this charmed life

life

2010-10-06T15:54:00.000-07:00

In May this year, 16 months after having a mastectomy, I had an eight hour operation to reconstruct what had been taken away. It’s pretty major surgery, not something to take lightly, yet that’s probably what I did in the build up.

At the mastectomy stage, when all the cancerous tissue had been removed, they inserted a silicone implant which, whilst giving some shape, always felt like I was carrying a bowling ball around. It was so uncomfortable, heavy and hard as a rock. There had been problems of fluid retention and then scar tissue had made the area hard and lumpy. Subsequent radiotherapy had then caused the skin to contract and thicken, creating an even tighter feel. For me, the implant was always a temporary measure, and psychologically I needed to get rid of that too.

There were three options; to keep it and have no further surgery, to keep it and have rebalancing surgery on the other breast, or to have a full reconstruction. The latter was always my preference. I joked for months about looking forward to having a boob job and a tummy tuck, which is basically what it was, but in all seriousness, the results aren’t really anything like you’d see in any breast “enhancement” brochure.

The best bit is having a flat tummy. Two pregnancies of colossal size within my 5’ frame hadn’t done me any favours and no amount of exercising or toning would ever get rid of the loose skin. But that’s all gone now. An elliptical shape of tummy skin with all the fat attached (there wasn’t actually that much fat, so I was told) and a bit of stomach muscle which provided a blood supply, was removed. The two sides were then stretched together and sewn up and the belly button re-positioned. Sneezing and laughing were a bit tricky for a few weeks. I was worried I would perforate.

The lump of flesh was then basically transplanted to the chest to make a new more natural feeling breast. The implant was whipped out and the existing breast skin envelope cut and shaped to contain the newly positioned tummy skin. The transplanted tummy tissue, muscle and blood vessels were then fused to the existing blood vessels in the breast area. This bit of micro surgery is what took all the time. I was under anaesthetic for around ten hours.

Immediately after the operation, I was monitored every hour for about a day and a half. They had to check that the blood supply had taken otherwise the transplanted tissue would have died. To help it take, the breast, and actually the whole of me, had to be kept warm. I had a lightweight fleecy kind of hollow sleeping bag stroke airbag covering me. Constant warm air was pumped through it. I was boiling. And immobile; there were three drain sites – one each side of the tummy wound and one at the side of the breast, I was hooked up to a drip of morphine, to which my hand clung as I self administered. Then there was oxygen and the obvious catheter. All I was able to do was take sips of water through a straw which had to be positioned in reach of my free arm. Then there was the nausea and sickness. Then there was the hospital food, once I could sit up. I was extremely thankful to Jenni who brought me my stash of M&S food.

Two days after the op I was lifted out of bed and could sit up in a chair. The next day I was wheeled to the bathroom. The following day I was made to walk from the bed to the window. I was sent home two days after that. I was rather delicate. I had to dress the wound sites daily for three weeks with iodine strips and gauze and tape. It took about an hour every day. I wasn’t allowed to lift anything or do much really for a few weeks. My sister came down from Blackpool to look after me, and my nephew was also around to help out. The ex had the kids and also looked after me. My lovely friends visited and brought me food and, when I was able to move around a bit better, took me out for lunch. Due to the timely World Cup, I did as I had been told and rested up, which I think aided my recovery quite considerably. The good weather helped too. Four and a half weeks after the operation I had my first night out – my graduating friends’ degree show, which had always been a target to be the first night I would be able to have beer.

The new breast is now softer than the implant ever was but still more pert than the other side, as well as being smaller. There’s a big scar running all the way around. There’s still no nipple, though that will be formed in the next stage of surgery, hopefully quite soon. There is a difference in texture between the softer “tummy” skin which is sewn next to the thick elephant-hide-like radiated existing breast skin. This is getting less apparent though with time, and the shape seems to be settling down. But there is a bit of a crimpy look to it and I call it a Cornish pasty. The look of it may get better. But it may not. I am just happy that it feels ten times better than the implant did. The next stage is to have the other breast reduced and lifted to create some kind of a symmetrical look.

There’s no escaping the fact that my body has been maimed. There’s an absence. A loss. Two years’ worth of transience. I could let it get me down but I won’t. I’ve been lucky to have had people who have helped me in various ways to get over different stages and feelings. I will be forever grateful and know I will be able to move on from here.

All this has been due to breast cancer.

October is breast cancer awareness month. Keep checking.

Touch
Look
Check

sorry, love

2010-08-12T15:30:00.001-07:00

It had been a long night. Darkness was descending ever earlier these days, these final days of a soon to be remembered heatwave. At the edge of the city’s main traffic intersection the heat conserved by the concrete surroundings of Robert’s flower stall wrapped itself around the last of the day’s blooms. An evading sickly sweet smell quickened their fading beauty and limp notes of colour. It had been a busy night too. A night full of promises and lost love for his customers. Men. It was always men who bought from him. They would stop by in their cars, needing perfumed ammunition in order to carry out their various quests. On their way to make up. Or to give up. He had a few regulars too. He knew that these men, like him, had come to think of flowers as a stabiliser, a constant factor in their complicated lives. To them, flowers had a language. They spoke “I love you”, “I’m sorry”, and just maybe “It’s been a good day and I want to share it with you”. It all depends on who’s translating. Robert’s quiet demeanour seemed to encourage his late night customers to confide. He didn’t question, comment or advise. He just listened. They respected his priestly silence.

This humid night had brought a new customer. A short, overweight man in his fifties, his face damp with twin tributaries of sweat and tears, had appeared in the new gloom, stumbling, almost falling into the flower seller’s scent laden arms. A few hours before his arrival, when the evening was just beginning to fade, Robert had spotted him in the distance and had watched him. The man had parked his car at an obtuse angle, and looked to be in some agitated state, pacing up and down the pavement. He couldn’t be heard but he clearly seemed to be talking to himself, imploring with himself, his stubby arms up in the air. At one point he had got back into his car but remained stationary, immersed in his indecision.

