Ghosts

Ghosts

I can remember my old bedroom like it was yesterday. Actually, in truth, it was bloomin hideous. I had cream wallpaper but it was covered in brown and yellow flowers so actually it just looked brown. Half the wall was covered in a wood panel which had been painted white and I had a poster of Patrick Swayze which surreptitiously moved from the wall to the door, depending on how I was feeling at the time and how easy it made it to kiss him. He always kissed me back. Good old Patrick!

Ghosts

Of course Dirty Dancing was my favourite but he wasn’t too bad in this either!

Because our house was above the cafe then, the bedrooms at the very top were all attic rooms with the sloped celings. I would spend hours looking out my window. You had a birds eye view of our garden below. It was a large garden.My Mum was mad about flowers and gardening (hence my name) and she would potter outside for hours on end. She always made my dad build her things and when he had to build her a pond, there was almost a divorce thats for sure! I would sit out with her into the evening somedays,on my swing and making up songs.

My bed was in the corner of the room and I was incredibly scared of the dark. So I would sleep with the light on every night. Not a side light: a full light. I say I slept in there but until I was about 11 I had a tendency to creep into bed with my Mum and Dad. I could not understand their constant frustration as I only wanted to be close to them. However, now as I have my own children, the thought of my daughter still coming into bed in years to come fills me with dread. My whole future sex life eradicated until she was old enough to leave home. No doubt I would become one of those frustrated retirees who goes to yoga and looks at their Vagina in a hand mirror.

If I had the gift of fortune telling or hindsight though, I would have got into my Dad’s hospital bed and proclaimed that I would never leave until he left me. I would hold him for as long as I could, for every second that remained and he would know I was there, holding tight. In actual fact he would have probably thought I was the milkman as he was definately a little less lucid towards the end.

Anyway, one night when I was asleep in my own room, I was woken up with a start. It took a little while to register what exactly the sound was but, in the corner of my room I could hear a baby crying. It was so loud that I was sure my Mum and Dad would burst in at any time. I told myself it was a cat outside and merely took myself into my Mum and Dads bed. I would hear that baby cry once a month, always in the same place and always really loud. There was a particular night that I was already in my Mum and Dads bed and the crying woke me up from the other room. It woke my Dad up too because he sat up and looked around the room in a daze. I know for sure that he heard it. When I asked him the next day he denied all knowledge but what person in their right mind would confirm to their eight year old daughter that they had also heard the phantom infant in her room?

Ghosts

One of our Sundays out. Pretty sure this was Cricket St Thomas.

I was scared of that house. Even when we moved into our own official proper house next door and we used the old place for storage, I would rarely go in.If I did, I would run up the stairs and run out again, always feeling like someone was hot on my heels. I still have nightmare about it to this day and I often wonder if that baby was trying to tell me something.

When my Dad was well into his final months, I had decided to practice Reiki so that I would have a hobby to give me a break. My Reiki teacher was lovely and we would spend a lot of time on other spiritual subjects such as Tarot and past lives. We were talking about spirit guides one evening: not something that I really agree with and purely because if it were true, mine should have been sacked years ago! My teacher was convinced that I had a male sibling who was always around me but, it had only ever been my brother and I and I had confirmed with my Nanny that Mum had never lost any children.

When we first moved into our house, our actual house next to the cafe which my Mum had her ‘eye on’ for years, it was great fun. Effectively we had two houses and I would play in the new house all on my own for whole days on end. I would cook with the pots and pans and lone bottle of white wine vinegar that was left in the cupboard by our original neighbours. My Dad would tell everyone that listened that when he was decorating the front room he had removed seven layers of wall paper and on the last layer he found a newspaper cutting from the wedding of Queen Victoria’s son (or daughter, I can’t quite remember) It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that my Dad told me that all the time he had been decorating, he was aware of a figure stood behind him. It was even more surprising because my Dad was never really like that. He was very much straight forward and he certainly was never superstitious. That was surprising based on his parents background too. That house was everything to me though, I loved it and it loved me back (as any house could and showed itself to do so!) There were often times that I would hear someone walking around outside my room when everyone was in bed but, it never bothered me. I never saw anything and we always discussed that whoever or whatever was there was willing to live with us too. My Dad was adamant he had seen a dog running around too and this was before he was on large doses of morphine. Just two weeks before he died, something quite incredible happened (that will be continued)

One of the last things I cleared from that front room when my Dad had gone was our long mahogany dresser. The things I found in there meant what was thought to be a quick job took hours.I sat there on my own and took everything out of those drawers, one thing at a time. I found old dog pedigrees from when my Mum and Dad went to dog training classes (with dogs of course!) and I found umpteen letters and cards that me and my brother had made for them over the years. I even found a dried up old condom which was more than perturbing.

