gettingitoffmychest

50 Thanks

I started this blog, partly to share my experience of breast cancer, but largely as a kind of therapy.  I felt it would give me something to think about, something to focus on and generally stop me feeling sorry for myself.  It's certainly done that.  In fact I'd go so far as to say I've enjoyed it so much I don't know how I would've got through everything without it.  I do think though that it has fulfilled its function and that there are now no new treatment experiences to describe.  I don't imagine that daily arimidex tablets and three weekly herceptin drips will make for rivetting reading!  So although I'll miss it dreadfully I've decided to call it a day. 

I've written fifty posts, spanning exactly six months, receiving nearly nine thousand page views.  In addition to those with experience of breast cancer many people who have no contact atall with cancer have also been reading it, which I hadn't expected.  Another unexpected spin-off has been the fantastic feedback and support I've received from friends (by e-mail) and complete strangers (who've commented on the blog itself) who I feel have almost become friends.  Somehow being new to the world of blogging I hadn't anticipated that.  At the risk of sounding a bit like an Oscar speech (I wish!) I feel I must mention a few people in particular - Peg (from Canada) and Meg (from this country) both of whom have been incredibly supportive and full of useful advice.  I hope I won't lose touch with either of them.  Then there's Ebren, who did a little detective work and decided from my blog that I must live near her.  It turned out we live in neighbouring villages!  We've since met up and in fact she has become Purple Wig Friend.  And I'd always been so sniffy about meeting people off the internet, imagining it being confined to paedophiles and vulnerable youngsters.  I take it all back.  Technology is a wonderful thing.  On that note I must also thank Literary Friend (Dovegreyreader) who patiently showed me how to set up the blog and my daughter who gave me the idea and encouragement in the first place.

If, along the way, the blog has helped other people coming up behind me, then that's got to be a good thing too.  There's always going to be the fear of the unknown but the more things are talked about the easier they'll become.  I can't imagine how awful it must have been having cancer back in the 'old days' when the whispered word spelt almost certain death.  I'm also well aware that I'm 'lucky' to have such a common type of cancer.  Being such an emotive disease it's attracted huge funding for research, which in turn has improved its prognosis beyond all imagining, twenty, even ten years, ago.

On my very first post when I got my diagnosis I talked about 'never getting to Vienna now' and several people commented there and then that they looked forward to hearing one day about a trip there.  Wig Advisor Friend has just returned, full of enthusiasm, from a long weekend in Budapest and this set me thinking about taking a three centre holiday to Vienna, Budapest and Prague.  So that, along with Madeira, is something to look forward to.  And in 2009 when I've finished with the herceptin we're planning a holiday in Australia to make up for the wedding there this year that we couldn't make.  Thank heavens for my lump sum! 

Is there anyone out there who remembers John Ebdon, who had a little slot on Radio 4 back in the 70's?  He used to have a humorous look at the issues of the day, along with his very superior cat, Perseus, whose wry take on life he would relay to the listeners.  He always used to sign off with the words, 'If you have been, thanks for listening.'  Well, I'm going to pinch his catchphrase and amend it slightly. 'If you have been, thanks for reading.'  As for me I'm off to my exercise bike to ride away into the sunset.

Jeannie.

49 The coffee morning

The whole thing has been a terrible mistake.  I can see that now.  I'm unpacking a large box of books that Literary Friend (dovegreyreader) has begged or bullied off authors for my Macmillan coffee morning.  They're wonderful and I can't have any of them. There's boxed editions of Susan Hill's books, a boxed facsimile of a story written and illustrated by John Betjeman as a child, large colourful children's books by Meg Rosoff and Adele Geras and paperbacks by all three, every one of them signed.  I ring Literary Friend.  'I want them all' I wail.  'So do I' she agrees, 'but I've counted them' - here her voice takes on a warning note - 'and if they're not all on display for the auction or the raffle I'll know.'  You don't mess with Literary Friend.