Roses of all shades and tones were the offerings that night, their velvet petals having absorbed the last of the natural light were now switched on again, glowing under the sulphurous street lights.

The new customer had taken Robert by surprise. He’d been clearing the discarded stems and leaves from the pavement. His next job would be to select any decent remaining flowers to keep for the following day. There weren’t really any contenders tonight though. His stock was almost gone. Then this fumbling, crumbling man appeared at his side. He needed flowers. That’s what he said. He needed them, his voice quietly resigned. Anything would do, he said. Robert just looked at him and shook his head. But the man thrust his hands into his pockets withdrawing several notes, and, almost falling over, he waved them in Robert’s face. Demanding. Pleading. Anything. Please.

It’s too late. You can tell that. His last chance has gone. Flowers won’t help now. Whatever he’s apologising for, my few stems won’t make any difference. It’s too late. You can see that. Whatever has happened, it’s too late. But I’m glad I had a few left for him. And I couldn’t take his money, could I?

But now I don’t know. There’ll be nothing left to eat by now. He was so insistent. And then his tears. It’s good to be able to cry. I wish I could still cry. But that’s all gone.

Hasn’t it?

But he could see I was about to bin them. They were way past it. Wilting all over the place. But it was dark. He couldn’t see properly. He just had a determination. Flowers. Flowers were all he could see. He was in a bad way, and of course flowers mean sorry. And roses mean love. Sorry love. But it’s not always enough. I know that.

It’s not ever enough. I’m sorry, love.

This humid night had edged out an arid day. In the dry, midday heat, Mike had been stood in the squat shadows of his office building, smoking a cigarette. He’d got through quite a lot of cigarettes this week. It didn’t do him any good. He knew that. It was a chance and time to think though. That was a good thing, he thought. But he only felt uncomfortable standing there in his ill-fitting attire. A pastel coloured flowery shirt was too tight for this particular summer. His wife had thrown it out into the yard this morning along with a dysfunctional family of clothes. Every piece was a solitary vagrant; they didn’t live harmoniously together, had seen better days and were now homeless. And moreover, nothing was comfortable or suitable for this weather.

He stood in the welcome shade, his arm leaning against the wall, the relatively short extension providing a buffer to the heat radiating from the bricks. The shirt felt looser that way too, although the sweat was sprinting down his body. He wondered why, of all the shirts she could have thrown, why this one? He felt sure it had never been so tight. It was quite a few years old. He thought it must be five, six, even seven years ago now, remembering a happier, slimmer time by a southern coast. Yes, must be getting on for seven, he thought. It must be. Seven years. An itch crept down his outstretched arm.

The floral discomfort set off memory cogs. He’d been wearing this shirt that night at Joe and Stella’s, one night two summers ago it would have been. It had been an impromptu get together, the summer sun inviting goodwill to come and play amongst friends. That night hadn’t panned out as they had had anticipated. As he remembered, they had decided at the last minute to get together for a drink before deciding where to go out to dinner. They’d thought of trying out a new place, Italian it was, just down the road. That’s the kind of thing they used to do.

He remembered now, how that night Joe had been talking. Holding forth he was, which was odd, considering he was usually the quiet guy. The four of them - Joe, Stella, Mike and Lisa, his wife – had sat round the kitchen table. A half bottle of wine plonked in an ice bucket was placed in the middle and, for Mike at least, had turned into a focal point during the unusual monologue. As Joe’s words were floating by, he had watched as newly formed drops of water ran slowly down its metal exterior, tiny rivulets tracing an unknown route. That night was when their friendship started to melt too. He understood that now. At the time though, he had thought they were all happy, enjoying the spontaneity, the drinking. Enjoying each other. And he had never stopped to think why Lisa was so quiet that night.

Joe was a doctor, but a reluctant talker about all things medical. Usually. But that night he talked relentlessly about his job, about one of his patients that day. It had felt like none of them could contribute, to question or probe, to turn the monologue into a dialogue. It felt okay to let him spout off, get whatever it was he was trying to say off his chest. Mike had just poured more wine.

There was an intensity about Joe that night. But Mike had enjoyed seeing him like that. Animated for a change, instead of watching like he usually did, as if analysing every scrutinised detail. So that night, it was as if everyone was letting Joe have his moment, and left him to continue with his recounting. Well, that’s what Mike had thought at the time. That no one actually had anything to add. That like him, the women were happy enough to let the wine flow. Now though, now he could see that the signs were there. He wondered why he hadn’t picked up on them. But I was blind, he thought. Or blinkered. Maybe he had been aware of some stirrings, some stray glances, but he just hadn’t wanted to confront them. He’d always been a head in the sand man. Always the one to shy away from conflict. This was why he was finding it hard now. I’ve left it all too late, he thought.

His mind travelling, he realised now that Joe had been attempting to tell him. Or warn him? But I was blind, he convinced himself. Life was good then. Or so he had thought.

God this shirt is tight.
I must try and breathe.
Breathe.

It’s too late though.
I know that much.
Sorry.
Sorry, love.

wasps

2010-08-12T14:20:00.000-07:00

Watching the gardener’s gradual progress he thought how tiring it must be. How satisfying though, to be able to see instant results of your hard work. That’s always good.

On this early evening in June the sky is hanging low, shrouded in layers that prevent the sun from breaking through. It’s there though, the sun, somewhere, the dense tiers of cloud closely hiding a surprising mugginess. From the motel window, this high up, he should be able to see pretty much the whole town and beyond its straggling outskirts. The distant fields and hills though are veiled in pale monotones. He likes his room. It feels safe up here overlooking the almost empty car park. His car is there, a shy vehicle in its space on the edge next to the trees, hanging back. Like a wallflower waiting to be asked to dance. The yellow lines demarking the vacant bays stand out in their loneliness, glowing teasingly like strands of sunbeams in the absence of the reluctant sun. So, he was the only guest, was all alone here too.

