que sera, sera . . . 

In truth I had been exceptionally busy with my two jobs (freelance writer/ editor and purveyor of high quality dog care- ahem) and grappling with shingles and the dodgy shoulders. Jobs now come into the 21st century category of income streams so I have been busy keeping the income streams flowing, which sounds marginally more professional than than merely working. 

I slipped into 'oh, must blog about that - mañana' mode but mañana never came. Does it ever? Until, that is, my daughter and her husband went on their annual pilgrimage to Glastonbury. The Dear Daughter sent regular updates and photos from her iPhone so that, whenever I found myself feeling wistful and wishing that I were there too, I would look at the pictures of deep, deep mud and realise that Glastonbury, this year, would not have been a sensible choice.

That is where the BBC came to the rescue, as it does most years,  with plenty of Glastonbury coverage and not just of the megastars. So, from the comfort of the sofa, I was able to watch: Coldplay, who - truly - played a blinder of set, with amazing lighting and effects; the first half of U2 until I got bored, all of Paul Simon (who was suffering from some wretched infection that didn't do his voice any favours - but Paul Simon is Paul Simon), some Plan B, and absolutely all of B B King. At 85, this extraordinary man is still performing - and brilliantly, even if he has to sit down on stage these days. Well, at 85, it's allowed. I'm afraid that I gave up rather on Laura Marling after just one song, which was more than enough. Apologies to those of you who adore her.

I haven't caught up with Beyoncé's set; to be honest, her style of music and presentation doesn't do much for me but I will say no more, lest I find myself cast out into the exterior darkness, like poor old Zane Lowe. (But at least Zane's reaction proves that it's not just an age thing.)

There was, however, a single performance by the Raghu Dixit Project, an Indian group, who were new to me, that had me quite spellbound. So much so that I immediately emailed the Dear Daughter and the Friend in New Zealand (AKA the Finz). 'You must listen to this', I cybersqueaked, sending them both a link, not to the Glastonbury coverage but to an earlier performance of the same song by the same group on Later . . . with Jools Holland.

The three of us share a passion for India; we've all been there and the Finz was my travelling companion on the quest for my Indian family roots a few years ago. She is also my constant point of reference on matters musical; If she loves a particular singer, musician or piece of music, the chances are that I will too, and vice versa. And we particularly love the thrill of live music. She hadn't heard of Raghu Dixit either but, ever since I sent her the link, she too has been working her way through everything that is available on YouTube. I suggested that she might also like Adele - and she does. In fact, Raghu Dixit and Adele have provided the soundtrack to the bag-packing that is now under way in New Zealand, as the Finz prepares to fly halfway round the world for a month's stay in the UK.  

She'll be here in just over a week. Can't wait. And, by the time her train pulls into Tiverton Parkway station, the Raghu Dixit CD will be here too. (Yes, I'm still old-fashioned enough to buy CDs). We'll be whizzing along Devon's lanes listening to this and smiling rather a lot. No words needed.

Jingle jangle morning

It was London, 1965; I was 17, in love for the first time, and passionate about, oh, all sorts of things. Dylan released this wonder of an album:

I heard this song and I experienced what I can only describe as a seismic shift of the soul. The boyfriend and I played it over and over. Nothing was ever quite the same again.

Seventy eh? Who'da thought it? Just hope you're dancing somewhere beneath the diamond sky today, Bob. We're still following you . . .

Off with the old . . .

The Edinburgh Boy, Christmas Holly, Mr C for Cat and I wish you all the very best of new years and my heartfelt thanks to the wonderful readers and visitors to 60 going on 16, who have walked alongside me in recent months.

I was pondering what piece of music might capture both a sense of reflection and of looking forward - and I found this. Music and lyrics: Bob Dylan; voice of an angel: Joan Baez.

For all of you . . .

Shine! Shine! Shine!

What can I tell you about radiotherapy, other than that it is a rather strange, slightly out-of-this world experience, that eats up a chunk of each day, by the time one has travelled to and from the hospital, waited patiently for one's name to be called, and sat down quietly in the changing cubicle - a sort of medical Limbo - until the radiographers are ready for you?  The best way to deal with it - the actual radiotherapy, that is - is to turn it into something else. Something positive. This was the eminently sensible advice of my daughter.

So, I have not pulled myself into that rather odd position, knees bent, arms in strirrups above my head (a sort of reverse of the preferred but tortuous position for childbirth when I had my daughter in the 1960s), fretting about the high-tech equipment above me and what it is doing to me (apart from blasting any lurking cancer cells, that is). Instead, I have been taking myself back in time each day to a favourite beach and basked in the sun's rays - starting with a beach in Liguria, on the shores of the Mediterranean, and then over to Greece, to a remote beach, accessible only by boat, on the island of Skyros, and to a similar one on the island of Paros. I have watched the sun set across the Arabian Sea in Kerala and admired the surfers at Muizenberg. Today, I'm off to see the penguins at Boulders Bay and there will be visits to Coral Beach and Sand Beach on the Applecross Peninsula before the week is out.

By the end of Friday, there is the welcome weekend respite and I will be more than half way through the 15 daily sessions that end on 14 December.

The volunteer drivers are a terrific bunch, nearly all of them retired, jolly, and full of stories. Wonderfully distracting and just what one needs, at this stage of the cancer journey. The effects of radiotherapy are cumulative and, by next week, I might be falling asleep during the return journey. 

