Mother of the Bride (7)

There are some loose ends to tie up. Traditionally, the MotB would have spent the days after the wedding sending out small portions of wedding cake by post and sitting at her bureau writing notes of thanks to the guests. The modern MotB has other preoccupations; focusing back at work, catching up on e-mails and updating her blog. Here is the poem I wrote and read as part of the ceremony. To fully understand the references, it's necessary to know that the groom is a designer who provides the graphics behind performers on stage. The bride is a town planner.

From the Start

Her first day, a new year, born to snow on mountains,
In the next crib a child called ‘One Owl’.

Then, she reaches out her small hand for a cherry.
There is an unseen friend; musical notes and stories
spin towards the spaces where we live.

His first day, born into falling leaves and a burnished sky.
Days filled with lego and alien wars, fights between brothers.
Now he creates new worlds, a stage for different stars.

Their paths, so diverse, came to this first day.
She is only just more beautiful than the day of her birth,
He, a grown man with soft eyes and a gentle smile

A marriage on a day in spring, you reach out in joy and hope.
Today, a new start for your new love.

Morag Gornall
April 2011

Mother of the Bride (6)

I'm rather fond of Hitchin. Any small town that can produce a pink bra in my size at 9.15 am on a Saturday morning is worth a visit. I felt as if I were in Europe; the sun shone on the square, cafe owners were laying out their tables and chairs, there was a market and an ancient church. But I wasn't on holiday, it was my daughter's wedding day and the bra-hunt plus dragging my husband away from further work on his speech made us late arriving in Royston for the hair and make-up session. It is every bride's privilege to be nervous and stressed. It is a parent's duty to protect their daughter from stress On Her Wedding Day. Enough said.
To avoid any further parent-induced anxiety, The Bride and her father set off too early for the wedding and spent half an hour waiting in a lay-by in the Rolls Royce, while the rest of us, including the groom, gathered in hushed anticipation at Hitchin Priory Hotel for her imminent arrival.
The magic of a wedding is the suspension of belief, when a young woman who only hours before wore jeans, appears in front of her friends and family like a vision from an Edwardian watercolour. As she walked down the aisle my heart ended up in my throat. I found the honest words of the civil ceremony powerful.
Once the wedding ceremony was over, the rest of the day wound down through various stages of relaxation. After the photographs, most of the guests could relax. After the speeches, the key players could relax, once the first dance was over, The Bride and her new husband could finally relax. At the end of the day, when we released magic lanterns, everyone was relaxed, tired and possibly somewhat 'emotional'.
The Bride's father's speech showed the effort he had made but there was a moment of panic when after ten minutes he had only spoken of her first year. The guests exchanged anxious, sideways glances; there were thirty years still to be covered. Luckily, his precis skills redeemed the intervening period.
My favourite moments were a speech by The Bride, where she included a poem by Joyce Grenfell which I will try to post on my next blog, my first glass of champagne and watching my husband produce her baby wellington boots from his pocket. I loved the sunshine, the green parkland, the spring flowers and embraced her four grandparents who had faced a long and difficult journey to be there. The day was solemn, yet graced with humour; the couple walked back down the aisle to Abba's 'Waterloo' and their first dance was to the Eastenders theme tune. Like every MotB, I was filled with pride and joy for her, her new husband and their brothers and friends who cared for and supported them through the day. But like every MotB there was also a quiet moment of regret for the years that have passed.

Mother of the Bride (5)

I went out this morning without make-up, wishing for a Harry Potter cloak and casting envious glances at muslim sisters in their burka and niqab. I have worn a full make-up since I was twelve; every day using foundation, blusher and mascara. I don't know how I got away with it as girls were not allowed to wear make-up to school but I suspect the teachers stopped noticing. There was no such rule for the boys, since men and make-up were largely unheard of in rural Scotland before Boy George. I was surprised how quickly I forgot about my bare face and even went for coffee before my manicure and facial.
Touch is so important for emotional well-being. I felt as if threads of elastic linked the therapist's hands and my skin, particularly over the forehead and between the eyebrows, as she drew the tension away. Baby massage courses are now routine in Sure Start Children's Centres and the massage in schools programme is becoming established. I can imagine how massage would have gone down in the testosterone-fueled secondary school I attended, where girls were in the minority.
I love the professionalism of other people; how the condition of my hands and nails or the skin on my face can be the subject of detailed discussion, close-observation, frowning and note-taking. It feels like it matters. They are serious people, their jobs and training are important. Of course, I always leave with products because those are the tools of their trade and I'm impressed.
My husband disagrees. The woman who cleans our house every week likes to use a range of different cleaning materials; a specific, branded, bottle, tube or spray-can for each task. She can talk with enthusiasm about every one and scans the market to keep abreast of the latest developments. Left to him, she would be asked to use a small range of eco-friendly generic cleaners and he is probably right from an environmental perspective. But if she did this, I argue, she would be diminished. She would lose her sense of being a professional, with a unique set of skills and knowledge acquired over many years.
I have reached the weight I want to be, just in time. I'm afraid I have some sympathy with the anorexic prayer 'nothing tastes as good as slim feels' but there has never been any chance of my developing anorexia as I enjoy food too much and have the reverse self-image of an anorexic; I think I'm slimmer than I am.