After a last lingering look I go to the computer to compose blurbs to place alongside the books, just in case people don't realise what gems they are.  The biogs turn out to be truly amazing - Whitbreads and Carnegies abound and that's before I even start on the other awards.  I'm just pondering the possibility of vaguely implying that I hover around the fringes of this illustrious literary circle should anyone ask, when I'm brought down to earth by the bleeping of the reminder on my mobile.  My rendez-vous with the village hall tea urn lady.

When I get there she's standing expectantly outside the hall.  As I park she disappears and emerges with the urn.  'If the light goes out' she says darkly, as we stow it into the boot, 'Just tip it on its side and press the switch on the bottom.'  I'm still mulling this over when she adds, 'after emptying it of course.'  I drive home, bleakly wondering if it might just be easier to serve up 45 coffees with a rotating conveyor belt of kettles after all.

On the day the sun shines, the tea urn behaves itself and the coffee and conversation flow.  The cake stall, craft stall and raffle all seem to be doing a brisk trade.  My biggest worry - how to squeeze everyone into one of our small rooms for the auction - is solved.  We fling open the doors and everyone spills happily out onto the warm patio.

Literary Friend who writes a daily blog, and is therefore much quicker off the mark than me, has already written about it all in her own inimitable style.  As I know some of you read both her blog, http://dovegreyreader.typepad.com and mine I'm going to lift those passages straight out.

As well as a raffle at the Macmillan Coffee morning there was also an auction and the weather so perfect today it was held in the garden.Amongst the most sought after lots some signed boxed editions generously donated by Long Barn Books as well as paintings by local artists.
The men donned their aprons and turned out in force for the event.
Bookhound took to the kitchen sink and the washing up as if he'd been doing it all his life and Mr Gettingitoffmychest did a fabulous support act as auctioneer's assistant.Sue Ward's superb pictures fetched great prices once Mr GIOMC held them up the right way.There had apparently been no need to carry out threats to burn down Robin Armstrong's Lopwell Studio, he contributed one of his beautifully detailed paintings most willingly and fierce bidding erupted out of nowhere between a previously happily married couple. They are probably now arguing about where to hang it and I still can't remember who won.
I doubt Susan Hill's books have ever been described more eloquently or sold more persuasively than by John, who had secretly heard Susan being interviewed about her latest book on the radio the day before and was suddenly the world's expert, stunning us all with his preparation and knowledge.Cash in the Attic and Flog It have nothing on this man, he is a natural with the gavel and developed the happy knack of adding an extra ten pounds to the price for every twitch and scratch he could spot. Bidders then cajoled again with the carrot of the free box to keep the book in.
Much laughter and jollity and a great sum of money raised from a small gathering who all remembered with great fondness the absent friend much-missed by all who was to have been there too.

Friday, October 19, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

When everyone's gone Husband, Daughter and I slump round the table, pleased but exhausted.  We divide up the pots and start counting the takings.  After the third recount (remember we are all tired) we agree that the cake stall made £91, the craft stall £46, the raffle £141, the auction £412 and general donations take the total up to an amazing £1025.53p!  Now if that doesn't impress Macmillan....

The whole thing has been a terrible mistake.  I can see that now.  I'm unpacking a large box of books that Literary Friend (dovegreyreader) has begged or bullied off authors for my Macmillan coffee morning.  They're wonderful and I can't have any of them. There's boxed editions of Susan Hill's books, a boxed facsimile of a story written and illustrated by John Betjeman as a child, large colourful children's books by Meg Rosoff and Adele Geras and paperbacks by all three, every one of them signed.  I ring Literary Friend.  'I want them all' I wail.  'So do I' she agrees, 'but I've counted them' - here her voice takes on a warning note - 'and if they're not all on display for the auction or the raffle I'll know.'  You don't mess with Literary Friend.

After a last lingering look I go to the computer to compose blurbs to place alongside the books, just in case people don't realise what gems they are.  The biogs turn out to be truly amazing - Whitbreads and Carnegies abound and that's before I even start on the other awards.  I'm just pondering the possibility of vaguely implying that I hover around the fringes of this illustrious literary circle should anyone ask, when I'm brought down to earth by the bleeping of the reminder on my mobile.  My rendez-vous with the village hall tea urn lady.

