This is my life…


I’m sitting at yet another airport, it’s 4.30am and I’m trying to work out what to ingest to make sure I don’t get my system too excited bedfore I board my flight. You see I’d prefer to get some sleep, if I can, as today I really am going to be time travelling (first from Dublin forward an hour to Frankfurt then 6 hours back to Newark – which is all going to take me 14 hours !!?) and given I have a gig tomorrow afternoon I could do with catching as many ‘zzzzzzzzz’s as possible.

I have just left my husband asleep in a hotel bed (we live 90mins from the airport so for early flights it’s preferable to sleep nearerby the night before) and it’s Valentine’s day tomorrow. I can’t remember the last time we had the last Valetine’s Day together and I know for a fact that we’ve not spent my birthday together for the last 9 years. The not-so-much-fun side of the music industry.

…and why do I do it? For this..

 

 

To make music and, ultimately, hopefully, to connect.

 

 

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Some days were running legs

Have always loved this poem. It sums up childhood memories of Lewis exactly.

downstreamer

sun over valley

Some days were running legs

Some days were running legs and joy
and old men telling tomorrow would be
a fine day surely: for sky was red
at setting of sun between the hills.

Some nights were parting at the gates
with day’s companions: and dew falling
on heads clear of ambition except light
returning and throwing stones at sticks.

Some days were rain flooding forever the green
pasture: and horses turning to the wind
bare smooth backs. The toothed rocks rising
sharp and grey out of the ancient sea.

Some nights were shawling mirrors lest the lightning
strike with eel’s speed out of the storm.
Black the roman rooks came from the left squawking
and the evening flowed back around their wings.

Iain Crichton Smith from ‘The Long River’ 1955

A Scottish poem I used to teach, and had almost forgotten about, resurfaced yesterday, and here it is, in…

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How to Use Frustration to Gain Happiness

The Zeit

Frustration is one of those things that none of us want to feel. It feels yucky, uncomfortable and miserable. No one ever wants to feel any of these emotions right? But did you know that frustration, although it may be associated with negative emotions, can lead to your true happiness?

Frustration is a good thing in the sense that it takes you out of your place of contentment and into a place where you try to understand where you need to be going in life. You would think that it is important to be content in life because when you are content you are happy with where you are in life. This couldn’t be further from the truth. What you need is gratitude for what you have.

Contentment vs. Gratitude

Happy boys

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What’s your medical history?

IMG_0053When I went to see the consultant charged with diagnosing me, he asked me so many questions obviously trying to narrow down what I was suffering from. He wanted to know my medical history. To be honest, I didn’t think I had much of a medical history. I’d had the mumps at some point. I had stitches in my head from being pushed by a boy in my Primary 2 class and cracking my head open on a table. (In his defence, he was my ‘boyfriend’ and I was pulling his hair – we were together on and off for 6 prepubescent years – and in my defence it was his birthday!) My tonsils were removed when I was 18. I had my wisdom teeth out at 20 (I was one of the lucky ones, I didn’t look like a hamster after that op) and a bout of German measles also in my 20’s. Other than, that I had painful periods but I didn’t even think that was worth mentioning. However, when the consultant asked about my parents’ history and I told him my Mother had had ovarian cancer when she was just 36, his ears pricked up, alarm bells started ringing, clang, clang, clang.

He wanted to know as much as I could remember. I was 11 at the time. I always thought my Mum’s op had happened in the August but chatting on the phone the other day she said it was exactly 34 years to the day on October the 24th, 1981. I remember being told Mum was going to hospital and for an operation. I also remember she’d been quite ill fairly regularly throughout the year before but had been told, as she had, that she had ‘spastic colon’ – ‘a working mother’s complaint’. What Mum didn’t tell me then was that when the time, finally, came for her operation, she was sure there was something very wrong.

She spent a long time in surgery – much longer than we thought she’d have to. What the Dr found, was a lump on her left ovary which he thought was ‘suspicious’ and whatever else he found he made the decision there and then that Mum had to have a hysterectomy. There was no time for questions. So she woke up at the tender age of 36 to be told that she could never have any more children.

The singularly most vivid thing I remember about this time happened a couple of weeks later. Mum was still in hospital recuperating and Dad and I would visit every day and every lunchtime we would take in her mail to her. My Mum has a great deal of affection for her doctor, she believes he saved her life, but what happened one lunchtime made me hate him! My Father innocently handed my Mother her mail. She opened one letter, read it but what the letter telling her was that her cancer required further treatment and not on the island. There had been a clerical error and that letter which should have gone to her gynaecologist was sent to her. There is no easy way I imagine to be told you have cancer, nor that post surgery you require further treatment, but surely there was a better way than this? Let’s not forget than in 1981, very few people even dared to mention the word ‘cancer’ nevermind talk about it. She burst into tears, as did my Father. This was the first time I had seen my Dad cry. The doctor hearing the commotion came into the room, took me by the shoulders, marched me backwards out of the room and shut the door in my face. To this day I can still see him looking down at me, over the top of his half glasses. I had no idea what was going on. I just knew it was bad. Catastrophic. Only in recent years did my mother tell me, the reason she was so upset, was because her treatment would coincide with Christmas.