Mother of the Bride (4)

Some towns unexpectedly become important. At one time I'd never heard of Kettering but my father worked in Northampton when I was in my late teens and I remember him saying the name with his Dundee accent, drilling down on the 'r's'. Ten years ago in Kettering I was trained in TEACCH (a framework for working with children with autism) by Gary Nesibov of the University of North Carolina. But Kettering is most often a blur, glimpsed from the high speed train from Leicester to London. If the train ever stops, the smell of roasted grain from the Weetabix factory drifts in through the open doors.
Kettering is half way between The Bride's home and Leicester, which explains its sudden significance. We met there on Sunday and the visit was poignant because the next time we meet will be her wedding day. She has decided to lose her maiden name, which would not come as a surprise to you if I was able to print it.
The garden centre we chose turned out to be little more than a shed in a field; a supermarket for ordinary plants and gifts which are a puzzle and disappointment once unwrapped. The MotB could not find anything to buy, not even a birthday card. Since we'll be regular visitors to Kettering I've trawled the internet for alternatives:
Kettering Park Hotel: a modern hotel with Spa...definitely.
Rushton Hall Hotel: an ancient hotel with Spa and afternoon tea served in the Great Hall...no contest.
Triangular Lodge: built between 1593 and 1597. Symbolism reflects the number three (the Holy Trinity)...maybe later.
Wicksteed Family Theme Park...much, much later.
Naseby Battlefield (Civil War)...never.

Mother of the Bride (3)

I have my fascinator. It looks like a mid-air collision between a blackbird and an Asian Paradise-flycatcher. We went out early, The Bride and me and after breakfast at Mbriki, we wandered along the Leicester Lanes in early spring sunshine and found Impeys, an MotB shop that really belongs in a 'heritage' theme park. There, a very elderly assistant sold me a very expensive fascinator, writing out a paper 'chit' as the receipt.
I haven't heard much about the Hen Night but I understand there was a moment involving masks of Kate and Wills, a toilet and a camera, which was probably treasonous.
My friend and I stayed on in the restaurant, drinking more wine and coffee and having refused a pudding, eating the chocolate hearts I had brought for the table. Despite my fears, the staff were relaxed and good-humoured and the food was brilliant.
The 'old' for The Bride was a white heather favour from my own wedding, the 'new' some wedding tights (yes, such things do exist), the 'blue' a new pair of knickers and the 'borrowed' my diamond earrings made from a ring that originally belonged to my grandmother. When my grandparents lived in India before partition, the myth is that my grandfather bought the diamond one night from a merchant who appeared at the back door with several uncut diamonds wrapped in a dirty rag.
For the two of us left behind, it was a new experience to wander through the town late at night, looking for a taxi. It was so busy, so loud, so crowded and everyone was SO drunk. We decided to do it again; maybe find a champagne bar playing good jazz and pass the whole evening watching. Beats Saturday night TV any day.
I didn't hear The Bride come in but the next day the house was Very Quiet. The words 'never again' were overheard.

Mother of the Bride (2)

Six weeks to go and 'Team MG' has swung into action. Over the weekend I had the first of three manicures, the haircut before The Wedding Haircut and the wax before The Wedding Wax. In education we call this 'scaffolding'. Essentially, it's about planning the small steps needed to reach a desired outcome by building on what is already there; as difficult a job in beauty as in teaching, requiring targets and goal setting by the staff at Femi and George's.
I won't be going clubbing next Saturday night with the rest of the 'girls' on the 'hen night' but I am allowed to bring one friend, so we will sit and drink champagne while they go out into the cold night to shake their brains about in a noisy barn packed with teenagers. They are going to Ragdale Hall for the day and we're meeting at The Case for dinner. The early part of the evening was mine to organise as The Bride isn't having any bridesmaids. I won't go into any details as The Bride may read this but it is 'all in the best possible taste' to quote the late Kenny Everett. The restaurant rang today to confirm the booking and there was a pause when I told them that our booking was for a hen night. How to convince over the phone that you're actually quite respectable? Pathetically, I ended up quoting our respective ages and professions but they still banned table sprinkles, banners and balloons with 'hen night' on them. Luckily, inflatable willies weren't banned (just kidding).
My friend and I decided to dress up, since opportunities are few and gorgeous dresses many, so after a great deal of searching, on Saturday I bought a grey/blue silk shift dress from Coast. The dress was reduced by 25% in John Lewis but I paid full price in House of Fraser in order to get my size. The Bride then telephoned to say that they're going to an Indie club, so don't want to be too formal. One of us will definitely be turning up 'too formal'.
My body prefers to gain weight rather than lose it, particularly if it suspects a diet is being imposed but it has finally acknowledged defeat and I am shrinking. Only four pounds to lose!