When I get there she's standing expectantly outside the hall.  As I park she disappears and emerges with the urn.  'If the light goes out' she says darkly, as we stow it into the boot, 'Just tip it on its side and press the switch on the bottom.'  I'm still mulling this over when she adds, 'after emptying it of course.'  I drive home, bleakly wondering if it might just be easier to serve up 45 coffees with a rotating conveyor belt of kettles after all.

On the day the sun shines, the tea urn behaves itself and the coffee and conversation flow.  The cake stall, craft stall and raffle all seem to be doing a brisk trade.  My biggest worry - how to squeeze everyone into one of our small rooms for the auction - is solved.  We fling open the doors and everyone spills happily out onto the warm patio.

Literary Friend who writes a daily blog, and is therefore much quicker off the mark than me, has already written about it all in her own inimitable style.  As I know some of you read both her blog, http://dovegreyreader.typepad.com and mine I'm going to lift those passages straight out.

As well as a raffle at the Macmillan Coffee morning there was also an auction and the weather so perfect today it was held in the garden.Amongst the most sought after lots some signed boxed editions generously donated by Long Barn Books as well as paintings by local artists.
The men donned their aprons and turned out in force for the event.
Bookhound took to the kitchen sink and the washing up as if he'd been doing it all his life and Mr Gettingitoffmychest did a fabulous support act as auctioneer's assistant.Sue Ward's superb pictures fetched great prices once Mr GIOMC held them up the right way.There had apparently been no need to carry out threats to burn down Robin Armstrong's Lopwell Studio, he contributed one of his beautifully detailed paintings most willingly and fierce bidding erupted out of nowhere between a previously happily married couple. They are probably now arguing about where to hang it and I still can't remember who won.
I doubt Susan Hill's books have ever been described more eloquently or sold more persuasively than by John, who had secretly heard Susan being interviewed about her latest book on the radio the day before and was suddenly the world's expert, stunning us all with his preparation and knowledge.Cash in the Attic and Flog It have nothing on this man, he is a natural with the gavel and developed the happy knack of adding an extra ten pounds to the price for every twitch and scratch he could spot. Bidders then cajoled again with the carrot of the free box to keep the book in.
Much laughter and jollity and a great sum of money raised from a small gathering who all remembered with great fondness the absent friend much-missed by all who was to have been there too.

48 Wig talk

Purple Wig Friend tells me she's just come home from a hospital check-up in a (new to her) examination room.  There she recognised instantly 'my' dying cactus.  Unlike me she did something about it and watered the poor thing.  When her consultant arrived, she pointed it out and told her the state of it had become the cause of considerable gobal concern (tiny touch of poetic licence!)  Consultant looked startled and Friend had to explain.

I notice something similar in the waiting room.  Lurking in the corner is a large weeping fig, which has done so much weeping it's lost most of its leaves.  It lets the side down because the room itself is quite pleasant.  It's modern and comfortable and the walls are decorated with large framed photos, beautiful close-up studies of sand, rocks and sea, that are nothing short of stunning.  Sad greenery spoils the overall effect, but I suppose it's all just too high maintenance for hard pressed NHS staff.

My hair is starting to grow again.  I've got a tiny layer of fuzz and I can't resist running my hand over my head just for the novelty of feeling it.  At night I get a strange tickling, almost prickling, sensation that is so pronounced I actually start worrying I have head lice scurrying around.  An examination by both Husband and Daughter reassures me on that score, so I can only conclude what I'm feeling is hair actually growing!  What it's going to look like heaven only knows.  The sides seem to be coming through white and the top dark.  I'm going to look rather like a badger.  Still, who cares about colour when one actually has hair.  Strange how one's priorities change. 