Glimmering through the haze, it’s a steady movement that had made him wonder about job satisfaction. A weary looking gardener is pushing a red mower up and down and across a sloping grass verge which separates the motel car park from the main highway. Backwards and forwards the man traverses the expanse of green. There he goes again. The mesmerizing repetitive motion makes his mind wander. Wandering, he thought. Is that why I’ve ended up here? Unlike the gardener who knows his route, he has less idea of where he’s heading. But he’s all too aware of where he’s come from. Of what‘s been left behind.

He wonders how long it will take the gardener to finish the plot. Leaning out of the window he can now see how the colour of the grass changes once it has been shorn, as if a paintbrush was attached to the bottom of the machine. Short clippings are deposited along the route. He can see them flying up in the air, propelled by the force of the sharp blades. He worries slightly that they will freckle the newly painted landscape, how they will dry out and turn yellow. A forgotten day comes to him.

She had wanted eggs. He’d only got ham. He hadn’t thought she might not eat meat. The green smell of hay lingered unhurriedly in the pink evening haze. Juice from her apple had dropped onto her freckled arms and he worried about the wasps again. They had been swarming lazily around one of the bales earlier. Up they rose, hovered and dived back down, their wings battling to keep cool.

He notices the mower has stopped, taking a bit of a rest. It’s a sweaty job, there’s no doubt about that. He kind of wishes he could go out there and talk with him, take him a beer or something. He places a cold bottle that he’s been holding to his forehead before taking a swig.

She had wanted beer. He’d only got one. They shared that one bottle that evening. They shared that young summer too, toiling the land, working in the fields, heads covered to shield the sun. He hadn’t wanted the harvest to end. But by then the fields had been plucked bare and the wasps were making plans to hide away.

The sun finally wins its struggle to emerge, like a hole appearing in paper under a magnifying glass, slightly singed at the edges. Then its abrupt searching glow starts to highlight sparse raindrops which seem to have come from nowhere. Interspersed with the stray grass clippings spitting into the air, they look like shards of warm icicles. The glinting spears could be mistaken for diving fireflies. Or wasps.

She had wanted to go. He’d only wanted to stay, his ambitions as hazy as the late September. He went with her though. Followed her, a wasp attracted to her sweetness. And now here he was. Ten years later in a familiar haze. And he’d only wanted to stay.

The gardener reaches the concrete verge. One last swoop and stops. Looking up at the sultry sky, he wipes his brow again, a mixture of sweat and raindrops this time. But he is smiling. He can see that he is smiling. Job well done.

once upon a time

2010-08-12T14:16:00.000-07:00

I used to think that. Then it didn't work out.

the distance between

2010-06-14T09:16:00.000-07:00

Staring out to sea

Across the bay lights flicker
Dusk creeps to night

Listening to the waves

Waves unseen

Waves carry words

Words that sail away

Towards glimmer and glow

Then

those smiling eyes meet mine

No longer fixed on the horizon
Another twinkle

But it’s more than that

Those words

Then the waves

Carried them away

To the distant shore

Dancing on the horizon

Forever on the horizon

much too young

2010-04-11T14:32:00.000-07:00

One day I'll write something less melancholy. But, in the meantime.... today is my wedding anniversary. Or was, as I'm no longer married, or nearly no longer married. Almost divorced. Then will I have a divorce anniversary in years to come? Earlier this week I happened to be visiting the town where I moved to when I first got married. I lived there 3 years and left 20 years ago. So I got married 23 years ago today. Way, way too young. I parked the car outside my old house, our first home, first mortgage. So grown up. The house looked so small now. Memories grow, things were always bigger when you were a child. We were happy there. Most of the time. I think. We'd escaped our home town and were intent on developing an independent us. We became one unit whilst living there. Shrewsbury, Shropshire. My great grandmother happened to come from there, moving to Blackpool for work. I apparently take after her. It did seem like I was going back home the other day. More so than when I head west down the M55.

never, never, never, never, never give up

2010-04-11T14:22:00.000-07:00

quoting Lorrie Moore

2010-03-04T06:11:00.000-08:00

"But I believed in starting over. There was finally, I knew, only rupture and hurt and falling short between all persons, but, surely, the best revenge was to turn your life into a small gathering of miracles."

remembering how

2010-02-17T17:15:00.000-08:00

We just laughed.

trace

2010-01-06T10:07:00.000-08:00

Words

2009-12-30T06:00:00.000-08:00

Here are some words from text messages, emails and letters I received on finding out the diagnosis, whilst in hospital and afterwards. Collating them all was carthartic at the time, and I used part of it for an art piece later on. I still keep a record of everything that was sent me. It helps to look back at times.

Pissing shitting bollocking cancer Damn it. What a christmas present. What a new years surprise.

thank you for telling us – it cannot have been easy to write that mail. I doubt this mail will help much – its an immediate emotional response, probably saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But I just want you to know that I care & that I’m here to help in whatever way

I’m so sorry, I want to give you a great big hug and tell you it’ll be ok

It really is so unfair and horrible

It’s not a burden it’s a way to show we care about you.

You're a tough little cookie and will get through this

Goes without saying we're all here if you need anything, will be thinking of you and love you lots

Can I have a biscuit?

I keep thinking about how positive you have been recently, with the course and then J and also your new found modus vivendi with E and E, and i hope that you can hang onto a little sparkle of those feelings still, despite the major hitch of being diagnosed with breast cancer. I also keep thinking about all your amazing photos and I hope you take your camera into hospital with you! I have also been thinking about the sunny days in Soller and the warmth of the friendships. We are all so concerned about you and want you to know we are there to help in whatever way you want, even if what you want is space. We've dissuaded A from dropping in unannounced!

Oh no.that is worst case scenario.totally unexpected, i find this hard.oslo was just a dream,dont worry.ur health is most important.

You are one of my strongest friends and you will be positive and come through it and i will be right behind you!

we shuda met ten years ago.wed hav had a laff.its harder now 4us both.

Oh my georgous lovlyest mate! I was so shocked 2 hear about this from D I couldnt concentrate after he told me! I really felt weirded out and wanted 2 cry in the class and shout "FFFUUUUUCKKKK....WHY does it have 2 b Helen? Its always the nicest that have 2 go thru the REAL CRAP!!!!fuck fuck FUCK!!!!!"