Mother of the Bride (1)

It's seven weeks until the wedding and I have five pounds to lose. It may well have been a mistake to buy a dress last summer, which now doesn't fit but I haven't seen anything I like better. It's a fuschia pink, silk, shift dress from Hobbs. I have the shoes and the pashmina, both in black and am still to buy the 'fascinator'. A friend said to me that a 'fascinator' sounds like a sex toy but I can reassure any worried reader who is not up to date with wedding lore, that it is a feathery thing worn on the head at a jaunty angle instead of a hat. I am relieved about the hat because having rather a large head and lots of thick hair, hats tend not to be a good look. The question remains: what is so fascinating about a 'fascinator'?
My daughter's wedding has been easy for us because she and her partner are organising it themselves. We have been spared the responsibility of searching for a venue, ordering and sending out invitations and poring over the social minefield of the seating plan. They have chosen Hitchin Priory Hotel in Hertfordshire, which is close to where they live. The package comes with a wedding planner, so now that the flowers, the wedding car and the photographer are booked, there is little more to do except get nervous (her) and spend money (me). I am accused of spending more than the bride but my argument is that in order to look passable, I have to commit money and time to the project, whereas the bride could turn up having just got out of bed and still look wonderful.
The biggest challenge has been writing something to read during the ceremony. For those not yet involved in the wedding industry, there are pages of readings and speeches on the internet. Studying these gave me insight into the themes; some dwell on love and romance, others on the joy of the wedding day itself and some, not without an edge of bitterness I felt, dwelt on the trials and endurance ahead. In the end I wrote my own poem, which has been approved gladly by the young couple. It now has to be scrutinised by the registrar. After the wedding, I will post it here.

This Writing Thing (4): The Cuckoo

The editing has begun and I'm already into avoidance. Maybe this is how I behave in all relationships, enjoying the early thrill but not willing to put in the slog to shape something lasting. Now, there's a thought!
I have a day off and so far I've put my car in for a service, had coffee and read the Times in Cafe Mbriki, sorted the laundry and had a conversation with the Inland Revenue. I've also had a lie down, when the editing seemed too taxing.
It isn't pleasant re-visiting these early chapters. A big hurdle is that they seem only half written. Essentially, they are too short. So I'm having to do a fair bit of new writing. The next problem is character drift. By the end of the novel, the characters have changed (well they've been through such a lot) but in the early chapters I don't recognise them. They don't sound the same or behave as they should.
Another problem, caused by plot development as the novel progressed, is in the early chapters the characters appear strangely innocent of essential knowledge. I believe this novel was improved by the plot change that occurred half way through but I'm suffering for it now.
I may get three chapters off to an agent by next weekend but it's looking less likely.

This Writing Thing (3): The Cuckoo

The Cuckoo is finished. The last word was 'enough'. Twenty four chapters and about 72,000 words are safely tucked inside my computer (note to self: don't forget to back up). I am five months behind schedule but it doesn't matter, it was a self-imposed deadline. I now have three completed novels and no agent or publisher. It begs the question whether it is ever possible to write a novel of sufficient quality as such a part-time writer?
I used to write every day but since the stroke I am so tired after work, evening writing has stopped. I can't break my late working habit since the 4.30 to 6.30 shift is often the most productive, as everyone else has gone home. In our new office, the 'airport hanger', the sensors don't spot me and I'm frequently plunged into darkness. I wave my arms but it's not enough; I have to get up and walk around and the lights spring back into life behind me. So I'm often not home until 7.00 and dinner isn't cooked and eaten until 8.00. After that, any old junk TV will do (Mary Portas, Lord Sugar, Phil and Kirsty).
Now I write at weekends and then only in the afternoons. The attractions of shopping and coffee with friends on Saturday and Sunday mornings cannot be ignored. I don't think about the novel in between but as 'writing time' approaches, I find the characters flood back and I can't wait to get started. One advantage of my life as a writer is that I never experience the avoidance syndrome that colleagues with more time seem to experience.
When I was doing my M.A in Novel Writing at Manchester University I knew how this felt. Although I still worked two days a week as a locum educational psychologist in Stockport, our contact time on the course was so minimal I did have whole days to write and it was an uncomfortable experience. I would do anything rather than get out my laptop; cleaning, daytime TV, even coursework in the library was more appealing. Although I protest that I wish it were otherwise, I suspect I prefer that the novel has to be 'shoehorned' into the rest of my week. It makes writing seem more desirable and precious. The question remains: is a novel written in six hours a week publishable, or is it fundamentally flawed due to the breaks?
I still have to do the synopsis (more difficult than writing the whole 70,000 words), then will send it out to a few favourite agents. These are agents I've tried before, who have read my work and although unable to represent me for previous novels, have asked me to send them any new work. My deadline is the end of February. Let's see if I make it!