I'm in the bank, still wearing Heidi of course, when the cashier leans forward confidentially and says 'I hope you don't mind my asking, but where do you get your hair cut?'  I do a quick double take.  She means it.  I grin broadly and tell her 'You've just made my day!'  Before I know it the other two cashiers have gathered round and an animated discussion on breast cancer ensues.  They're all telling me how their sister/mother/friend/colleague has had it and is now doing brilliantly when a customer with the audacity to require service suddenly appears and the girls promptly scuttle back to their positions.  I leave, chuckling to myself.  It's a huge confidence boost and I find myself grinning inanely like the Cheshire Cat all the way home.  There's no doubt about it Heidi has done great service, but it'll still be wonderful when I can put her into retirement.

47 Herceptin

For my first dose of Herceptin I have to stay in hospital all day to be monitored in case I have an allergic reaction.  I drove myself to radiotherapy every day, but unsure how I'll feel after the Herceptin Husband takes me in.  We're ten minutes into the journey when I realise I've left my glasses behind.  This is a major catastrophe.  I'm going to be hooked up to an intravenous drip for six hours and I'll be unable to read.  I yelp in horror.  Husband slams the brakes on, nearly standing the car on its bonnet and asks if I want to go back.  I consult my watch and decide there's no time.

I find myself back in Alice in Wonderland territory, the same room I had for my first chemo, the one with the huge clock.  I suspect I'm going to be watching it rather a lot.  The nurse can't get into a vein - chemo has played havoc with them.  She abandons the first effort and the second goes into the tissues.  Her third attempt, into a tiny awkward one, seems to work.  I explain my non-glasses predicament and she takes pity on me.  'I'll lend you mine' she says, adding apologetically, 'But I'll need them back for work at some stage.'  I agree, having decided on balance that checking chemo drugs is marginally more important than my su doku, and get on famously with them till she returns part way through the morning to claim them back.  Reluctantly I surrendour them, abandon the papers and switch on the TV.

We're busy viewing a house in Birmingham.  To buy or not to buy is the question.  After lengthy deliberation I decide against it.  Next programme I'm scouring an old lady's home for antiques to flog and promptly bid back for them in the auction rooms, though I pass on a German soldier's helmet from the first world war.  I have a brief interlude with the news and then we're plunged headfirst into the agonising relationship traumas on Ramsey Street.  After successfully diagnosing atrial fibrillation in a grumpy old man in 'Doctors' I really have had enough and go back to a rather fuzzy su doku. 

After six hours I'm deemed not to have had a reaction, thank goodness, and the drip is dismantled.  As I leave I talk to one of the nurses who's just completed a triathlon to raise money for the chemo unit.  She points out an impressive array of photos on the wall taken by her colleagues.  She's wading into the sea, swimming off to the horizon, getting on her bike, cycling furiously, dismounting and eventually running, jubilant, to the finishing line.  I admire them and, exhausted, stump up double the amount I'd originally sponsored her for.

46 TV comes to town

On the outskirts of our town there's a little cottage hospital, an ugly redbrick Victorian pile, built through public subscription.  Inside it's been revamped and renovated.  They've kept, I'm glad to say, a large wooden plaque half way up the stairs listing all the original benefactors at the turn of the century, together with the size of their donations down to the penny.  Last year when my mother was a frequent inpatient I often used to wonder how those who had (and perhaps could only) donate small amounts felt when the world could see the exact amount of their gift.  Maybe that was the idea - the early twentieth century version of media pressure?

Old fashioned though it may look on the outside there's actually quite alot going on.  In addition to a couple of wards there's a minor injury unit, physio, X-ray and occupational therapy departments and numerous outpatient clinics.  Recently added to the list is our very own chemo outreach clinic and as it's the first in the county the BBC regional news unit descend on us to do a feature. 

A friend, who'll be having chemo that day, tells me she's going to be on.  'I'll be wearing my purple wig' she informs me.  She has a series of wigs in various outrageous colours which she rotates depending on her mood.  What breathtaking confidence!  She makes me feel so dull as I scuttle around in my as-near-as-I-can-get-to-my-own-colour wig.  I put it down to youth.  She's twenty years younger than me.

