Category Archives: stuff

tick tock

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Today’s the day it happened. Today’s the day my baby grew up. Tonight was the first time Jem spent her evening in her room, rather than lying on the other couch in the lounge with me. Or watching tv in the tv room while cuddling Jayde. Tonight she was in her room with the door closed. For the first time. With peals of laughter and much chatting going on. Without us. With boys and girls from her grade. I had to agree to her downloading Skype because all her friends have and because she’s never nagged me for anything. She’s graciously accepted my no’s to facebook and a mobile phone. But mostly because I’m ok with it. Skype that is, as long as my rules of whom and when are followed. But as much as I like to think it’s all on my terms, the fact is she spent the evening in her room. For the first time ever. With the door closed. I did pop in from time to time, as you do. But mostly, I just let her be.

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okay

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Is it just me? Is it just me who lashes out when they mean to do the opposite. Who pushes away when they want to be held? Who gets angry when they are really just sad? B has stayed behind in South Africa for a month. I said I was okay with it, because I am. But I’m also not. I hate him not being here. I joke that I never signed up to be a single mom, and it is a joke. Sort of. I am better at everything when he is here. I am okay with it because I now know I can cope with most things I may have to encounter. I am okay with it, because we need me to be. And I will make the most of it, as will he. And I will find the moments to remind me of how blessed I am, how blessed we are, and it will be okay. But just for tonight I’ll blame extended jet lag, late nights, sunday night blues, not speaking to B for a while for my sadness, and for me being tired of having to be okay.

taboo

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Never mind whether they’re 6 or 60, it’s always about the penis. I so wish I could claim this comment, but it belongs to Lynn, my other sister. This in response to Kate updating my family on the saga of her teenage love life. Or to set the record straight, the fact that she didn’t want one. And us all trying to explain why boys behave the way they do. Why men do. Lynn’s bloody right. But what I loved about the comment was less the truth but the fact that it was shared at breakfast with ages ranging from 7 to 74. We truly do all have a relationship of honesty, raw honesty. I know this will shock some but the ensuing hilarity was just utterly fabulous. Especially at my mom using the opportunity to educate her granddaughters even further. I know this may be unusual, even a tad controversial, but nothing has ever been taboo in our family, the table is always a safe place to talk about anything. Open and honest, with clear appropriate explanations and clear consistent boundaries. And a lot of laughs. For me it demonstrates one of my core beliefs … it’s not what you say, but what you do that counts. Don’t be scared to use words, to speak your mind, to share what you’ve heard, to speak in front of your children, to teach them in an open honest appropriate way, to encourage them to share, to learn from others. As long as the words are used with respect, and not to denigrate. To share truth. And really, what could be truer?

living

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Is it wonderful to be home?  It’s wonderful to be with my family. But it feels more and more like a holiday than a trip home. If being with your parents is being home, then yes it is wonderful to be home, but what is home? Is it where you live? Is it where your heart is? Is it where your children are? Is it a feeling? Or is it just an idea? For me it’s all of these things. The first words when we arrived were, is it nice to be home? But as much as this is where I was born, where my parents are, where my brother and his family are and will always be a part of me, it’s not my home anymore. I have wonderful memories of my life here, of my childhood, of growing up, of making mistakes, of learning, of building myself and my career, of falling in love and starting and growing a family, of illness and wonder. All within the wonderful warm embrace of my loving family and caring friends. And that is all with me no matter where I am. But I am now so much a visitor here, four years is a very long time. I look for the familiar and find it and love it, because it makes me belong.  But there is so much that is new, or rather that has just moved on, that I am not part of anymore. And that used to scare me but now it doesn’t. It just is. And that’s reassuring. That it doesn’t scare me anymore, I mean. I am always mindful of those I love who still live here, who would rather I said, yes this is still home. But I know that they would rather I embraced where I am and looked forward not backwards. I wrote before that I now know that we can be anywhere and this trip so far has confirmed that. This is so present, yet it feels like my past. And I don’t mean that I want to leave it behind because it is also still my present and always will be within me, but it’s not home. It’s a place I used to feel at home. But I don’t live here anymore.