This Writing Thing (2): The Cuckoo

My third novel is almost finished and I'm reluctant to let it go. If it hadn't been for my spell of ill health it would have been finished months ago. This blog was the beneficiary of that long interval of short concentration span and low energy. I did wonder if I would ever pick up The Cuckoo again and struggled to find the depth of emotion needed to finish it but since I allowed Ros, Nick and Anna to claw their way out of my subconscious, I'm resisting the parting.
Once a novel is finished to first draft, I find that the dreamy period of intimacy, almost like the first flush of love, is over. Like marriage, after that it's hard work: re-writing and re-drafting, again and again, tearing out beloved chunks of prose and struggling to reduce the complex plot into a one page synopsis. Worse, your best beloved comes under the gimlet eye of others, like when your best friend tells you they've never liked your partner.
'It doesn't make sense. The relationship doesn't work. She wouldn't behave like that'. I want to write back, in capital letters...'you're not getting it. She's complex, unpredictable, she doesn't always know what she wants, she's human'. But I pull myself together...she's not human, she's words on a page, a page that has to sell.
It's harder to let this one go because although it is my third novel it's also the one that lay in a drawer for nine years, the one I wrote for my first writing course, taught by Graham Joyce at the Leicester Writing School. It was fatally flawed but I adored the three main characters and some of the prose was good. At Manchester University in 2005 I had it scanned onto a disk and a brilliant technician in the ICT Support Department managed to convert it into a highly unstable Word document which I was able to store on my laptop. It has been so satisfying to rescue this novel.
I've still one final chapter to write and then I'll edit the first three chapters for sending out to agents. While I'm waiting for a response, I'll edit the rest. I have another project in mind but it will have to wait - it's been waiting forty years so a few more months won't hurt. Also stacked up like planes waiting to land is the editorial report I commissioned from Cornerstones on my first novel and the potential outcome of the UK Authors Opening Pages competition, where The Hunting Party has been shortlisted.
Maybe the Public Sector cuts are the answer. Redundancy has never looked so attractive.

Stroke Diary (17): Signing Off

I hope this will be my last Stroke Diary, since on the 23rd. December I was discharged by my consultant. There are no guarantees. The stroke was without cause and having had one, it's more likely I'll have another. But for now, it's over.
I don't have a firm diagnosis. The consultant wasn't able to commit to Reversible Cerebral Vasoconstriction Syndrome (RCVS) but he did concede that I have a brain that 'tends toward vasoconstriction', which amounts to much the same thing.
I was taken aback by the results of my last CT Scan, which showed the area of brain damage. I thought I'd had a tiny bleed, so was shocked to see a dead, white area in the cerebellum, the size of a fifty pence coin. It's hard to accept that it will never recover; we're used to things healing. I've been left with problems with balance and fine-motor coordination, made worse when I'm tired, so I'm glad I don't work as a bomb disposal expert. The literature suggests I might also expect problems with working memory and processing information. And I thought it was just the new job!
I parted with the consultant on good terms; we shook hands, past tensions forgiven. It was Christmas and I could have some champagne. I could also be insured for overseas travel. There are two things which will never be resolved, so maybe it's enough to leave them behind here: I shouldn't have been left on an acute ward for five days without seeing a specialist and I shouldn't have experienced the confusion and delays that were attributed to the link with Queens Medical Centre. One minor thing still puzzles me, that hospital wards don't think they need to provide a hairdryer. Even if I buy one for both wards, would they offer them to patients? When I asked, it was as if I had requested a hedge trimmer.
Thank you for reading this Stroke Diary and particular thanks to Peter Levine for linking my blog to his: The Stroke Recovery Blog. For a short time I had many more readers in the USA than I could ever have expected due to this generous link. If you have recently had a stroke, or if you are still on the road to recovery, I wish you well.

The Hunting Party

This is my second novel, written while I was still with Charlie Viney's Agency. It was Charlie's idea that I try writing historical fiction. He suggested the true story of Winifred, the Countess of Nithsdale's rescue of her husband William from the Tower of London, the night before his execution for his part in the failed Jacobite rebellion of 1715. Since it's a true story, it's really fictionalised biography rather than a novel.
I enjoyed the research but historical fiction is not a genre I read, so writing the novel didn't come easily. I remain fond of Winifred and several agents have shown interest. It's currently on the long-list for the UK Authors Opening Pages Competition.
The Hunting Party will be discussed on December 15th. at 8 pm on the on-line book group for completed but yet to be published novels. If you want to read the novel and take part in the discussion visit http://yettobebooks.wordpress.com