As an adult I now know that the surgeon was taking care of his patient but I don’t think, with the severity of the situation, my folks realised my despair on the other side of the hospital room door. I wanted to help but I’d been shut out.

When my Dad did tell me himself what the situation was and that my Mum was really ill, he told me at the end of the school day. My Mum and Dad were both teachers till their retirement, in The Nicolson Institute in Stornoway. My Dad was a Maths and Guidance teacher and my Mum taught English and History. I was a teacher’s kid – not pet! At the end of school day I would go to where my Dad parked our car just outside the Springfield South building that way I could get a lift home. I was in 1st year. This day, I got into the back seat of the car, as usual, and Dad while sitting in the front seat told me the news. I didn’t think that was odd at the time, the news was enough to take in, but I realise he couldn’t have wanted to look at my face as he told me. It was too much for him and of course he didn’t know how I would react. I knew it was bad, I knew it was real bad but I forced myself to cry as I figured in terrible situations that’s what you do. So I cried. I realise now, that was just shock.

Mum had cancer. Things changed and fast. After chemotherapy sessions in the Lewis hospital she was sent Glasgow for radiation treatment. She lost weight. She cut her hair so it wouldn’t fall out, her beautiful auburn hair that she’d never cut short in her adult life. She wouldn’t let me hug her at the Beatson in Glasgow when we visited; she was worried about the radiation she was harbouring. There was a big radiation sign on her hospital door. On her tummy there were four black dots marking where the radiation had to be aimed, which remain to this day. Treatment for cancer was much more crude 34 years ago, as were general anaesthetics and operation scars. She regularly vomited when we visited but I guess that’s because the treatment made her sick a lot. Christmas Day that year was the worst day of my Mother’s life, she was so ill but we were ‘holidaying’ with friends and they helped us make the very best of it. I was really too young to realise that and too young to be grateful but I remain very grateful for their support. At no point did I think Mum would die but was naivety, denial and youth. She watched other women she was having treatment with die and had to live with that guilt too. Her prognosis was not good but she’s still here. Sometimes I think she’ll out live us all. She was determined not to leave her 11 year old without a Mum. She was determined to beat cancer and get her life back.

So, 19 years after all that trauma, I relate it to my consultant and find out that I am now being booked in for a laparoscopy. I ‘jumped the cue’; I was ‘fast forwarded’. Some women go undiagnosed for years; years and years and years. Though I still hadn’t been diagnosed, the doctors had an avenue they wanted to pursue. You see endometriosis has symptoms, as I said, that are very similar to other conditions but the only way doctors can diagnose it, is to see it inside you, to see it for themselves.

Once in a lifetime

IMG_0519When I was nine or ten, I went along the road in our village of North Street, Sandwick, to help a neighbour Peggy with her garden. She ran the small post office. I liked Peggy, she was an older lady, probably a little younger than my own Granny, and I became friendly with her as I used to go along to the little post-office to pick up my Granny’s pension. I came back from a long day in the garden, delighted with myself, but one of my eyes was bothering me. I remember distinctly saying to my Mum, who was ill in bed, that I had ‘gum in my eye’. I think at first she thought I meant chewing gum, that wasn’t so but my eye was definitely irritated, something was in it. My Dad took me to the hospital; they didn’t know what it was and I was sent home, thankfully though, that never happened again. When I was eighteen I got a rash all across my body, from my neck down to hips, red, weepy, itchy sores. I was just at that vain enough age to be glad I didn’t have them on my face, my Mother worried about that too and also about my body as she was concerned they would leave scars. They didn’t. I went to the doctor and seemingly it was: ‘a rash that you get in the spring or autumn when the pollen count changes but you’ll only get this rash once in your lifetime’. They were a horrible few weeks but it never happened again. When I was in my mid-twenties I was travelling in England around Yorkshire. I woke up the morning after my travels and my eyes were completely stuck shut. A somewhat disconcerting start to the day but I figured that was a reaction to the myriad of rape seed fields I’d passed the day before. Again that was a once in a lifetime experience.
Would I be this lucky with my trip to the hospital that Sunday afternoon?
No fear.
About a month after the Sunday afternoon incident I was on a night out with some friends. Not too far from my home therefore, thankfully, not too far from the Western General A & E. It was probably now about midnight and ‘the pain’ started, so did the fear. My friend Malkie ordered a taxi, a black cab, and literally in the time it took to drive the half a mile to the hospital I was doubled over in pain. Malkie waited for me as I again went through the process of test after test, waiting for the results, endless agony. The only other information that I could give them this time was – that this wasn’t the first time I’d experienced this.
I spent that night in hospital, my boyfriend was away on tour so the hospital didn’t want me home alone. It wasn’t a pleasant night; it was morphine induced but at least the pain again abated. No one was able to tell me why I had this second ‘attack’. Again, no one was able to tell me what it was. No one told me what would happen if I didn’t get the morphine and I was really too frightened to ask. In truth; I thought I might die. Anyone who has suffered endometriosis pain will know this is no exaggeration. The next day before I left the hospital, I was told I would receive a letter about an appointment for a follow up consultation. I think I sat by the letter box every day I was home till that letter arrived.