As I cleared the very last thing from the musty wood and moved the dresser away from the wall, a brown envelope that had been wedged in the back of the drawyer fell to the floor. In that envelope I found my Mum’s NHS card and our baby bracelets. Most bizarrely, the envelope also contained my Mum’s two maternity cards from her pregnancies with my brother and I. It wasn’t very interesting, mostly her weight and sugar levels etc.. However on her maternity card when pregnant with me there was a prominent section which stated in scrawly handwriting….’One previous full term pregnancy and one miscarriage at 11 weeks before this pregnancy’……………………

 

Fiction

Fiction

‘This is my first piece of fiction I have written. It is not the beginning of a novel, just simply a piece of writing to see if it is even worth me going down the fiction route. It just so happens, that I am going to use any audience to gauge whether or not I really should ‘give up the day job!’ Just to be clear to my actual real life boss who I have worked for for many years, I do actually still want to work. That was merely an expression. So here goes:’

Gianni was handsome, not in the traditional sense but, in a self confident way. His line of work meant that he carried with him an ‘edge’ that most women found attractive. His dark complexion and olive skin gave him the look of a roman god, which technically, to him anyway, he was. His tailored suits and crisp white shirts left just enough darkened skin available to his admirers and his expensive watches often glistened and caught the attention of some very attractive ‘magpies’. The occasional flecks of grey in both his hair and stubble gave a weathered look and an explanation of the things he had seen during his some 27 years in a slightly ashen existence. A want for the best and most beautiful things meant that he was constantly in a bubble of euphoria, a self obsessed shallow life that gave pleasure for now but, was soon to come crashing down.

This was the day, the day that had started like any other. The day which he had woken up a wise man and upon ending he will be a broken one. The day where he was feared and admired at the same time. Where the only worry he had was that he did his job and kept his other family happy, cleaned up his mess and turned off his emotions because being a wise man, that was what you did. This is the day that he had irradiated his own flesh and blood. The day to begin all future days: the day he had killed his own sister.

There were times, particularly as the sun was sneaking down behind the clouds, that the shine on the sea looked like a flowing bed of diamonds. To him, anyway. If it really had been diamonds, he would never have found himself in this situation. Not just the situation, but the feeling deep inside him which would not go away. It resided at the bottom of his stomach like a layer of thick tar, so thick he could almost feel it and nothing he ever did could make it go away. Even the warm meditteranean sun on his face on an evening like this would not soften it.

Gianni was used to the black, his whole world was dark but, he had never known any different. From the moment he could walk he always knew the type of life he would lead. If he had lead any other, he would not be complete. He was important. He made things clean, made the bad go away and he delivered justice in a way that most people would only dream of. It was only after the events of today that that dark which previously built him up and protected him like an iron cloak had started to envelop him. The once strength he felt had become his very own black hole, pulling him further and further into it, the black tar seeping out from the inside.

Instead of the breeze and smell of the warm sun on the bark of the olive trees, Gianni found this smell like no other. He could taste it and he could feel it, it was cold. Although it was the middle of the afternoon in the most beautiful place on earth, his eyes burned with the flouresant light and the once warm free sandal bound feet were encased in crunchy blue material: man made material that made him feel like he did not exist below the ankle.He didn’t exist anymore anyway.

Why had he never thought or felt this place before: he had sent many people there, too many to count. But, his thoughts of them had ended just as soon as his eradication was complete. As soon as he had cleaned them from the dirt in which they came. A dirt that his world had created, but the dirt in which he lived. It had been easier not to comprehend that this other world existed. This world was fake, it was cold and it was sterile but, before it had never cared for anything that had any importance to him. Omertà didn’t matter here: the man in the white, hiding half of his face did not care who he touched. It was only now, in this instance that Gianni had to accept it as part of his new life. His old life, he could never go back to, he would never see in the same way. Somewhere which he had never comprehended for 27 years would now, never leave him.

Knives were an addition of power, they carried fear and they were easily gotten rid off. The beautiful warm sea which looked like diamonds sometimes and carried with it happy memories of children and sand castles was also a friend to death. The blood which once pumped through veins and carried with it feelings of love and feelings of contentment, could be washed away by this giant as if it never was, as if it never mattered.The sea was his collaborator, his playground of forget and yet now, in this cold unforgiving room, it was a distant memory to him. His whole way of life was a distant memory.