Morning missyLove u too. Sorry if wobbly when u went. Just want to keep u so we can drink wine forever ! X

Yes. Think we need her 4 pure entertainment! Can u imagine... It will b ' who is in charge here?! V glad about her! I clapped my hands!

love you love you love you, see you at the other end. love you more. x x x ...

Been thinking of you all day. Lots of love. Hope they're taking good care of you

Hurrah ! So pleased i have u back. Hope hallelujah family have buggered off! Text tomorrow with any request! Love u madam mac. X x x x x

ur so strong+brave.im not like that.x

Was thinking of you yesterday as most people who i bumped into are. I hope you know how much esteem you are held in by your friends.....not just because of this.....but always!

Heard that you have been amazingly brave and positive. Hope you are not in too much pain. Would love to come and see you next week and will check timing with you. Must be so scary-thinking of you and sending you all the positive energy I can xx

Jane said to tell you she'll include you in her prayer meeting !! I said how lovely. X

Gr8 about biscuits! You sound gd. Forget cancer, how is the hair? Xx

Your 4:30 will be with you in12 minutes (forgot it's on a hill).

54!ur popular!my inbox is basicly just texts from u.

How's the most popular girl in hospital? Done enough socializing? How are you today and when are you home?

U r so busy! U have more of a social life in hospital than i do ever! Cool . Will c u later . X x

Cake a disaster ! May try to take pic to make u laugh! And because it is a disaster pope and i not on speaking terms ! X x x

hi helen... It was really very lovely to see you.... despite the circumstances. Didnt say this at time but it was also good to c u so bright and up. I thought u perversely looked very well!

Everytime I think of coming over I am reliably informed that there is a queue. I bet an audience with the Pope is easier. I have something for you and I need to get it out the house (you'll understand when you see it)

Your cleavage is taking on a personality of it's own Madam Mac !!

what a crazy time to get your head around - i can't imagine ... you're amazing me with your steadiness in how you're talking this through - you're some woman!

It was lovely to see you. I thought you looked fantastically well.

Cry, laugh, whatever. I won’t buckle, and I want to be able to support you. You are my friend, and I know you would do the same for me. I don’t think you are going to suddenly feel better about things, it is going to take some time...

Yes, it's crap. I'll be on the lookout for some funky scarves for you. Can you drink when you're having chemo? (obviously not while you're actually having it...)

am sorry to hear that you are feeling like this at the moment. the intensity and power of the emotions sweeps you away to a new place. You just have to hold on for the ride. I know about your inner strength and your resolve. I know that you are brave and fearless and that you will come through stronger than ever. What you should know is that there are lots of people out here who are plugging for you and wishing you better in no time

This is the quotation from the poem that our conversation reminded me of ‘…they, you will learn, have nothing, that have nothing to lose.’ It may not seem so powerful on its own but I was quite struck by it.

You always sound so amazingly calm about the whole thing.

Some year it turned out to be

2009-12-28T10:26:00.000-08:00

A year ago today I had diagnostic tests which revealed breast cancer tumours. It wasn’t confirmed until a week later, but all the evidence that day was not good. It was a complete shock as I had only been referred on the basis of experiencing slight tenderness in one place. There was no lump. It turned out to be at least five tumours, one of which was very aggressive, but fortunately at an early stage. If I hadn’t have thought to go to my GP when I did, it would most likely have spread through the lymph glands and my life could be so different. I urge anyone who notices ANY kind of change to their breast to go and get checked out.

I’ve been waiting for this year to come to an end. These last few weeks of it, my mind and memory have been travelling back to happy times this time last year, when I was unaware of what lay ahead, and had only just discovered a new me, one that had started to enjoy living in and for the present, experiencing a new kind of happiness. The first two days of the year were shared with someone who provided fun and laughter which took me back to a time I thought I had lost. Then, within a week of being diagnosed (and with no previous weeks worrying, as cancer was the last thing I thought was causing the tenderness), I had a mastectomy. It was all so sudden, no time to think things through. Emotions all over the place. Laughter gone. Six cycles of chemotherapy spanning 19 weeks followed plus three further weeks of radiotherapy. August 3rd was the last day of invasive treatment. (There are still tablets to take for the next five years). All signs are that it has done the trick. I feel lucky I didn’t experience any major physical side effects and was able to carry on studying and looking after my children, going out and, well, just getting on. Emotionally, though, it has been (and continues to be) more of a rollercoaster ride, and at times, it’s as though another person has undertaken what I had to endure, and I can’t quite believe that I have come through it all intact. There's laughter from time to time, but not in the same way as before. But I'm feeling less and less like I need to escape back to where I was and am intent on moving forward.

Christmas Day was spent with my children and their dad, as usual. He and I separated four years ago, this is in fact the fifth Christmas apart. Before then, we had been together 20 years. He’s still a good friend. We reflected on what he told me on my birthday this September, a time when I was at one of my lowest points. He’d told me that I ought to look back on this year as one of achievement; the way I have dealt with it means I have turned what should have been a shit year into one I should be proud of. I kind of agree. But it still feels like a lost year, a year of limbo floating around waiting for life to start up again.

So I keep ticking off all the “anniversaries”, all the “this time last year” stuff, waiting, anticipating a new beginning. But there’s still a while to go; reconstructive surgery in February will take a few months to heal and then there will be subsequent more minor ops to follow, gradually rebuilding what was taken away (or perhaps “remodelling” is a better word, as the procedures aim to create a flat stomach and perky breasts which hadn’t been apparent for quite a few years post childbirth…) So I envisage another gap year, but one that I am looking forward to and anticipating good results from. Let’s see.

So, here are some positive aspects of having breast cancer this year…

Cropping my hair, which seems blonder
Eventually growing longer eyelashes and fuller eyebrows
Being allowed the indulgence to rediscover myself
Becoming a Top Shop size 10
Winning a prize at art college for my self portrait project
Having the opportunity to take time away and go inter railing
The prospect of gaining new pert boobs and a tummy tuck to boot, all on the fabulous NHS
Most importantly, discovering strong friendships.