Saturday Night

My Saturday nights are a joy. Friday is the one night I go out, still being on adrenalin from the week and Sunday night is shrouded in gloom due to the imminent arrival of Monday morning.
The evening kicks off with Strictly Come Dancing, a glass of wine and if I'm lucky a log fire. I've come back to Strictly after boycotting them for sacking Arlene Phillips. The success of programmes like this depends on honest judging by people who know what they're talking about, which is why I like Craig's comments. I'm annoyed by Anne Widdecombe and her primary-school 'clever' answering back. She'll never be funny, nor should she try to be, having spent years as an unpopular but serious politician. It reminds me of George Galloway on Big Brother. Why do they do it? And another thing...after years of haranguing from Gok, Trinny and Susannah about the importance of a good bra, can the Rt. Hon. AW be the only one not to have got the message? I'm also cross about Pamela Stephenson for claiming to be a 'serious' psychologist. I wonder how her clients feel about her now?
Next comes Merlin, an inoffensive drama with two nice looking young men in the lead roles. It has the same plot every week which goes something like this: the king, Luther, suspects someone of using magic in Camelot where it's been banned. Merlin (doing work experience as the young Arthur's servant) secretly uses magic to sort everything out and peace is restored.
After that it's a quick flick over to the X-Factor to cheer on Mary (bosomy club singer, who'd be better doing a bit of jazz) before Wallender (the Swedish version) on BBC4, although recently it was no-lips Branagh in the English version. I was surprised to recognise some of the police officers from the Swedish version moonlighting as crooks in the English version.
Meanwhile, I have my laptop on my knee, checking e-mails, posting on Facebook and sometimes writing my blog. It's called multi-tasking or 'not paying attention'.

Stroke Diary 16: Endings and Beginnings

It's never a good idea to start a new job less than three months post-stroke unless it involves shorter hours and a more gentle pace than your old one. But my stroke occurred three weeks after I was offered a more senior post in another local authority and only a few days days after I had resigned. I knew it would be hard but starting my new job on time and in reasonably good health became a personal goal. Besides, I had been told that my cerebellar bleed was Very Minor and really, not worth troubling about overly much.
I've now spent two weeks in my new job and life is achieving some equilibrium. The last week in my former Psychology Service drew deeply on my physical and emotional reserves. Clearing out 21 years of junk against a rapidly diminishing window of time resulted in some long days and the farewells, formal and informal, meant facing up to the consequences of the decision I had made pre-stroke; to leave behind a supportive team, an established role and close friendships. And how would I cope in the leafy suburbs and villages of rural Leicestershire, away from the chaotic but positive energy of a multi-cultural city?
With the inevitable lack of sleep over the weekend, it was a zombie who turned up at County Hall on the 18th. October. No one seemed to notice that it wasn't me and I got through each day with a fixed smile and glassy eyes, experiencing a sense of unreality (I'm only a visitor here) with waves of loss for everything familiar and known. I'd been honest with my new employers that I am, despite appearances, still recuperating from a stroke and this had been sensitively acknowleged in my induction. But a stroke is a stroke, no matter how minor and by the end of the first week my brain was protesting. I had head pains and a numbness in my lips, worrying symptoms that I had ignored in the few days prior to my cerebellar bleed in July. A brain scan had already been organised for the folllowing Tuesday, so there was nothing to do except wait. I've since had the scan and have heard nothing, so I'm assuming everything is okay.
I don't know how other stroke patients feel but for me it's as if I have little control over whether I have another stroke or not. There are no risk factors to manage, such as smoking, drinking or using illegal substances, I have no medication to take and a scan will reveal little unless I've already had another bleed. I try to pay closer attention to my body, particularly the goblin with a hammer that now lives at the base of my skull but since there isn't much I can do, it's best to try and forget about it.
The second week has come to an end and I am already feeling established and purposeful at work. With every loss there are gains. In my new world there isn't a long hours culture and I have been shocked to see the inside of my own home by 5.30 almost every evening. I can already see the strengths of the Psychology Service I have joined. I can feel the return of my motivation to finish my current novel instead of staring at undemanding TV every evening and I'm ready to get my diary out to see my friends.

Stroke Diary (15): High heels and the Backwash

I'm coming to the end of my second week of working full time. It was a struggle at first and I made optimistic promises to myself to have a proper break at lunchtime (even to try and catch forty winks). Of course I haven't done any such thing but I've managed not to work late...except for last night. It's going well but I have to remind myself that I'm not doing normal duties. It looks like I will finish almost everything before I leave on October 15th. but I have needed every moment. Things do take me longer. But my biggest achievement was to brave high heels and to risk the backwash at the hairdresser. At last, a fabulous head massage and no wet face and soaking sleeves.
I was told by my stroke consultant that the backwash would be okay, at my long awaited out-patients appointment last week. For those of you with an interest, the backwash is no problem for someone with my type of stroke, so it's worth asking.
The outpatients appointment went better than expected, even though I must have seemed intimidating, sitting with an open notebook, pen poised, frowning at him over the top of my glasses. I was given plenty of time and was able to talk through possible causes. It looks like Reversible Cerebral Vasoconstriction Syndrome is worth pursuing. I'll have another scan and a further outpatients appointment in December. Meanwhile the consultant is going to do some homework, as by his own admission, he knows very little about it.
He seemed aware of my concerns about my treatment. I wondered if he had read the blog but didn't dare ask. We settled on blaming Queens Medical Centre. It's always useful to have a third party to blame, it saves everyone getting defensive. It was typical of QMC that there was still no feedback from the scan taken on 4th. August. In their defence, the consultant felt that had there been anything to report (a need for surgery or some other intervention) we would have heard from them. I don't believe that is a good enough reason for taking two months to respond.
We also talked about my dissatisfaction with my discharge and follow up; that I had been left without information and guidance. I always try to bring solutions rather than problems, so for my next outpatients appointment I'll prepare a list of the sort of information I needed, which might form the basis of a leaflet to give to patients (how annoying is that!). I also pointed out that while the Stroke Association website is excellent, it's very thin on information about bleeds. So I got a lot off my chest and went away feeling that I had been heard, even though I might get nominated for 'Irritating Patient of the Year'.
I am happy with my progress. I still have problems with balance and being in crowded, noisy places. My head still hurts at times (although I learned that the brain itself cannot be the source of the pain) and I process information more slowly. But the 'fuzzy head' feeling has gone and even the persistent and common stroke survivors' problem of tiredness is less of a drag than it was. I have been very lucky.