The day had started like any other. She was supposed to be somewhere else, living her life as she always did: living without knowing what he was but being proud of him anyway. In an instant, the two worlds which completed his life had merged into one and only the black remained. Those that had feared him, those that he had eradicated, that loving ‘family’ that he had felt a part of forever had been for nothing. He was on the outside looking in. He had become those that he once towered over, weak and vulnerable and most importantly: repentant.

Gianni saw the knife on the side. Had it touched her. Had she felt it. The power in which it had held for him since he was a child had dissipated into nothing but fear. Had part of her been left on its cold steel, only to be wiped away as if she never mattered either. He wanted to take all of her home, not leave one part of her behind. He wanted her complete and as she was. How could his life before betray him like this. Perhaps the ghosts had led him here. He would walk amongst those ghosts now like only an outline. The outline of a person that his shallow life had once made him anyway.

 



The Godmutha

The Godmutha

Even now, I have days where in a split second, I will think of calling my Dad and asking him a question (usually about something totally useless) I would call him a lot. When we first moved to the house next door to the Café, I would call him with my breakfast order and he would bring it in to me. As a child, I would wake him up in the night for a drink and he would always happily oblige, sometimes even going into the café to get me a frothy glass of milk. Just to confirm again, the Café was next door! Spoilt wasn’t I?

I didn’t even really consider how he went above and beyond without a grumble but, yet, now in the position of having two young children, I appreciate it even more. Particularly because there are days when I am ready to tear my hair out and I wish I had my Dad to make me feel better by getting me a glass of milk.
Why is it that as soon as you go into a supermarket, your once well behaved child will turn into Chucky on a bad day and with an irritable bladder, coupled with an endless rendition of, ‘can I have this’ and ‘I’ve always wanted one of these’, even if said thing is a turnip as you couldn’t possibly leave a shop without furnishing them with something.

This is how my Dad always was, nothing was too much trouble and that is why I wish I could still bug him on a daily basis with pointless questions and useless requests. We reversed our roles at the end of his life after I became his legs and yet I still don’t think that I did him any justice in comparison to how he had cared for me. I wish I could have given him back just even an amoeba sized amount in return so he could feel just how grateful I was and just how lucky I felt.

When my brother and I were little, we spent a lot of time on our own due to the sheer amount of time that our parents worked in the Café. I got used to my own company in summer holidays and filled most of my time with learning all the words to pivotal musicals and patching up Barbie’s after the terrible accidents they suffered on a regular basis. That pink camper van must have seen more cliff dives than Red Bull. I remember when one lost an eye. It was a painstaking operation to return her from the brink of a terrible fate. Thankfully, I was an expert optical surgeon and she pulled through.

We never missed out though. We would go to Torquay every Sunday and Exeter every Thursday afternoon (when they shut the Café half day) I have so many happy memories of our days out, obviously excluding the Texas Homecare incident and the time I nearly amputated my Brother’s finger with the car cigarette lighter. But, I never felt alone. Not like I have done in later life when I have been unhappy in my personal life. I don’t really like to be alone now that I am so happy because I worry that it won’t end (the being alone), that I may be alone again through no choice of my own. I never chose to be strong, I had to be. That was very lonely though.

The Godmutha

Sybil was good company. Especially with Deely Boppers naturally!

I never really called my Mum. Mainly because there were no mobile phones then and I never really went anywhere without her. I went to Italy when I was 14 with one of my best friends and I can remember standing in the shower whilst I was there and ‘crying my eyes out’ because I missed my Mum so much. I will never forget how I felt when I was able to come home to her. Actually, when I came home I was horrible to her as she had redecorated my entire bedroom on the proviso that it was much more grown up! My lovely reassuring pink ‘Snatch’ bedroom accessories had been replaced with black, turquoise and yellow with a simple cat silhouette on my grown up duvet. Any child in the 90’s will remember the Snatch phenomenon, a duvet set that appeared like a big brown dog was in the bed with you…genius.
Ironically, I did really grow up on that Italy trip but, I was so happy to come home to my Mum. She was right though, the new version was much more grown up and I did thank her for it as soon as I had stopped being a horrid brat!