We watch the programme and I'm thrilled that I know both the women interviewed.  They're both very articulate, praising the new service and neither of them appears the least bit nervous.  I ring Friend afterwards to congratulate her on her performance.  'I hope you didn't look too closely' she says.  'My blood count was too low for treatment, so the nurse simply pretended to connect me to the drip.'  'Well it fooled me' I tell her.  'I think you and the nurse both deserve Equity cards.'

I'm looking forward to having all my Herceptin drips there.  By now of course I know all the oncology nurses and what a wonderful breed they are.  The one I've seen most frequently turns out to have been in the same year as my daughter at school.  Strange to think I'm entrusting my life to her.  For all this responsibility and considerable emotional stress the government sees fit to award them a staged pay award, and a measly one at that.  Some years ago when more men started entering the nursing profession (probably thanks largely to Charlie on TV's Casualty!) I had had high hopes that pay scales would improve dramatically.  I should have known better.  Plus ca change etc...

45 Homecoming

We're no sooner home from Wales than Daughter arrives on the doorstep.  I'd like to think her presence is due to a burning desire to see her doting parents, but know full well that it's more to do with 'a good ground swell with light offshores.'  Within ten minutes a wetsuit is hanging, dripping, in a macabre fashion over the bath and the new surf board is lying gracefully outside the back door, waiting to trip up the unwary.  What with that and the instant recoil hose (which doesn't) snaked across the patio to the greenhouse, the garden is a positive health hazard.  Husband disappears up to the allotment, promising me a cauliflower for supper and returns dismayed, having found that the cauliflowers have turned into cabbages.  He mutters darkly about the manufacturer's incompetence in mixing up the seeds.  I say nothing and dutifully chop up the cabbage.

I've now got to get my act together to plan my Macmillan coffee morning, part of their World's Largest Coffee morning camapaign.  Strictly speaking it should have been ten days ago, but that was my last day of radiotherapy and the day we went to Wales, so mine will be an exclusive breakaway event intstead.  It was also of course meant to be have been held with Experienced Chemo Friend.  I rope in one of her closest friends to give me the names and addresses of everyone she would have invited and we'll all just have to squeeze into our rabbit warren cottage somehow and hope everyone breathes in.  I approach a local artist friend who gives me some prints, which Experienced Chemo Friend's husband says he'll auction and I decide to hold a raffle, though what of, I'm not quite sure.  My next door neighbour, whose passion for baking has become almost a full time hobby, offers to run a stall and I jump at it.  Her Christmas tree gingerbread biscuits are exquisite, so I know her goodies will go down a treat. 

Literary Friend (Dovegreyreader) and I go to have lunch with Wig Advisor Friend.  Husband is sent packing to another room for his lunch and I feel a bit sorry for him till I realise he'd have been bored rigid as we spend the first hour talking shop.  (We're all three of us health visitors)  We moan about the current reorganisation of the NHS, approximately the 463rd in my estimation.  Primary Care Trusts have gone and the aministrative boundaries have been redrawn.  This has huge implications for community staff in large rural areas and poor Dovegreyreader is aghast at the amount of travelling she'll now have to do.  Wig Advisor and I nod and sympathise, both mightily relieved we've retired.

The next hour we spend poring over an advance copy of her father's book which is being published this week. At the outbreak of the second world war he joined the Royal Marines and went to sea at the tender age of FOURTEEN as a bugle boy, whose job it was to sound the watches.  For years she'd been nagging him to write down his memories and at last she wore him down.  Thank goodness she did.  His stories are amazing.  Having such a unique perspective of the war has earned him a forward by the Duke of Edinburgh and we all predict it'll be a Christmas bestseller.  As I get home it suddenly occurs to me that it would be wonderful to have him at the coffee morning selling and signing his book.  When I ask Dovegreyreader she says he'd be delighted and will also put a copy in the raffle.  That gives me an idea.  Instead of the usual unwanted bottle of plonk and sad tub of bubble bath perhaps I could aspire to a literary raffle.  Much more upmarket.  What was that lovely line of Alan Bennet's - 'How well I remember Virginia Woolf's Sunday morning musical soirees!'  Will the town soon be talking of my coffee morning literary soiree?