Jingle Hell

I saw my first Christmas tree today. It was 24 degrees outside and the customers at the Premier Inn coffee shop were in short-sleeved shirts and cut-offs. Pride of place in the entrance hall was given to a decorated tree, advertising the festive season (only three months to go!).
The charity shops are displaying cards in their windows, the newspapers are full of adverts for Christmas dining and supermarkets are already stocking Christmas biscuits, sweets and snacks, exactly the same as those available in the other aisles but wrapped in red and green with holly, berries and bows. The department stores are helpfully corralling a load of tat into a designated area, marked 'Gifts' where Halloween, Bonfire Night and Christmas vie with each other to empty the customers' wallets.
I am aware of the arguments, which are similar to the 'farmers in Scotland' reasons for not staying on British Summer Time all year. For those of you unfamiliar with this, the debate runs that it would be so dark in Scotland in the morning that the farmers wouldn't be able to feed their animals. So we all have to suffer miserable, dark nights for what feels like most of the year.
The 'Christmas in September' justification says that customers, particularly women, like to plan ahead and have their shopping done, presents wrapped and cards posted by the end of November. Those with families overseas need to get cards and parcels posted even earlier. If customers didn't want to shop early, the Christmas goods wouldn't shift, would they? We all have to 'enjoy' Christmas for three months, so that the super-organised amongst us can feel smug in December.
Well, excuse me but aren't presents available all year? The Post Office runs all year. Food, in ordinary packaging, is available all year. We don't eat the packaging. Trust me, shortbread tastes the same, however it's wrapped. I don't have a simple answer to the cards and wrapping paper dilemma but if it's so important, these could be bought cheaply in the January sales.
Let's reclaim the autumn and fight to hold back the Christmas tide! The way to achieve this is passive resistance. Don't buy anything 'Christmassy' until December. Women, let's join the men and shop on Christmas eve. If the stock doesn't shift the shops will stop displaying it. Be honest, that half-price tin of sweets is always gone by the end of October. And that's the whole point...we then have to buy another.

Stroke Diary (14): Back to Work

Monday 6th. September:
I once worked alongside a teacher in a small special school for children with learning difficulties. She had recurrent breast cancer but twice had made it back to work. I asked her how she was feeling and she told me that returning to the school had been her target, her goal, the thing that kept her going through the bad times. I couldn't understand this. Her class were exhausting, the school was tatty and the staff didn't seem to be an inspiring bunch. I couldn't imagine anything more desirable than not being at work, being free to choose how to spend each day and not having to face getting up on dark, winter mornings. But then I was a mother of three young children, struggling to balance home and work and not that confident about my success as an educational psychologist. I had no idea how important work can become for the mature woman, once children have left home and competence and confidence in the workplace becomes a mantle of respect and wisdom.
So I was relieved to return to work on an agreed plan of half days and very reduced duties but even then, by lunchtime each day my brain was shouting that it had had enough, it needed to go home and lie down. I didn't achieve a great deal. I managed to clear my e-mails, attend a couple of meetings and give some informal supervision. I couldn't have made any school visits or delivered training, so I am far from fit. My workplace is unique and I am aware that for many stroke patients, a return to work after six weeks would be impossible due to unreasonable demands and pressure from employers. I have been allowed to take my time and through the week I felt myself change from 'sick person' to competent member of a community with a shared purpose. The conversations about how I was feeling dropped away and I was consulted, sometimes apologetically, about real issues. Next week, I'll be more focused and tackle the pile of tasks, already comfortingly tagged with 'to do' post-it notes.
The best thing about this week's recovery is that my head is feeling less thick and fuzzy. Either that or I'm simply getting used to it. I can still get dizzy and my balance isn't good but I think these problems are going to need some kind of programme (Pilates? Tai-Chi?) rather than natural recovery. I had no problem with the three flights of stairs up to my office but after one unsteady moment, I had to be strict with myself about holding onto the bannister (difficult when carrying a mug of coffee AND a piece of cake).
My outpatient's appointment is scheduled for the end of the month. I am supposed to have another CT scan before this but I have had no word. My G.P has been chasing it up and she telephoned to say that the consultant was (roll of drums)...'waiting for QMC'. I wonder if this is code for 'I forgot all about it'.
My next Stroke Diary post will follow this appointment. It marks the start of my quest to find out what happened to me. I am not anticipating any enthusiasm or collaboration in this from the consultant and I am expecting to be told that I have to accept that the stroke was 'just one of those things.' I'm not going to accept this.