My Mum had a best friend from her teens and beyond.She was always a constant in my life when I was growing up and she still is now. She is pretty much the only constant that has remained with me from the day I was born to the (cough cough) 34 year old I am now.My Godmother Ro is amazing. Quite confusingly, she is actually called Caroline but, I call her Ro. Ro and Mo it was in their younger days and my Mum and her were most excellent friends throughout the years. She is my Godmother and subsequently, she is now my daughters Godmother too. I knew that she would remain in my daughters life in the same way and this is exactly what I wanted. So often we have Godparents that are merely that in name and quite honestly, I have always thought, what is the point in that?

When I was young, my Godmother would always send me little parcels containing pretty tins and heart shaped bath pearls with added glitter. Can you still get bath pearls? Anyway, she still sends me little parcels and thoughtful letters now but, most importantly, she is there for me in a massive way. You know sometimes you can have a friend whom you don’t talk to for a while and yet when you do talk to them, you feel like you never had any time apart? Well, that is how we are and that is how her and my Mum were. Bearing in mind that she is still in Wiltshire and we are now Devonians. My Mum loved her wholeheartedly and so do I.

The Godmutha

This photo is one of my most treasured possessions.

I love the fact that she knew my Mum and was there for her too in the same way. Judging from my Mum’s photos and naughty stories, they also had a bloody good laugh! Well, she is a laugh and in the most excellent way, she is utterly and fabulously bonkers. Everyone needs a bit of bonkers in their life and I certainly want her to know how grateful I am to her for adding a little bonkers into mine and most importantly leaving a window open to the memory of my wonderful, beautiful and massively missed Mum.

The Godmutha

I had this amazing card last week 🙂

BRCA2

BRCA2

BRCA2

Would you like to know if you were going to die? Ok! I know it’s not exactly that dramatic but, for a long time now I have anguished over this one. I am lucky enough, at my age and only because of my history obviously, to have regular ultrasounds and check ups. I don’t have Mammograms because I am too young and younger (cough cough) breast tissue is much harder to read on a Mammogram than it is on an ultrasound. Mind you! I had to push for it. I had a referral from my doctor and numerous pointless conversations and telephone tennis in order to be able to have these reviews. Unbelievable really.Luckily, I stuck to my guns.

I have also been offered the BRCA2 test. As if it wasn’t a ticking time bomb in my life anyway without having any concrete confirmation of a defunct gene which could lead me down the same path as my Mother. Perhaps I am naive to think I would rather not know, particulary given my massive spiritual beliefs in life but, what would I really do if I did have the irregularity in my genes? Would I have a double mastectomy and rebuild my breasts and then have a hysterectomy? Of course I bloody wouldn’t. I don’t have the most amazing rack but, I am more than happy to leave it how it is for now. I do want more babies though: the thought of never having another child is absolutely devastating to me. I already feel like my biological clock may prohibit me anyway but, to chose to eliminate even the option for good is beyond any type of comprehension I must admit.

BRCA2

My daughter and I were doing the selfie before it was even popular 🙂

We have all been alerted to the BRCA2 test, mostly thanks to Angelina Jolie but, quite strangely for me, I spoke to an absolutely lovely lady whilst at work (selling her Travel Insurance) who recommended me to her specialist. The first thing she asked me and probably because of my name: Was I Jewish? Specific mutations of the gene can be associated with some ethnic groups, namely those of Ashkenazi Jewish descent. I am not Jewish by the way but, in case you were wondering Shushanah is a Hebrew name.

There can be a mutation in the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes that can suggest that you are at higher risk of Breast and Ovarian Cancer.If there is a mutation, your risk of getting Breast Cancer can be as high as 85%. However, your environment and lifestyle can always have a big impact. Well! Of course it can! If I never left my house, it would be unlikely that I would die from being run over. No-one else in my family had Breast Cancer but, did my Mum get it because she had a genetic mutation? Her Grandma may have had it too but, as she was run over by a bus, we will never know. Do you sense where I am going with this one?

I have agonized whether I would want to have my girls tested. The truth is, it wouldn’t be up to me. They should do whatever they see fit when the time arises and should I get Breast Cancer, then we would look at that much more closely of course. I have an Insurance in place which I have had for years, if I’m being honest, I could really do with now but, that’s an utterly despicable thing to say. I could though: or I shall continue to wait for my miracle and keep on dreaming.

BRCA2

I never want my girls to have to go through what I did..never.

