Drama Queen

 Last Thursday, I woke up early, having hardly slept due to the stifling summer heat, and was grateful that the air had cooled down overnight. I opened the curtains to enjoy the fresh damp of the dewy garden, then went downstairs, made myself a coffee and brought it back to bed, and it was only then that I realised it was Hospital Appointment Day.  I was all at once stopped in my tracks and sickened by that awful kicked-in-the-guts feeling you get, when you remember something you have been dreading.

After that, my whole getting ready routine was refracted through a strange and sad prism of imagined meaning- the shower didn’t immediately work; what did that mean? Was it a sign? More of my hair came out than usual when I washed it; was this a warning? A prediction? I knocked my favourite and sparkliest, rainbowiest dangly crystal down as I passed in front of the windows; why that crystal? What was the Universe trying to tell me?  In my heart, I felt a strong sense that I was living the last few hours and minutes of a sweet ‘before’, to which the ‘after’ would be forever bitter in comparison. It took me a few goes to find appropriate music to mark the occasion. SYML seemed the obvious choice, but instead I went for Radio 1, in case of further messages from God/the heavens. Bloody drama queen! 🤣 

On the way to the hospital, in the passenger seat of Mum’s Fiesta, a seat I only ever seem to sit in when I’m going to the hospital, I felt sick. A few days before, on the way for one of my scans, Mum’s car had begun to squeak again. It used to squeak all the time two years ago when she was driving me to my radiotherapy appointments, 5 days a week for 5 weeks. Even the car knows something’s wrong, I thought.  I began to weep, tears for fears. I felt actually terrified. 

Long story short, it went SO much better than I thought it was going to.  I can’t even describe the relief.  The bubbly consultant and his upbeat specialist nurse put us immediately at ease.  

“Well, the good news is, we can get it out,” he said matter-of-factly in a friendly Australian twang.  

“Ok, good. What’s the bad news?” I asked, feeling like my guts were about to drop out of my arse.

 “There isn’t any bad news,” said the nurse gently, with smiley eyes above her Covid mask.

“Do you want some bad news?” the consultant asked in mock surprise, “ahhhh... well, you’re going to need an operation, so that we can get it out. And some chemo to mop up any bits left over.”  I already knew this, so it didn’t feel like bad news at all.

That was it. Yes, I was given the usual info about risks of surgery, what could go wrong in the worst case scenario, the stuff they have to say.  But after that, a quick examination of my now no longer churning tummy, and I was free to go.  Back in the hospital foyer, I felt like I was walking on air, so much lighter than I’d felt half an hour ago.  I could tell Mum felt it too.

Back home, Peeka loitered while I told the Ex how things had gone, and my eyes locked with her scared dark chocolate ones.

 “It’s all ok, I just have to have another operation and some treatment, it’ll be just like last time, Daddy will stay with you while I’m in hospital.”

“Ok,” she said, taking it all in her stride, before returning to Project Diva, her latest obsession.

I went upstairs to see Boo in her new bedroom.  The night before, at bedtime, she had asked me to give her a hug.  She hates hugs with anyone apart from her Dad, who she idolises. She especially hates Mum-hugs.  But that night she was tearful and upset. I jumped at the chance for a cuddle and asked what was on her mind.  

“I’ve been thinking a lot about death,” she said.  

“Oh, Boo, have you been worrying about my death?”

“No, mine”, she answered with a wobble. “Do you think when we die we get reborn?”

“Nobody really knows what happens, apart from the people who have already died.  Some people believe ... ... ... .  2 minutes of my musings on death and beyond. 

“What do you hope happens when we die, Boo?”

“I hope I live on,” she said simply.

“I hope I do too,” I replied.

“Was it bad news?” she asked.  So often I assume she’s oblivious, not engaged, unconnected.  She is none of these things.  She feels very deeply, she just doesn’t show it very often.  I shared my news and she said, “Ok, can you go now?” A typical Boo response. I have my information, you can leave.

I popped my head around Pips’ door, and told her my news as briefly as I could. Pips isn’t into long conversations with me, unless she has initiated them. I treasure them, when they happen.  This wasn’t one of them.

“Epic,” she replied, and continued putting on her make up.

Everyone is ok, I thought to myself.

On Friday morning, I made myself a coffee and brought it back to bed. Things felt back to normal again. Life as usual. Life, with its ups and downs. I opened the windows and heard the noise from the road outside, and, in between cars, buses and lorries, the birdsong from the trees out the back. 

Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!  Yes I know, I KNOW we don’t do Thanksgiving here in the UK but we darn well SHOULD!  Why?  Just because celebrating gratitude and being thankful for what we have feels so, so good. 