44 Killer apple crumble

An appalling silence has descended on the house since the family left.  The lid to the marmite jar has mysteriously vanished without trace and bits of jigsaw lurk in the veggie rack.  Fortunately Sister-in-law and Brother-in-law come to stay for a few days, so the house is full again.  It's Mother's actual birthday and we have a repeat session at the pub.  All goes well.  She enjoys her prawns and baked potato and a spritzer, so weak it reminds me of homeopathic medicine, diluted until it only contains a 'memory' of the active ingredient.  Sister-in-law has done a wonderful job bringing down a cake and we give her the works - lighting candles, singing Happy Birthday and taking photos.  Well it's not every day you're 96, is it?

As well as the cake Sister-in-law has brought down a lamb casserole and some stewed apples, for which she says she'll make a crumble.  I hear her pottering around the kitchen and when I go in I'm horrified to see on the worktop my old fashioned scales from the utility room that I use for weighing stuff for the garden.  Last time I used it I was working out the dose of some weedkiller.  'Oh my God' I shriek.  'Please don't tell me you've used those for the crumble!'  'Yes' she replies, looking alarmed.  'Why?'  I explain.  'I did wash the scales first' she says.

We eat a very subdued lunch.  What do I do tonight?  I don't think I'll be able to bring myself to eat the crumble but I don't want to upset her. Brother-in-law, who has a degree in chemistry, spouts supposedly reassuring science at me - something about things being soluble or not soluble, none of which I can take in.  It's no good.  I just feel I don't need to be ingesting nano-molecules of weedkiller or even the 'memory' of nano-molecules.  Thankfully Sister-in-law takes matters into her own hands and, as we clear up, throws the offending crumble in the bin.  I could hug her.  They go out for the afternoon and I hastily rustle up some more crumble before they return.  It's the least I can do.

In the evening we drink some bubbly before dinner.  Having just booked to go to Madeira together at the beginning of next year we drink to finishing chemo and to the holiday.  By then I'll have hair again.  I'll be swimming again.  I'll be - amazing thought - 'normal' again.

Please note - we're going away to Wales for a little break and as I don't have a 'publish later' option I won't be posting anything next week.  Normal service resumes the following week!

43 Cowfish

It's Mother's 96th birthday next week, so whilst the family are all here we plan an advanced birthday lunch at a pub near her home.  I'm dreading it.  Last time I took her there she fell as we were leaving - face down into the gravel where she lay spreadeagled across the doorway till the ambulance arrived.  The pub owners were marvellous, covering her with a blanket and, as I'd taken off my fleece to put under her head, lent me an enormous anorak which I flapped around in for hours at A and E, getting strange looks. 

I needn't have worried.  Lunch goes well.  Grandson sits opposite her and is fascinated by the fact that although he's just graduated from a spoon to a fork, she's apparently gone in the opposite direction, using a spoon for her prawns.  We tell him that Great Grandma can't see because her eyes don't work.  According to Son Grandson's usual response to things not working is 'New batteries Daddy.'  We all laugh, but thinking about it it's not such a ludicrous concept.  After all batteries (for her hearing aid)make her ears work. 

A week in termtime seems a good time to visit the local aquarium.  After my radiotherapy we all meet up at the harbour front.  Sure enough the aquarium's almost empty.  Grandson peers at fish of all shapes and sizes: from vicious looking sharks and sleepy giant turtles to delicate little sea horses and electrifyingly vivid tropical fish.  Between tanks he tears happily up and down the deserted ramps rounding up the stragglers in our party like an enthusiastic sheepdog, telling them excitedly what delights the next tank has in store.