I watched an amazing programme not long ago about an utterly beautiful and inspiring girl called Kris Hallenga who started the charity Coppafeel, promoting regularly checking your breasts for lumps and irregularities whatever your age. In this day and age and with all the media attention, it really isn’t still something that young girls feel they need to do. Kris was 23 when she was diagnosed with Breast Cancer and it had spread: to stage 4! Kris now spends all her time promoting breast checking and if you have a chance to check her out, make sure you do because it’s women like her that make this world seem like it has a purpose. She does for me anyway. As I said, I am lucky enough to get checked but, I still had to fight for it and as I’m used to fighting, I stuck it out. I know how easy it would have been to give up though. Very!

Don’t misunderstand me, My Mum didn’t die of her Breast Cancer because it wasn’t caught in time. She died because she first had Breast Cancer in the 80’s. That is truly what I believe. And she was in her 30’s which was considered really young to be diagnosed at that time. If she had the treatment that there is available today, I know she would still be here. There was no Herceptin then and Radiotherapy was primitive by today’s comparison, in a Prisoner Cell Block H type of fashion. My Mum’s had spread of course, spread to her brain in the end and when she could no longer talk, she jotted down her witticisms on an Etch a Sketch type affair. My treasured Godmother Ro (who I will tell you about soon) said that she had told her that she knew I would be OK because I was strong. I never wanted to be strong. I would have much rather not been strong and had an easy life. That is me being selfish again.

BRCA2

My Mum was in hospital when this picture was taken. I was 15..oh and I was angry…

My Dad on the other hand, did die because he was diagnosed too late. Had he just had a routine check where Prostate testing was standard, he would still be here: infuriating me by never doing the jobs I would ask him to do whilst I was at work and then when I moaned at him, smiling at me with an almost bellowy smile that shone deep out of his soul.. If I had a time machine, I would not go back and get the Lottery numbers, I would go back 10 years, march him to a doctor and and demanded that they stick their finger up his bum right away! It really is not a difficult concept, every man over 50 should get that ‘digit up their doughnut’!

A man with Prostate Cancer after treatment or even during can have a PSA reading (Prostate Specific Amount) of 4 or under. When my Dad’s Prostate Cancer was discovered, his PSA was 2000! 2000!!! In my job whilst Medical Screening for Travel Insurance, in 13 years I have never spoken to one client with the disease who had a reading over 100. The doctor phoned me and said she was worried that I did not understand the severity of his condition (the drunk doctor I told you about before) Cheeky cow!!! Six months she told me we would get. Nearly 4 Years we were blessed with. That’s one determined, amazing, funny and much missed old git! I wish I could ask him if he would want me to be tested.

Happy fathers day you old git. Love you Dad!

As good as it gets…again!

As good as it gets…again!

Now! Where did we get to?

The police came to see me at work once. I told the policeman that if I found my Brother first, I was going to kill him! He nodded understandably and scribbled in his note pad but, really I expect he thought that I was an utterly heartless bitch! I wasn’t of course, I was in a place where I felt I was drowning, that I would never come up. No doubt how my Brother felt at the time.
I just kept thinking that he wasn’t at all like the Coppers from The Bill. I expect that this was his most exciting job of the day. To me, it was pretty much the end of my world.

How dare he! How dare he find that things were too much for him and so he could simply decide to run away and leave it all behind. Leave me behind. I had wished that I could run away but, I had responsibilities. He had a responsibility to be my older Brother and stick around. He didn’t run away to forget though, he ran away to disappear forever.

As good as it gets...again!

Disney baby!!!

Quite often it starts with something small. Don’t get me wrong, I am not trivialising self harm but in comparison of what was to come, it was much more preferable for me. I know that sounds selfish, I should not be talking about me here but, the self harm never seemed quite so bad as the determination to simply not be here. Perhaps that was because my Dad was still here then and emotionally and subconsciously, I was leaning on him so to speak. It is quite easy to ignore it, long jumpers and tins of razor blades hidden under sofas but, it is always there, always hanging around in the ethos.

He spoke to me about it once, we were probably drunk. As we became older and the age difference seemed less, we had a great relationship. We went clubbing together, drank together and on occasion, I was particularly enamoured of some of his male friends. He wasn’t always as particularly keen on that idea but he humoured me. The infatuation was ordinarily short lived. Most of all we would spend our time playing Trivial Pursuit, listening to music and reciting practically every line from Filthy Rich and Catflap…we still do that now. Those were happy times. We still do exactly the same when we meet up though, like we can retreat to those times when we were children and we probably need that.

As good as it gets...again!

My brother was always the intelligent one, he still is!