Quoting Lorrie Moore

2009-12-05T15:59:00.000-08:00

"Her manner

was sprinkled

with

youthful

motions,

as if her

body

were

on occasion

falling into

a memory

or a wish."

This year....

2009-12-05T15:46:00.000-08:00

the number of days I've been inside hospital - 63

Trainspotting with Herr Rosenheim

2009-11-23T14:43:00.000-08:00

The last leg of my quick and brief journey around Europe was to leave the beautiful countryside of Lake Bled in Slovenia on the Thursday to get to Munich, from where I had a couchette booked on the night train to Paris. Arriving there on the Friday morning, I would have a few hours to meet up with my Paris-based sister-in-law until catching the 2pm Eurostar back to Kings Cross. Then a short walk across the station to the Northern Line, the tube back up to Archway I'd be home by 5pm to collect my daughter from after school club. A lot of trains. It turned out to include a few buses too.

Whilst in Berlin, I had made use of the English speaking staff at the huge main train station and had reserved seats on some of the busier trains I was going to be using over the coming weeks. Even having a Euro rail pass doesn't always mean you can travel on any train, some Express ones require a reservation as well. One train I wanted to reserve was the one from Lesce Bled to Munich. A long journey and an all important one for me to catch as I couldn't afford to miss the connection to Paris. However, the Berlin train guy couldn't bring up a reservation for me, and apologetically told me he thought it would be fine to just board on the day.

All my other journeys had gone as planned, (although running through Prague to eventually catch the sleeper train to Budapest with 3 minutes to spare wasn't brilliant -though it was probably my favourite journey on the trip). I'd arrived at Lake Bled on the Wednesday from Ljubljana, the small but lovely capital of Slovenia. I'd walked to the station from the hostel and had 20 minutes to spare before my train left. This was fortunate, as I took the time to ask again about reserving a seat for the Munich bound train at the international ticket kiosk which amazingly had no queue. There, the kind woman told me in good English that it wasn't possible to reserve seats on the train I needed as there was engineering work taking place in Austria. This meant that there would be a bus part way and possible delays. Even if the train ran to schedule, I'd only left myself an hour in Munich before the sleeper train departed. So, armed with this information, I checked my European train timetable which I had brought with me, and worked out that the only other train to Munich would leave a whole 7 hours earlier. I had to go for it though, I couldn't risk not getting the sleeper.

In Bled, I stayed at the really lovely Travellers' Haven hostel, and come Thursday morning I was up before any of my room mates, or indeed anyone else from the place. I'd brought in some breakfast the night before which I ate quickly in the kitchen and then before leaving, virtually ran down to the perfect picture-postcard lake with my camera for some early morning shots. I was hoping to get mist over the water but it was pretty clear, and I suppose not that early really, it was about 8am. Getting back, I grabbed my bag, said my farewells to the few that were now up, and got the bus to the train station a couple of miles away. I was the only passenger.

It is a tiny station, in the middle of nowhere but had a tourist information office manned by a friendly guy. He'd helped me the day before in giving me directions to the right bus stop and showed me on a map he'd given me where to walk to at the other end to get to my hostel. So there I was at 9.30am on a sunny Thursday morning waiting with about four others for the 10.10 train to Munich, the penultimate day of my trip. The tourist info guy spotted me, waved and came and sat with me at the station cafe where I was having a needed coffee, asked me where I was off to and assured me that the delays were major and that it was definitely worth this effort of getting the earlier train.

The train arrived on time. I got in an empty compartment before being joined by some German bloke. He didn't speak English and my German is atrocious so we tried a bit of conversation but all got a bit lost in translation. The guard came in at one point to tell us that the train would be terminating at Villach, a border town in Austria. He didn't seem to know anything about other trains or buses we would need to help us on our way. The German passenger was very frustrated, arms in the air stuff, but at least I felt prepared, relaxed about it.

Once at Villach, it transpired that we would have an hour and a half to wait for a train to take us to a place called Bockstein. This information was garnered by the fact that I studiously befriended a couple of matriarchal looking German women who spoke a bit of English and who you could tell were natural born organisers. They sorted everyone out. By this time, the whole platform was full of passengers, the original train having started in Zagreb in Croatia. I spoke and nodded to Croatians, Italians, Austrians and Germans. I was the only English person. It was whilst waiting at Villach that I encountered an old German guy. I had managed to get a seat on the platform; it was going to be a long wait. This guy tottered up to the bench, wheeling his small suitcase behind him. He plonked himself next to me and spoke to me in German. I apologised and said I only spoke English. He offered me a few English words but then, undeterred, continued to talk in German to (or at) me. At the time, I was writing my journal and listening to my ipod. By this time it was about midday. A packet of biscuits, a small bar of Green and Blacks dark chocolate together with some water was the only food I had. I offered him some but he declined. He then intimated that he was off to find some proper food. Up he got and slowly made it down the platform and disappeared down the stairs.

About ten minutes before the train was due, he returned and sat back next to me. I said hello and smiled and he continued to talk in a Deutsche monologue. I'd worried about my ipod running down on this long journey but now felt I had to turn it off and nod and try and converse. He clearly wasn't going to let me away. We boarded the train, which was already quite packed, but I found a seat for him and myself. He chatted away to the woman next to me, who kept looking at me and smiling. She then translated that he had told her that he was looking after me, that I was alone and that he'd never seen anyone write so fast. The guard checked tickets and explained that we needed to get off at Bockstein then get a bus which would be waiting to take us to Schwarzach-St Weit. From there the 15.05 train would get us to Salzburg.

There was a bit of a walk from the train to the waiting buses. I resisted the urge to rush on ahead, instead walked at a slow pace alongside my new friend to make sure he didn't get left behind. The matriarchal German Fraus were up ahead, rallying everyone else. I again found us a seat where he gratefully rested next to me. All the while he was talking in German, but slowly and in a way that I could just about grasp what he was trying to convey. I uttered the odd response but really my German is way too rusty so it was just the odd word rather than a sentence.