best

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I had the worst day yesterday. I saw my oncologist, my breast cancer surgeon, my radiologist, my gynaecologist. I had a mammogram, an ultrasound, a bone density check, blood tests, a gynaecological internal and then some, I was examined, prodded and pricked from head to toe. I sat for three hours amongst all the new and existing chemo patients at the Donald Gordon, filled with compassion and a desire to tell them all it would be alright, even though for some it wouldn’t be and what they should know, and then filled with nausea at the smells and the memories, the tears and the fear. I sat in virtually the very same chair that I remember B said he saw the realisation of what had happened and was going to happen finally dawn on me. As I waited for my first taste of adriamycin, aka the red devil, the penny dropped and I nearly ran for my life. I would have if he hadn’t put a steadying hand on me. I sat there yesterday, overwhelmed by it all. I saw all these people sitting with their support teams, but you can immediately see who is in treatment, just by their eyes. It is a lonely journey. I wish everyone who is on it the inner strength to see it through and the ability to see the love that is around them. I had the worst day, but also the best day, because I felt different. I felt like an observer.

bambi

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Today I had eyelash extensions. I have tried a little botox and I have implants. Just so that you know I have no problem with any of them. In fact, I’m loving my lashes, and I love my implants, because else I wouldn’t have a breast. I wasn’t sure about the botox, mostly to get rid of my number eleven, because I was so adamant it should be very natural so no-one ever noticed. Although B hasn’t called me number eleven for a while, and Sandy who makes my morning coffee, hasn’t asked me why I’m frowning (even when I’m not). The thing that bothers me about it though, is how addictive I can see it all becomes. I can see I’m going to hate my own stubby, sparse, never grew back properly after chemo eyelashes, when these extensions fall off. Just like I’ll hate it when people start asking me why I’m so irritated when I’m not. I get that it makes you feel better, because you look better, so you feel more confident, are more confident, and how wonderful is that. But the thing that sparked this off, was not my lashes, but the form I had to fill in at the salon. When it got to date of birth, it said optional. When I queried, the therapist laughingly advised how many women don’t want to share their age. So, for me the thing is, how can we not celebrate our years and our wisdom and our experiences, our scars and our wrinkles, because they tell our stories. Why do we deny our age? Are we not then denying our lives? Denying what is?  I love that we can make ourselves look better, and feel better, but my plea to all my friends is, just know when to stop. You are beautiful just as you are. And those who love you, will love you no matter how saggy, scarred and wrinkled you are. And those who won’t, never did.

madness

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And so it continues. Only now at my age and stage and no doubt because of all the wonder and all the crap I have experienced thus far in my life’s journey, am I able to let go. Of some of my body issues. Only some. Crap like losing a breast and every single hair on my body. Don’t judge me too harshly when I tell you I was more fearful of losing my hair, than I was of dying. I do know that’s my avoidance strategy again. Focusing on the things I think I can control. And my vanity. I’ve always just taken it all for granted. The worst was the eyebrows and the lashes. Because then you can’t hide from the cancer label.  And from people looking at you with pity because they just don’t know how to be with you.  But … I was not intending to go on about cancer, but about  learning that the size of your breasts, the length of your hair doesn’t change who you are. Or even if you don’t have any. The gift of losing something makes you realise how you still are you without it. Sometimes even a better you. But, as a teenager it all matters so much. I was thinking about this all this morning as Katie needs a new bra. But she refuses to accept that she could possibly be a bigger size. In bra and or in dress. Because then she would be bigger. And in this world, bigger is not better. She will not be liked as much is implied. She will not like herself as much. It is irrelevant how often I explain she is simply growing. She knows that, but irrationally she can’t accept it. I remember this age so well. And no matter what I say, it is what it is in her world. And my experience is too far removed to have any bearing. Yet. I get her. And she will learn, quicker than me. And then she will get me. But still, how do I guide her in a world that is so externally focussed. When even her mother, despite all she’s learnt, is getting eyelash extensions to make her lashes lusher. It’s all gone a bit mad.