We lived in the suburbs of Chicago for three years which was a character building experience to say the least.  BooHooDaddy was out at work doing his Very Important IT thing, and there I was by myself with nothing much to do except the all-consuming job of growing babies and raising them.  I was busy, lonely and not good at reaching out to other people, particularly when Boo came along and life became more complicated.  We went to Gymboree and little ‘Mommy and Me’ classes, but I didn’t really fit in, and if I’m being honest I didn’t really try to, because I knew we weren’t going to be staying there.  I do wonder now why I didn’t make more of an effort with people, but as it happened, the few friends I did make were absolute diamonds.  Fran, Marie, B-A and Ms Tina (Pipsy’s first daycare teacher) – you will never know how grateful I am that you were in my life in those long, long lonely days!  I loved that you were keep-it-realists; not putting up a huge façade of perfection.  If things didn’t go to plan, you admitted it and laughed about it, just like my best friends in the UK would have done.  You didn’t try to feed me a load of flaky rubbish about how we would do this or that together – you actually meant it, or else you didn’t say it at all.  I knew where I was with you, didn’t have to read between the lines or second guess anything.

Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, so so much.

Our first Thanksgiving in the US was a bitterly cold day.  BooHooDaddy had two days off work (as is the tradition, so that the celebration really extends to four days), so we began with a walk to Lovelace Park to feed the ducks.  It was so cold that the lake had frozen over and the ducks were nowhere to be seen.  To add to the general discomfort of the biting air, two year old Pips was screaming in her pushchair and I was wearing a belly-bra (or as my darling husband called it, a ‘gut strap’) due to my uncomfortable baby-bump, which, we had found out the day before, contained a rather large baby girl.  

We had been invited to share Thanksgiving with a colleague of my husband’s, Patty, and her family.  I was dreading it (due to my social ineptitude and pregnancy induced sobriety) but actually that day is one of my happiest memories from our entire time in America.  There were candles, peaceful music, cinnamony-clovey-berry smells, Patty’s boys entertaining Pipsy and the rest of us by being a raucous hoot, their extended family sitting around chit-chatting, and much bustle and deliciousness in the kitchen… all in all a very cosy, very ‘Christmassy’ experience.  The actual Thanksgiving meal was a meal like I have never seen, smelt or tasted before, complete with heartfelt Grace being said at the beginning, which was a new one on me.  Pips had her first ever taste of pumpkin pie.  I felt priviledged to be part of such a special gathering; someone else’s special gathering, and yet we were whole-heartedly welcomed and included, as if they had known us forever.  After dinner, I sat sipping a warm, spiced apple cider (non-alcoholic) and listening to Patty’s dad tell the story of how, every year on the Saturday after Thanksgiving they would get up early and drive to Wisconsin to get a Christmas tree from the same Christmas tree farm they had been going to for years and years… Remembering that day, it felt as if a strong but gentle energy enveloped us; scooped our little family up into its arms and gave us a big, long hug.  Thankyou Patty :-)

Now, with nearly five years back home in the UK under our belts, we have found that aside from affectionately remembering the lovely people we met, the thing we miss more than anything else about living in the USA is Thanksgiving Day.  We did try to keep up the tradition for a couple of years once we got back here, since Boo and Peeky were born out there, and, let’s be honest; you can’t really argue with a day off work, a fine meal of roast turkey with all the trimmings and a cosy family cuddle watching Charlie Brown movies!  But, as lovely as it was, it wasn’t really the same.  It doesn’t feel the same if you’re the only ones doing it.  It felt, well- a bit pointless really.  So we stopped having our little English Thanksgiving, left the kids in school and nursery and me and the hubby just went out for a slap-up carvery lunch.  Nice.  But a bit… blah.

But we have kept up the tradition of beginning our Christmas early, the weekend after Thanksgiving.  In fact, the girls have begged and begged me this year to get the decorations out today, on Thanksgiving day itself - much against the grumbles of their daddy, the old Scrooger!  So after his carvery belly has deflated a little, I shall send him down to the garage to get out a little fake tree and some fairy lights which will absolutely make the girls’ day.  This is our own little Thanksgiving Day.  They will be thankful for the pretty little fake tree, while I will be thankful for my sweet memories of kind, funny Americans.  And thankful for my happy kids.  And their daddy will be thankful to have them out of his hair for a couple of hours while we decorate the little tree.  

If you are one of those families who like to get your tree up and start Christmas, then YAY for you, I say!  Follow your own traditions and ignore all the grumps who say it’s too early.  It’s not about commercialism.  It’s about making your own traditions, being excited, twinkly lights, pretty things, and enjoying seeing your kids with huge beaming smiles on their faces.  There is no greater gift to be thankful for.  Happy Thanksgiving!