He said that when he bled, bled away, so did the pain and the frustration and the hurt. I could comprehend that, it made sense to me. It didn’t make sense however, that he would always have to be reminded of those times, that he would always always carry it with him, wherever he chose to go in life. Physically, that reminder would always be there. That part made no sense to me. Says she with the ongoing tattoo sleeve…I know I know!! But, I chose to have forever ink on me. He didn’t choose. No-one would choose that if they could. I respected that he had shared it with me though.

That’s exactly where we are now (but better). Since I was 18 and he told me that he would intentionally cut himself, he has never spoken about his pain. But, he does now. Those times of silence in between were dark. Very dark. Mary Celeste dark!

When he was hospitalised, I remember feeling like I did with my Dad when he was. I could not wait for my Dad to come home but, I was always worried about how our lives would be different. I wanted him to come home but, I was scared about being his carer. He could not walk and he had to be lifted into bed and into his wheelchair. Would I have to wipe his bum? Would I have to give up my life to concentrate on making the rest of his easier? Of course, I would do that and I did to some extent but, it is a scary prospect when you are just obtaining your own freedom in life. Incidentally, although I didn’t have to wipe his bum ( too much), I did have to do his washing and empty his commode which was always an experience. We would joke about whether it had been a sausages and onion gravy day. Thankfully, we learned to space those very far apart!

I never thought this may happen again. This time though it was a time when I had my own family to consider : a husband and a small child to concentrate on, I was also pregnant with another. Plus, I didn’t have my Dad anymore to lean on. Those times were times that I would really rather forget. When I talked to my brother on the phone from his hospital though, it seemed like it was just the two of us in the world. Just as we had to be before, just as we had been left and although these were the darkest times, those times are behind us now and we have a crazy relationship because of it. Crazy is our middle name. Although, technically he has a certificate to prove it :)!

As good as it gets...again!

Its not Tarby…but hey 🙂

I can honestly say that I have never been so proud of anyone. Of what he was then and now what he has become is a world so far apart that you would need a wardrobe to get there again! I know that he will never be cured. I know that my beautiful fiance will never be cured but in life there is hope and you cannot have sadness or pain without happiness and love. The world is meant to be full of opposites and I firmly believe that when you are given hardship, one day you will be given back what you gave in a positive reward. I already have now to some extent and so has my Brother: in the recovery that he has achieved. If that isn’t true however, I shall be most annoyed but i will die waiting. If I am proved wrong….hey, who cares..I’ll be dead!!!

As good as it gets!

As good as it gets!

As good as it gets!

It’s very easy to blame your future on your past. In truth, it’s how we cope with the life we are dealt and in which way we wish to view it. In some ways, it has been far easier for me being the ‘Strong one’. I would always be the person busily rushing around and getting on with practicalities and quite often, leaving the hurt to be dealt with after, when I had time. I am most definitely no saint and I, like any mother of small children, often has the patience of a turnip! My dealing with the death of my parents however was much easier for me because I didn’t also have to contend with ‘The big Black Shadow’.

Being an outsider to Depression is incredibly hard. In it’s very nature, it remains a fog with no particular shape: cannot be defined or described and if that’s how it is for the sufferer, what bloody hope does any loved one have in dealing with it equally. The only clarity I profess to know is that it has none. There are no questions that you can ask and worst of all, there is absolutely nothing you can do to make it dissipate. I know what you’re thinking, ‘How does she know?’, and you would be right, I am not a first person sufferer but, I bet that my description would be equally as inadequate and informative as my Brother’s. And I have still suffered from it. Once (or twice), it has tried to steal my Brother from me and we have been fighting a tug of war with ‘The Big Black Shadow’ really ever since my Mum died.

As good as it gets!

My Brother, dressed as toothpaste, if that doesn’t make you smile, nothing will.

He came into the world unusually and that is really how he has continued to live within it. When my Mum found out she was pregnant, it was a bit of a shock. This is the most amazing tit bit of information that a picked on little sister could ever obtain and believe me, I used it many times. The fact that he wasn’t planned… In other words, I reminded him he was an accident. Particularly the time that we were due to all go out to the theatre and he tripped me up, most cleverly ensuring that my chin hit the coffee table on my way down. I was wearing my Minnie Mouse glasses at the time. They never broke. That really would have been the last straw! Stunning blue plastic they were, with Minnie Mouse appendages on the side. I also had them in red. Anyway, we never got to the theatre, we went to the hospital instead and he was disgraced for days. I utterly loved it 🙂 He always managed to bring it back however. Like the time I gently placed our Volvo in car cigarette lighter on his finger when he was being particularly annoying. Burning flesh really is a rather stinky matter!