aha

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I was given so many books to read during my initial cancer treatment, mostly very uplifting and motivational. It will give you some insight into my feelings at the time that the only one I related to was titled … “It’s not like that, actually“.  By Kate Carr. As in, it’s not the best thing that ever happened to me. It was not a blessing as it forced me to re-evaluate things. It was not my aha moment. It’s not something you want to chat to your kids about. And if another person or book told me that I think I would scream. I wasn’t feeling it. And I felt guilty that I wasn’t feeling it. This lady was the only one who seemed to really get it, get me. It’s not like that actually. It’s bloody awful, bloody unfair, bloody lonely, bloody scary, bloody confronting, bloody terrible for children, family and friends…. it just is. Well. It just was for me. And for Kate Carr. But writing why me? a few days ago, I realised that now, 4 ish years later I’m finally getting what they meant. By the blessing. But I’m also getting how much of a strategy for living, avoidance is for me. I thought about this a lot at tennis today. We were talking about mortality and how unexpected tragedies, especially involving loved ones, suddenly makes you face your own. And how most of us would rather never have to. And how being forced to can actually be a blessing.  Because you have to acknowledge the impermanence of it all. The reality of what is and what will be. The beauty of what we have right now. And not to take it for granted. To hug a little tighter, to love that much more, to tell everyone how you feel more often, to be kinder, to be more grateful. To stop playing avoidance. And to find the time to discuss that will.

yahoo

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I’ve been a bit of a grump the past couple of days. I think it’s because our trip home is now only a week away. And whilst I know that should excite me, and it does, and remains one of my gratefuls, it still unnerves me. As it does every year. Because of what it holds. It means I can’t so effectively play avoidance anymore. I can’t pretend I am not fearful of what my doctors might find. I can’t pretend I’m not hopeful that they might tell me all is clear, and no further treatment required. And to be honest, I think that scares me the most of all, no, not the most, but a lot. Because then I will be on my own. Thinking about the possibility of not having someone there checking me all the time feels a little scary. No medication, no implants, no blood tests, no CT scans, no ultrasounds, no three monthly examinations and chats. I know I should be yahoo at the prospect, and I probably will be, eventually. But right now I feel unnerved. And a bit of a fraud too, because I like to believe it’s all up to me, that I am on the right path now.  But suddenly, I’m feeling a lot less certain.

dignity

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Mmmmm. I have now been accused of wanting to control. Well, this is nothing new. See control freak. I have been accused of being non Christian. I never professed to be anything but one that believes in good. I have been accused of being self absorbed. Well this is my blog. About me. I think we all are a little bit, and should be if we are on a journey of self discovery. I have indirectly been accused of not liking criticism. And no, I don’t. But then who does. And I do believe that those who criticise should look to themselves rather. But I especially do not like being criticised for sharing my views. For sharing me. I am not for one minute saying they should be anyone else’s views. They are mine, based on my life thus far, my journey thus far. My journey towards understanding why I am so controlling, so insecure, so quick to ignite, why I got cancer, how scared I am, how I try to be a good mother and wife and friend, but fuck up. Because I am not perfect, and if you know me, if you care enough to understand me, you would know that is the one thing I have battled my whole life to reconcile. The fact that I am good enough. So, this is all about being honest. And sharing that. And if that makes you uncomfortable, you have many choices. You could choose to no longer follow this arrogant, self absorbed, controlling, areligious African Queen’s blog. (Oh yes, I have been accused of being an African Queen. I am proud of being African, I am proud of where I’ve come from, I do not believe I am better because I am African, I just am)  Or you could choose to ignore the stuff you can’t relate to and think about the stuff you can relate to. Or you can choose to realise we all react differently based on our own realities. This is just mine. Not arrogant, not judgemental, quite self effacing and actually quite honest. I fuck up all the time. I forget my kids. I speak badly to my family. I envy my friends. I like people to look at me when they talk to me. I focus on what I don’t have rather than what I do have. Hence my blog. MY blog. I love to hear everyone’s views, but I am not keen on being bullied for thinking the way I do. How about you sticking your neck out and standing up for what you believe. My dignity is intact. Is yours?