Stroke Diary (13): Almost There

Monday 30th. August:
Are you sure you're ready to go back to work? I'm often asked this question but it's a hard one to answer. How would I know? Some days this week, my last week of sick leave before my planned return to work, I'm almost 'back to normal' on the outside. Inside, I still have a 'thick head', an experience I was frequently promised by my teachers in Scotland but until now I've been lucky enough to avoid.
On Wednesday morning I go to two libraries, searching unsuccessfully for the books I need for the next book group meeting. I visit Costa for a coffee and then a friend calls in for lunch.
On Friday morning I manage the city centre for the first time since the stroke. I park in John Lewis, walk to an appointment in Hotel Street, have a coffee and finish with a small wander in the Highcross shopping centre. And another friend comes for lunch.
I reason that if my mornings can be as busy as this, then I can manage a morning at work. But other days are different. I now seem to have a built-in monitor for 'over-doing it' when tiredness and headache get the better of me. On Saturday, I do almost nothing and it feels like one of the first days after my discharge from hospital. At night I'm still troubled by pains in the back of my head and I'm still munching paracetemol through the day. I do want to go back to work. The longer I'm away the more daunting it seems and I need several weeks to prepare a handover before I leave. I'll let the G.P have the final say next Monday.
I love Autumn. I like the clothes and the weather is often calm and mellow with just a small bite in the early mornings to let you know that winter's on its way. We have a beautiful early autumn week and teacher friends are beside themselves with rage at being back at work after the unfairness of our dark, sodden August. I take walks along the towpath, each time venturing further out past the mellow red brick of the Victorian canal bridges, noticing spiders' webs caught in the low sunshine and the leaves just turning into their ancient tapestry colours. Twice this week I walk with a friend to the Kings Lock Tea Room, only accessible from the towpath and have coffee in the garden that overlooks the water meadows. The wasps are a problem but we let them have some jam and they leave us alone. Somehow, the distant view of the sheds of Fosse Park, an out of town shopping centre and the dominance of the pylons shouldering Leicester's power into the city, makes this unexpected oasis seem even more remote.
In town I revel in the quiet of Leicester's back lanes, bathed in early morning sunshine, the children back at school and their parents still too exhausted to venture out. I'm the only customer in Cafe Mbriki and spend a relaxed forty five minutes with my coffee and a newspaper. Since the stroke, I've been reading a daily newspaper and many magazines and I've become aware of how many articles in the review sections are about the same people or event, with almost the same content. These are always linked to a book or a television programme. Clearly, publicists are doing a good job.
I manage to get a copy of J.G Ballards's Empire of the Sun, which we're reading for book group along with his second novel, The Drowned World. I find that one of the best things about being in a book group is having to read novels outside my circle of preferred authors. I'm only on page 77 but I'm not keen on his style. Because it's his own story, it has the reported feel of a diary with too much detail that would be of interest to a small boy but with an overlay of adult interpretation and awareness. I will persist, however as I'm forming ideas about the impact of war on the next generation, with reference to my own peer group, the much-criticised 'having it all' Baby Boomers.
So far I've made a good recovery due to normal healing processes but now I need to work specifically on my balance. It is much better, but I still have 'whoops' moments when I stand up suddenly or stop in mid-track. Thanks to a friend's generosity, I now have a gym ball to balance on while watching T.V. I'll report on progress.
I haven't managed to make a start back with my own novel and I wonder what that's about? Maybe next week, when I'm at work, motivation will kick back in. It's ridiculous but I feel too busy. My days are taken up with walks and visits, a sleep in the afternoon, some cooking and any old rubbish on T.V. (usually involving reconstruction of some sort: houses, faces, bodies). And this blog! Something will have to go.