Anyway, the stinky finger story has made me digress. Don’t be dirty!!
My Brother, again not wanting to be normal, was stuck in the Fallopian tube. Quite firmly stuck apparently and alas, it appeared that he had taken a wrong turn and would have to be removed before he started to grow and caused too much damage. My family wasn’t always unlucky, we had a miracle once. By some miracle, a dirty little batch of germs found their way into my Mum’s breathing tract and she coughed so much over night in hospital the night before the operation that she shot the little blighter right into where he should be. Please understand that these are not the most defined of scientific terms and I understand it wasn’t exactly ‘him’ but, it makes the story that much more descriptive don’t you think?

As good as it gets!

Isn’t he a cheeky little monkey…

Do I think it would be different if our parents were still here with us? Of course not! Grief and Depression are two very different things. It’s testament to this that my Brother and I experienced exactly the same life events (with a few dodgy girlfriends thrown in for him) and I never became a sufferer. I still have days when I do not want to get out of bed but, that is because I am lonely. I miss them and I miss feeling that there is someone in the world that can love me no matter what I did.
I simply believe that our Mum’s death was his catalyst. It would have arisen at a later date for sure but, in his case, he had a trigger. Most people don’t, I understand that.

It’s a very selfish condition but, so is coping with it as an outsider and trying to understand. I lost count of the times that I told my Brother he should be strong and helping me cope, not adding to my worry. I was thinking about me and how I wasn’t willing to cope with more difficulties in my life but, he just couldn’t comply, he had no control. I know he loves me but, love isn’t always enough. It is to me but, I don’t suffer. I do realise it though. That much I have learned and try to apply now but, it really isn’t easy to comprehend.

When I banged my chin on that coffee table, I knew my Mum would make it feel better. She knew she could make it feel better. I cannot in my wildest dreams imagine how it must feel to know that no amount of Love can cover a wound. I understand in respect of the fact that my Mum and Dad are no longer here and I can never feel that love again, I haven’t for a long time. My forever man suffers too and I have to be supportive and acknowledge the fact that in the rest of our lives together, he will have times where nothing I can say will help but, I wish it would. Yet, my accepting of this, although frustrating will ensure that I am always there for him, completely and wholeheartedly without judgement. As I am for my Brother. It has taken me a while to get there but, the road has been a little rocky. Blimey it has been Rocky…

As good as it gets!

My Brother and I in Disney. We went every year as a family. I wish we could go together again one day.

To be continued……. I definitely don’t want you to get bored and this story is far more than one solitary blog post believe me. I hope you stick around…

Wise Monkeys

Panic

Panic

I listened to my Mum’s Deezer playlist on the way to work on Saturday. I hate working Saturdays, who doesn’t I guess? But, I like my job. Anyone with small children will know that actually going to an office with real grown up people is a chance to remember who you used to be before you surrendered your Vagina to a team of a dozen doctors without giving a monkeys. It’s also a chance to drink a cup of tea whilst it’s warm. Not hot, because you’ll never get back to the days of hot tea, never ever. Your mind is always planning a million jobs and tea is always the last thing on it.

More recently my panic attacks have started to slowly creep back into my life. But, only whilst driving. ‘Oh, that’s OK then’ I hear you utter sarcastically. I have a routine, a routine that I know will subside the irrational blighter in my brain. I turn my air blower right up, direct the nozzles at my head and theoretically freeze my entire face for a number of seconds. I know it has nothing to do with actually curing the panic attack but, over the years, I have taught myself how to deal with them. I need a trigger. Something that I tell myself will stop it. When I realized this, it was my epiphany. Without being dramatic, it really did save my life. A book saved my life.

When I told my Dad, I played it down. Told him I kept feeling dizzy and he told me I should eat more steak. Perhaps I didn’t play it down. Really, how could I play it down when I didn’t have one clue what was happening. I didn’t even consider that I may be mental or have some incurable disease:I just thought I was unlucky and what I was experiencing was a downright pain in the proverbial.

Panic

Candy and I would spend many hours together: she was a good therapy for me.

I remember the first time really well. I was 18 and I had been shopping in Exeter. Actually, at that time I had just had my hair done and popped into Marks and Spencer food hall for a little treat. Before we had Waitrose in the darkest depths of Devonshire, this was the best option for particularly special edible posh naughtiness.