The scenery throughout the whole journey was overwhelmingly beautiful. I have two cameras, a SLR and a compact. I was using both and he was very curious why I was taking so many photographs. I managed to explain that I was an artist. He nodded knowingly. Once we got onto the next train on route to Salzburg, he decided that he would share my chocolate after all. In front of us were two women from the original train - by that time there was a certain camaraderie. He spoke to them in what he subsequently told me was Croatian. I then worked out that he was originally from Croatia, moved to Germany in 1960. He was 77. His son used to live and study in England, speaks many languages and is a teacher now in Germany. Charlotte - who I took to be his grand daughter - is a great musician and dancer but can no longer dance well as she injured her hip. He had visited England in the past and liked it. Wars are unjust, something about Ghenghis Khan, bayonets, Jews and fascism and people being killed needlessly. By this time, he was leaning right into me, his elbow on my arm, and I produced my rail map which I love looking at, to ask him where he lived and about different places. He found Rosenheim. That's where he lives now. He showed me rivers and various towns, all had a story which I couldn't always grasp. By now, we were heading into Salzburg and another change of train for the final leg to Munich - or, for him, Rosenheim. The time was 3pm. I'd been talked to for going on 3 hours.

The next train left at 15.05 from platform 22. By the time we got off the train there was a bit of a surge going on. It transpired that platform 22 was at the other end of the station.There was a bit of anxiety going on all over the place. I tried not to rush in an effort to keep him calm and unflustered. I was clocking the platform directions and was heading straight on. I kept slowing down, looking round to make sure he was okay. He was, he kept nodding and pointing, intimating that I get on my way. Next time I looked round, he'd disappeared. I stopped and went back. I saw the back of him tottering off behind the matriarchs who had diverted left. Now he was looking round for me. I went my original direction and made it to platform 22 before anyone else. It was 15.04. I could see the train was packed, but I waited at a door to make sure he would get on and not miss it. I spotted him coming around the corner onto the platform, and waved. His arm went up in recognition. I got on the train, a huge double-decker and amazingly found a free double seat right near the door. I left my rucksack on the seat and went to look for him. I couldn't see him. Then, I saw the matriarchs bundling him thorough another door into a crowded carriage. I turned back to where a nun was now hovering around my seat with 2 cases. I heaved my rucksack onto the rack and let her sit down next to me. She smiled but didn't utter a word. The train left punctually and as we eased gradually through the city of Salzburg, my imaginary internal ipod was gratingly stuck on the Sound of Music. I would have preferred a slow, deliberate German monologue.

Just before arriving at Munich, 9 hours after I'd left Lake Bled, we came into the station of Rosenheim at 6pm. I was by the window and I strained to see. And there he was, picking his way carefully along the platform, a pause and a look. I waved. He didn't see me. He was looking for me though. I waved in that big way you do. He stood and studied the train. He didn't see me. He then picked up his case and chugged off through the gate. At Rosenheim station. Mein Herr Rosenheim. I didn't even know his name.

I'm trying

2009-11-17T04:40:00.000-08:00

I'm studying Fine Art. I use photography to make art. I'm not a photographer, as some people describe me. I'm an artist (or am trying to be when not being a mother; I know it doesn't have to be two different strands to my life, but it is most of the time and I can't help it). I snap images rather than compose and set up shots. I see and snap. Photographs make up my entire sketch book. Editing then makes some kind of sense out of it all. It's a reductive creative process. I shot about 60 frames this morning; the sun was gorgeous, dancing shadows everywhere. But, I'm trying to make a start on writing my dissertation. Instead I decided to write this. I'm hoping it will help. Not sure how. But I wanted to post some writing I did for an assignment last year; a piece of criticism about an art exhibition, the annual Deutsche Borse photography prize. My dissertation is going to be about the winner, Paul Graham. His work suggests a narrative, and I am going to attempt to write that narrative, try to fill in the gaps, the spaces between. Everyone has a different story. I've just got to try and start to make up mine and stop reading Carver, Chekhov and Nabokov. For now.

Deutsche Borse Photography Prize 2009

It’s the nature of shortlists and prize giving to cause clashes of opinions and disagreements. This year’s Deutsche Borse Photography Prize is no exception in generating discursive discussion on who should have won the annual £30,000 prize. For me though, the judges got it right. Each of the four artists, for I will call them artists, not photographers, held my attention in some way, but only one had me immersed.

Taryn Simon acts as a modern day collector, her series of disparate images set the scene for what could be some Louis Theroux TV show of American curiosities. Large and colourful, but the lengthy explanatory captions captivate the interest rather than the image alone. Emily Jacir’s documentation of the assassination of Palestinian Wael Zuaiter is a fascinating archival record of re-photographed texts and old photographs. But it doesn’t fit this exhibition. Tod Papageorge’s set of black and white photographs of lazing, resting sunseekers in Central Park were taken between 1969 and 1991. They’re insightful, calm and rather beautiful but for me, not contemporary enough for what the competition is about – to find the photographer who has made the most significant contribution to photography in Europe over the past year.

Then we come to Paul Graham and his work “a shimmer of possibility”. The original work is contained in 12 various coloured cloth bound books. These are displayed coffee table style in a glass case, one volume open at a random page. This is my main gripe of the display. What we are shown instead is a selection of enlarged images on three walls; a delicious amuse bouche. But I want the full 12 courses and want to get in that case and devour each volume.

The layout on the walls reflects that of the books’ pages. Groups of images, variously sized of the same subject are shown together but irregularly placed. The largest images tend to show the bigger picture, smaller ones are more detailed, cropped. Subjects are everyday people and life. Blink and it’s gone. These images have been seen by us all, we just tend to pass them by. Here though, the moment is captured: an overweight man taking a cigarette break in the shadows of a building, lost in thought, stressed about work; a homeless guy selling flowers at night, his hopeful face quietly pleading; an urban street scene at dusk, the red sun setting, draining life out of the place but bringing out the youth to play a game of street hoops.