I'm not sure what the rationale is for determining who is eligible for free transport, which is provided primarily because of the nature of the treatment, not because of the cost, although this- if a patient lives some distance from the hospital - is considerable, with treatment plans frequently running to several weeks. Public  transport might be the answer but only if you happen to live somewhere that is on a bus route to the hospital; for those of us in remoter rural areas, public transport is limited in frequency and destinations or, more likely, non-existent. The hospital I attend is in Somerset and patients from across the county and here, in neighbouring Devon, where I Iive, benefit from this invaluable service. 

However, earlier this week, I met two patients from Dorset, both of whom have journeys of up to 90 minutes each way; neither had been provided with free transport, so maybe it's another manifestation of the postcode lottery. One patient is relying on friends and family to get her to and from Taunton each day. The other, a woman in her seventies, lives alone in a small village, but neighbours had drawn up a rota to drive her to Somerset and back for each of her 15 daily treatment sessions. Village life at its practical and supportive best.

So, yes, I am very grateful for my cheerful drivers, especially in the current weather conditions because there have been journeys through sub-zero temperatures and snowstorms. No snow overnight but the temperature dropped well below zero again and today we can expect icy roads.

I am also grateful to my breast care nurse and to the friends who recommended 100% organic aloe vera gel as a skin moisturiser, in place of the sodium lauryl sulphate-laden aqueous cream advised by the senior radiographer. And I wear a large silk square next to my skin, tied round my neck, so that it looks as if I am sporting the grown-up equivalent of a baby's bib. But who cares? No-one sees this except me and the silk is soothing - it prevents chafing - and it's insulating, a bit of a plus in the freezing weather.

In case you were wondering, the title of this post is courtesy of Walt Whitman. The following line reads:

Pour down your warmth, great sun.

Amen to that.

Here's George, turning it all into the ideal musical accompaniment:

Flash! Bam! Alakazam!

"There I was, minding my business,

 Watching the world go by . . . "

You never know what's going to come hurtling towards you out of an orange-coloured sky. And it isn't always the man - or woman - of your dreams, although one can always travel hopefully.

So when I was asked to have some follow-up tests after a routine mammogram, I didn't think too much about it, apart from the fact that the date the hospital had given me would fall while I was en route to Scotland. And I still didn't give it much thought when I returned and took myself along to the hospital for those tests about 10 days ago. I didn't even think to ask someone to come with me. Initial mammograms often have to be repeated; they're not always clear and, besides, I wasn't in any sort of high-risk category for breast cancer: don't smoke, hardly ever drink, no family history of breast cancer, keep fit, have a healthy diet, positive outlook on life, live in one of the least polluted areas of the country etc etc etc.

And yet . . . another mammogram, an ultrasound examination and an ultrasound core biopsy later, the world looks a little different. On Friday (this time accompanied by my Smallholder Friend, who did the driving and the waiting and the holding of hands and who now deserves a Special Friendship Medal, Class 1), I went back to the hospital for the results. And when I knew what they were, and after I'd sworn a bit, and curled myself up into a ball, and cried a bit, and thought about how hard it would be to tell those whom I love, especially my daughter, I decided that I wouldn't retreat into myself or go into denial, but come out, as it were, on my blog and tell it as it is. That I am a woman with Stage 2 breast cancer.

I decided to do this because writing is such a fundamental part of who and what I am and because blogging has become a signifcant element of that writing life over the past few years that I would have found it almost impossible not to write about it. I am also hoping that it will help my own recovery and, above all, that it may just help other women in a similar position.

However, I intend to spare you the gory bits (no full colour before and after shots) and most, if not all, of the detailed clinical / medical stuff because there are first class websites such as Macmillan Cancer Support, Breakthrough Breast Cancer, and Penny Brohn Cancer Care, that will tell you all you need to know about the latest breast cancer treatments and support programmes here in the UK. 

If you are of a squeamish disposition, you won't, therefore, have to look away. Well, I hope you won't. It will be more of a record of my inner journey - my journey to recovery from breast cancer. because, after the bad news, the good news is that my surgeon (of whom more in another post) confidently predicts that I have every chance of making a complete recovery. As so many thousands of women already have. 

In a month's time, I'll go back to the hospital for (day) surgery - but not a mastectomy - and other procedures, followed six to eight weeks later by a three-week course of radiotherapy. But no drugs and no chemotherapy (does small dance of joy). I'll be out just in time for my 63rd birthday so there will be cake and lashings of home-made elderflower champagne. And by Christmas? Well, by Christmas, it will all be behind me and I will have something to celebrate. There will be loud, noisy crackers, funny hats and corny jokes. And not a little quiet reflection and thanks. 

My plan is to share with you some of the feelings I experience, the things that help, and the - often unexpected - things that move me and speak to me at a deeper level. You won't be surprised to learn that there will be words, there will be music, there will be dance, there will be comedy (honestly!), there will be posts on the importance of love, compassion and friendship, and on the yet to be discovered . . .

Starting here, therefore, my opening thought - I am more, much more, than the sum of my cancerous parts. And, in any case, they won't be around for much longer. They're not wanted on voyage.

I'll just leave you today with something upbeat, the unforgettable Nat King Cole and the song whose title inspired this post. 

And, because you might also enjoy a woman's musical take on things that fall out of the sky, here's Nat's daughter Natalie's version, which I recommend equally.