I always loved food and food was always a reward, a treat and was and still is an escape. When I was visiting my Dad on the Cancer ward in his final days, the only way I faced it with a smile was to think of ‘normal’ things. I would think to myself ‘When you get out of here Shu, you can get a pizza or something yummy and a bottle’. Then I would think about what utter tripe I would watch on television (I definitely still enjoy a large amount of tripe these days too). That took me back to normality. I still do it now. It’s no bad thing: although it was a slight pain when I was unable to get rid of excess baby weight second time around and had to lose three stone because of it. Luckily no one was ill or dying at this point and I managed it without too much struggle. Although, the reduction of the special wobbly grape was particularly difficult.

Prawns! It was prawns I was reaching for at the time. Not just any old prawns however. They came with an avocado mousse and some sort of cucumber jus on the side no doubt, all encased in a wonderful circular clear plastic dome. I remember that all of a sudden the lights seemed really bright, like they were burning through my eyeballs and into my brain. Script on the food seemed more prominent, more acute like it could actually be touched and everything started to become sort of swirly. I felt really heavy, like I could feel all my body parts, like they were square. Although I could hear and see people around me, it was like they were underwater and I was in that wonderful clear plastic dome all by myself, separate from them; like the cucumber jus. My heart was in my throat and I can honestly say that, even after watching my Mum die just a couple of years previously, I had never been so terrified in my life. I had to sit down. If I didn’t sit down I would topple over like a domino. That would most definitely be embarrassing.

It subsided pretty quickly and I brushed it off (as you do most things at 18) and started to queue. As the bile rose in my throat and I started to feel like it could happen again, I made a conscious decision to leave those prawns behind, ditch the queue and simply hop on my train and go home. From that moment, the moment that I gave into it, supermarket queues were always my Kryptonite and so they remained for at least four years. Yup, four wonderfully utterly crap and debilitating years.

18-20! That’s on average how many panic attacks I would have a day. I couldn’t wait in a queue. I couldn’t go into a shop with too many people in it. Couldn’t travel on public transport without an available seat. I couldn’t go to the cinema if I wasn’t sat by the door. I couldn’t even visit Trago mills because it was so big that once I was inside, I could not see the exit: could not reach the door in an emergency. Those people that are aware of Trago Mills will realize how utterly and completely bonkers this statement is. Not just for the sheer amount of crap you can usually purchase for less that a quid to keep your mind entertained ordinarily.

I visited my doctor several times; had blood tests for anaemia and I even ate loads more steak, just like my Dad suggested. Then, one day a different doctor said that maybe I should consider some medication to help my mood. My Mood? I was utterly fine. What a downright cheek! Peter Andre helped my mood, not medication. Actually, that was a couple of years earlier I’m sure. What on earth was this woman rabbiting on about? The bloody liability! Like an attack, I saw her mouth moving but really, nothing of consequence came out of it. Like I was the Little Mermaid under the sea again and she was that grey haired witchy villain with the rather large cleavage.

Panic

I would never have dreamed of having children if i was still suffering with such severe attacks.

I saw her at a party a few years later, pissed as a rat she was! I remember smiling and (not just because she was ‘off her tree’) but, thinking that it had been her that woke me up that day. I still can see her face now. I never took the pills, I did something else. I read a book.

The book I read was:

Panic

Panic Attacks by Christine Ingham

The very first chapter of my savior book described the reason we had panic attacks and those that they affected and in what scenarios. Guess what? Those that lost maternal figures early in life were prime candidates for panic attacks (Another negative legacy that I felt my Mum had left me with).Places that had bright lights, like supermarkets and places that had no visible exits. OK, it never ever mentioned Trago Mills per say but, I knew that’s what it meant. In just one paragraph, with one little selection of words, my life became normal again. It was me; this was like reading about me. It may as well have had a picture of me on the first page.

From that moment on, I realized that my body actually felt like I was in danger and it was actually my own stupid self trying to protect me. Damn my own stupid self! I would go to the supermarket and if I had to queue, I would simply spend the time adding up the value of my shopping in my head. It took me a while as I was always in the bottom set for math. Before I knew it, I had paid and left and absolutely nothing had happened to me. Once I had achieved it once, it was only up from there. Like the first time that i gave into the negative feeling, it was only downhill.I was still alive and what’s more, I actually had some shopping. Best of all, I went and have been several times to Trago Mills. Oh yes!

Panic

Anxiety is a much smaller part of my life now.

I have always been proud of myself for this and that’s why, at times when it creeps back into my life, I know it’s my little reminder that everything is getting just a little too much and I have to change it.

12 years later though, I didn’t read the book again, I started writing a blog instead.