The spaces between allow a continuous taking in of information, the eye flits, sudden shifts in viewpoint and repetition dislodge narrative flow but still a story forms in the mind. Then there is a gap. Pause. The books have blank pages (apparently) which by turning through to get to the next image, allows the mind to contemplate the previous scene, form a narrative (or not). They bring to mind the stories of Raymond Carver; you’re maybe left wondering what the missing parts add up to and make up your own mind.

I realise that this work has engaged me in such a way, I feel as if I have been there and shot the film myself. I know of these people, these places. Somehow. There are no labels to distract, no explanations, as none are needed. I feel free to gaze and I have a sense of real presence. I’m not studying these images, I’m feeling them, the gestures, the essence.

Paul Graham sums up this work for me perfectly. “I’m asking you to trust me and enjoy this quiet journey. Just slow down and look at this ordinary moment of life. See how beautiful it is, see how life flows around us, how everything shimmers with possibility.”

two views

2009-11-10T12:08:00.000-08:00

Two windows.

A year between.

To the day.

Then,

easy.

Now,

less so.

I would say.

the space between

2009-11-03T04:41:00.000-08:00

Keep
Behind the barrier
Look
Snap.
But
Can you see it?
See what's real
See what's really there
Or isn't there
What's in front of your very eyes
Or what's between
Just feel it
Experience
Try
Or will you wait until afterwards?
Like an old time explorer
Collecting proof

Relief

2009-11-02T07:12:00.000-08:00

The waiting room is the same. Only last time, I wasn't anxious. Last time, I was sat here anticipating a good new year; looking forward to New Year's Eve, or more specifically, New Year's Day. Life had just started up again. There was fun, laughter and an enjoyment of the here and now. I was just in that waiting room as a precaution. No one could feel anything. It was just an ache, no lump. Nothing to worry about. Then, once inside, it was the doctor's stroke of my arm, the telling that it would be best to do biopsies there and then, the sudden appearance of the main consultant, the booking in all too quickly for another scan that gave the game away. There were shadows of concern. I usually like shadows.

Sat waiting for the next set of scans, the consent form I found myself filling in became a blur as I had a fleeting thought of my future grown up children. Will I see them? I intended to.

Two weeks later I lost a part of me. I lost a lot else too. But also gained something, with the support and love from those who cared. Harsh medical treatment failed to dent me and I seemed to be a stronger person. There was just a sadness of a loss, a loss of myself and who I had found myself to be. Now I was someone else. The longing to go back was overwhelming at times. I pined for an escape.

Hospital visits became routine. I was well looked after. Life continued as normal - rushing from school run to college, to school run, cooking, cleaning, organising homework, taxi-ing children around, trying to take photographs, trying to make art. Treatment ended eight months later and I had come through it all relatively unscathed, very few side effects, certainly no major ones. A champagne moment. I celebrated with good friends. But I still felt in limbo. With the routine gone came uncertainty, too much reflection, too much dwelling. And too much time on my own at times.

So today I had some good news. The anxiety had taken a hold this time and my request to bring forward what is from now on annual tests to spot any signs of it developing on the other side was granted. That same ache has been niggling me there for a few weeks. So this time, sitting in the same waiting room was different. This time, it was anxious. Several different scenarios were playing over in the mind, full of what ifs.

But the news was good. This time no shadows.

a train journey

2009-10-13T13:40:00.000-07:00

Notes from my journal

Monday 21st September 2009

Vienna (Wien Sud) – Ljubljana
6 hours

Up at 6.08

Excited

Don’t know why it’s the place I feel I want to be more than the others on this trip.

6 seat compartment.
Old Austrian man and 3 other blokes.

Soundtrack:

Dead Souls, Joy Division
Someone take these dreams away
And take me to another day
Doors Closing Slowly, Manic Street Preachers
Pretty Visitors, Arctic Monkeys
Cut Off, Kasabian
Run, Snow Patrol
End of the World, Ash
Never felt so lonely
Painted From Memory, Elvis Costello & Burt Bacharach
Those eyes now smile for someone else

Gorgeous scenery
Mountains
Tree studded
Sun still low
Hazy
Since long tunnel, more cloudy
Low mist
Hilltop houses
Churches

Shooting loads. Old guy keeps nodding to me, intimating at the scenery that lies ahead – I’m at the window seat but rear facing. He looks so proud. It’s his country. Don’t blame him.

The Long Way Round, Badly Drawn Boy
Falling Down, Oasis
If you Tolerate this, MSP

Green river
Wooded hillsides
Hazy sun
Water so green

How so green?
Fresh
Gorgeous

Hostel is a former prison. In a 2 bed “cell”.

Other inmate’s bag is there.

Obviously male.

And has fortunately bagged the top bunk.

Couldn’t have got up that ladder.

Crime and Punishment is his book of choice....

Short walk to centre. 4pm so sun getting lower and lovely light.
Pink church
Pink roofs
A pink glow
Reflections on the river
3 bridges close together
Narrow river
Feels a bit like a model village
Tourists but not too touristy
St Nicholas Church
Lit a candle. Cried.
Bit of a recurring theme
Time for a beer, so sat here.
Bar Sokol having a Sokol beer. Think it’s the one J mentioned. Bit weird. Right outside the church. Beer is rather lovely. Very smooth. In a grolsch like bottle. Gorgeous. But big…

Just found stray hair on table. Know it’s mine because it’s stripy.

Tuesday 22nd September
Ljubljana

Got an early night.
Hostel not too convivial.
More like a bar than a hostel.
Felt bit pissed off.

Room mate still a no show until about 3am. Been on a day trip to Venice. Apologised for disturbing as he came in. Recognised accent immediately as Lancashire, possibly even Blackpool…. Turns out to be from Preston. Chatted a bit. Slept ok. He’s off to Maribor today.