Stroke Diary (12): Not There Yet

Monday 23rd. August: This morning I'm back at the G.P after a bad night. Once again, I'd had pains in the back of my head, presumably from the cerebellum, making it hard to get comfortable. Call me old fashioned but I'm used to being able to rest the back of my head on a pillow. 'Try sleeping face down', my husband helpfully suggested. The consultation with the doctor was pre-arranged to decide whether I was ready to go back to work but given the head pains, I was signed off for another two weeks, with a phased return from September 6th. She asks if I'm depressed. I think not, although I'm not exactly cheerful.
Through the week, I have contact with my boss and do some planning, which makes work seem very close but also possible. I'll be going back to the city service on reduced hours and with a limited workload. The focus of my remaining five weeks will be to tie everything up before I leave around mid-October.
There's good news. My project is going ahead, several wonderful colleagues having stepped in to make sure it happens. I am relieved and deeply grateful but immediately want to interfere with how exactly they're going to deliver. I have a half hour conversation with one of these saints, going over the details. I know I'm not 'letting go' at all.
This week would have been our beach week in Sri Lanka, where we would have met up with our youngest son. This realisation brings feelings of regret and loss but his e-mails describe his stay in a forest monastery, which was no doubt a more improving experience than a hedonistic week on the beach with us. One of the monks he stayed with contacted me a while back asking to be my friend on Facebook.
It's autumn already and I'm not sorry. We have heavy rain overnight and through the day and it fits my mood. It seems more comfortable to be relatively inactive at home and to sleep in the afternoon, when it's pouring with rain outside. But I do see friends, driving myself to Queens Road for lunch in the busy new bistro. Another friend takes me to Palmer's Garden Centre for coffee and we enjoy the 'caravan roof experience' as rain beats down on the conservatory. The coffee at Palmer's was unexpectedly good. The very best thing about this sick leave is how much I've seen of family and friends and the contact I've had from old friends, some neglected for years. I don't think it was a lesson I particularly needed to learn; I already knew it was important and that I was remiss but the demands of my work and the novel writing often made regular contact difficult. Perhaps next summer I'll have a 'stay-cation' and do it all again.
I'm reading The Glass Room by Simon Mawer, short-listed for the Man Booker in 2009. It was recommended by my 82 year old mother. I'm surprised, as there's so much sex in it and I know she doesn't usually like this. We go to Darlington for two days to see my parents, so I get the chance to ask her. She says the sex is well written and feels natural and in context and she's right. It's a terrific book; one of those I can't wait to get back to and the characters pre-occupy me even when I'm not reading. I wonder why it didn't win. The actual winner, Wolf Hall, glowers at me from a shelf, heavy and unread and I've yet to meet anyone who got past the first few chapters (apart from my mother).
The plan is to get back to my own novel next week. I imagine my characters trapped mid-sentence, just where I left them before my stroke. I wonder how I'll feel about them when I wake them up. Will they still be the same people or will they have changed?

Stroke Diary (11): Ongoing Recovery

16th. August: The second week of recovery at home doesn't begin well. I have severe head pains through the night and wonder if I should go to A&E. I end up back at the G.P on Monday morning but there are no neurological signs of a further stroke, so I go home and have a Very Quiet Day. I might have overdone things at the weekend as I'd felt so well on Sunday, the day had felt almost 'normal'. I'd helped with some gardening, we'd had a walk, I even cooked dinner and I hadn't needed a rest. Since recovery isn't going to be linear, it would really help to have some guidance on what is normal and what isn't.
I have to start listening to my brain and when it hurts, I think it means I've done too much or it needs more water. I reduce the number of visits to one a day and allow for a long rest after lunch. I can sleep for a couple of hours in the afternoon and still sleep at night. I've read that tiredness is a common side effect of a stroke.
Despite the poor start, progress is obvious. I do have fewer headaches and by the end of the week I've driven to a shopping centre and have filled up the car with petrol. I notice how hard it is to filter out competing sounds outside and that I can concentrate on only one thing at a time. I find it tiring to listen to too much conversation. Oh no, I've been left with a male brain!
I have the medical for my new job, obviously a bit more serious than it might otherwise have been. But it doesn't amount to much, more of a chat really and I'm out in twenty minutes. It doesn't look as though any 'adjustments' will be needed. I think I'll have to be a bit careful in secondary schools at lesson changeover times (to avoid being trampled underfoot) and plan my days carefully at first so that I'm not rushing from one thing to another but otherwise, six weeks from now I can't imagine I'll have too many problems. I walk to the railway station to get a taxi home and am hit by a wall of weariness.
One of the changes I want to make is to avoid rushing to the supermarket at nine on a Sunday morning, so I explore Ocado and compose my first shopping list, which I manage to save under the imaginative heading 'Morag's list.' It takes me about one and a half hours, longer than the supermarket but now I have a list I should speed up, unless I get distracted by all the recipes and special offers. It's delivered on Saturday night and I'm pleased that they promise to take away all the carrier bags next time. I have shopped by internet before but the excessive use of bags put me off. I discover that I'm no good at estimating metric weights when I receive a huge box of washing powder. Being raised on imperial measures, the difference between 500g and 1000g, for example, isn't something I can easily visualise. For some reason, I seem to have ordered two packs of minted lamb meatballs. Oh well, at least there are no substitutions. I'll get better at it.
I promise myself that when the insurance money arrives for the cancelled holiday, I'll treat myself to a new computer. I only do three things in a day on my computer; e-mails, Facebook and my blog but it can take hours because of internet problems. It's the one area of my life where 'slow' isn't positive.