We get home to find the bullocks in the neighbouring field.  Husband suggests to Grandson they go to see them.  'Can we just call them cows?' asks Son.  'Why?' we ask.  'Think about it' he says, 'if he tells them at nursery that Grandad took him down to the bottom of the garden to look at his bullocks, we'll have Social services knocking on the door before the day's out!'  He has a point.  'Cows' it is. 

I'm putting Grandson to bed.  After the bedtime stories we talk about what we've done during the day and I ask him which fish he liked the best. He thinks for a minute.  'The cows' he replies. 

42 I'm verified

Having had my radiotherapy 'simulation' I'm now having my 'verification.'  I'm on the couch and having measurements checked by a machine, computer, laser beams and thankfully three human beings.  The machine above me glides silently from side to side.  I'm getting used to that but am startled when another one suddenly pops up out of nowhere.  'Just a camera', I'm assured by one of the radiographers.  I have to say if it is taking photos of me (and I have to take her word for it) it's alot less painful than my recent efforts at a new passport one.  That had to be redone no less than three times due to rogue splodges on the film.

I take a squint at the computer screen.  Of course it's complete gobbledegook. There's a list of words down one side and a column of figures down the other.  The only words that jump out of the jumble at me are 'coll rot'.  Having discounted rotting collarbones I decide 'rot' could be rotation but am totally beaten by 'coll'.  I don't ask the radiographers.  They're friendly enough but I want them concentrating on the task in hand without distraction from my inane questions.  A decimal point in the wrong place is the last thing I need.

There's something very disconcerting about being completely out of your depth.  I suppose on the operating table or even in the dentist's chair you're similarly helpless, but at least in those situations you have some basic understanding of what it's all about.  I ring a radiographer friend.  'I've been simulated and verified' I tell her, 'and I'm starting the real thing next week.  Can you give me a Peter and Jane version of it all?'  'Oh Lord' she says.  'Don't ask me about radiotherapy.  After my first year of training I specialised in scanning.  Now, if you were twelve weeks pregnant...'

41 A day on the beach

Son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren come down for a week's holiday.  Daughter also joins us.  Amazingly for mid September we have some gorgeous weather and we take ourselves off to the beach for the day.  Although the surf schools are still in evidence, as are the lifeguards, the beach itself is wonderfully clear - just a few families like ourselves with young children.

We settle ourselves against some rocks.  Grandson (aged two and a half) is wild with excitement.  There's a tiny rockpool nearby and for about an hour he busies himself grabbing handfuls of sand from a nearby stream and running across to dump it in his rockpool.  We watch, amused.  As Son says, it's a tough job transporting sand across the beach, but someone has to do it.

After a picnic lunch we go to investigate my favourite rockpool (where Son and Daughter spent many happy hours when they were little) only to find it's disappeared, silted up with sand.  Daughter (the surfer) assures me it's due to tides and winds and only temporary.  Relieved we make our way down to the sea where Grandson plunges in, jumps waves with us and, despite getting freezing cold, refuses to come out.  We manage eventually to drag him out, shivering, on the promise of an ice cream.  The van is a long way off, but Grandson carries his in both hands all the way back, stopping to lick it every now and then.  'Careful' I keep saying, convinced he'll drop it.  When we get back Daughter-in-law puts an extra top on him while I offer to hold his ice cream.  What do I do?  I promptly drop it.  I still can't quite believe how I did it.  I mutter something about after-effects of chemo and offer Grandson mine.  Son steps in, passing his over and won't take mine, leaving me feeling thoroughly guilty.

When we pack up to go Daughter picks up her new pre-ordered, tailor-made surfboard.  As it's strapped to her car roof I gulp at the size of it, but choke back my worried motherly whittering.  I decide to turn my attention to Granddaughter (eight months old) instead.  In the couple of days she's been down here she's started feeding herself and her first tooth has appeared.  Her hair is beginning to grow too.  I inspect her head with a rather jaundiced eye.  Still, I reassure myself, I'm still ahead of her in the tooth ratings.