Up earlyish.
Walked to pink church square.
Wandered along streets towards Modern Art Gallery.
Closed.
Recurring theme of this trip.
Pleasant, quiet, little city.
Not too many tourists.
Loads of building and renovation works.
Recurring theme of this trip…
Headed to quieter side of river – river very narrow, more like a Venice canal.

Stumbled across contemporary photography gallery, through a courtyard and up some stairs. 5 large images. All white subjects, dark surrounds and glimpses of light glowing. Quite surreal but beautiful in a way. Talked with gallery owner for a while. Made me think of how it would be beneficial to immerse myself in something rather than….
Sat for a coffee. breaks up the time. Deciding to walk up to the castle once the sun isn’t too high. So will wait a bit. Bought a pink scarf. I like pink next to my skin. Pink is how I see Ljubljana too.

Castle.
Quiet wooded walk. No one else around. Met two other people along the way. Climbed to the top of the tower.
Great views.
Did the usual shots.

Descended via a different route.
More urban.

Late lunch. Strange foursome sat at next table. Can’t work out what nationality they are. 50 odd year old bloke in charge. Basil Fawlty. Speaking English to waiter. Asking all sorts of questions about the menu. Keeps reprimanding him. “You don’t write it down. Then you forget!” Basil of course writes everything down. Think he’s noting all the prices. He asked for a beer a bit ago. I feel desperate to remind the nice waiter so he doesn’t get bollocked again. Oh no, Basil’s getting up to seek him out. Back clutching his beer.

Back at hostel.
Met up with cell mate Dave.
Out for drinks at bar by the river. He’s a MA student about to move to Durham to study. Chatted about Durham, Lancashire and life in general. Like the way he seems determined in what he’s set out to do.

Will be up early to catch train to Bled. Final leg….

dwell

2009-10-12T14:48:00.000-07:00

dwell (v)
to linger, delay, brood

or to reside

dwelling
dwelling way too much

2009-10-09T00:40:00.000-07:00

Another insomnia inspired bad idea. Will someone wake up and tell me next time.

when.....

2009-10-07T13:06:00.000-07:00

when....

a train

southbound

still breathless

silver birches

glinting

rushing past

or so it seems

about to lose

something

to discover

a lot

when....

not so long ago

an attic room

that wasn't mine

but felt safe

slanting light highlights

a sleeping body

calm improbable smiles

no worries

no cares

care free

responsibility locked away

for now

living the now

comfortable

pure escape

when....

staring out to sea

many seas

many times

many, many times

escape

across

rhythmic

reassurance

when....

on top of a mountain

my native north

drenched in autumn

a stag appears

just a glimpse

then gone

eyelashes

2009-10-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

My eyelashes have grown back thicker and longer than they ever were. I realised this today as I applied mascara. Not that I'd lost them altogether, or all at the same time, but they had certainly thinned out and were brittle and short for a while. This growth seems to have happened without me noticing. And one of the few things that is better than life before BC. There aren't many so I'm allowing myself to rejoice at what may seem fairly trivial advances.

At the beginning of chemotherapy, at the end of February 2009, I set out to photographically document what I expected to be complete hair loss. On top of everything that had happened, this was what I feared most. Losing my natural blonde. Before treatment started I tried on wigs, bought a hat and practised wrapping scarves. None were me. I would lose my identity and gain a completely different one. There'd be no way round not looking like a cancer patient.

My plan was to take some control. I had it cut short so that the fall out would hopefully have less impact... I think it was a good theory. But I'm incredibly lucky in that I didn't have to go through with any of the various head coverings. I kept my hair. This was due to wearing a "scalp cooling" device during the drug injections. The idea is to cut off the blood supply to the hair follicles meaning that the drugs don't reach. Cooling is not the right word though; it was fucking freezing. Sat for 3 hours with a gel filled hat frozen to minus 6 degrees wasn't much fun and most people who try it abandon it after 20 minutes. But I was determined to save my hair if I could. I'm glad I coped with the suffering. Throughout all this shit year I sometimes haven't been able to work out where my resolve and a mainly positive attitude has come from. But I know a major factor is down to keeping my hair.

So my hair didn't fall out, but it grew weaker in the 3 weekly stages between each cycle of chemo. Like the eyelashes, it wasn't majorly apparent, but in the few strands that did come out, it looked like a badger had been moulting. The hair at the root end was stripey. It seemed that it was blonde and dark stripes but in reality the lighter stripes were thinner, and if I pulled it, the strand would break at those points. So it seems like I held on to my hair by a thread.

I'm going to look after my eyelashes and enjoy them. I'm also going to keep my hair short. I think.

"so where are we going? We're not ready for drowning."

2009-09-30T08:38:00.000-07:00

A bit lost

2009-09-30T08:17:00.000-07:00

How can you feel as lucky as hell at the same time as feeling your life has been shat on from a great height?

a summary of the trip so far

2009-09-21T06:22:00.000-07:00

Berlin - mad fun with great mates. Developed a huge obsession with the Berlin Wall
Prague - one big theme park, but I warmed to its quieter streets eventually. After all, I am a Blackpool girl who hates tourists...
Budapest - bigger than expected. Pissed it down first day which clouded my view of it. Literally.
Bratislava - loved it
Vienna - it meant nothing to me... well, not exactly. Just not enough time there. Enjoyed eating Wiener Schnitzel and drinking beer whilst watching the Manchester derby.
Ljubljana - just arrived. Let's see.

recurring themes:

not enough sleep
trains
rivers
views
bridges
camera, camera
too many tourists
ducking into quiet streets
losing myself - as opposed to getting lost

this charmed life

2009-09-10T14:11:00.000-07:00

Okay. Here goes. After what has been the worst year of my life so far, I'm off to celebrate it being nearly over by spending some time in 9 different European cities in the space of 15 days. I've written lots of introductions to this potential blog over the last few months, none of which have happened. I'm going to try and not think too much and maybe sometimes it'll just be a few single words or phrases that sum things up rather than whole sentences, but it may mean a lot more that way. Berlin tomorrow. Bed now.