I really don't like Monday mornings. Start of the week, kids are hard to wake up after busy weekend and back into lunches and dinners etc.
I was up nice and early this morning and I had everything done in jig time. There were no dramas of missing books or locker keys and breakfast was eaten without any complaints.
It was all going too well really as we were in the car for 8.10am and reversing out of the driveway seconds later. As I drove round the first corner in the estate, I felt something odd about the left hand side of the car. I pulld into the kerb and got out. The left back tyre on the car was flat as a pancake. Bloody puncture and as I said that, it started to rain.
I emptied all the crap out of the boot (and there was a lot of crap - books, newpapers, clothes and jackets, scout stuff and a display banner). I lifted up the spare tyre and got the jack and the wrench. I checked the time - if I could change the tyre in ten minutes I should get the kids down to school ahead of the traffic and still make it to work in time. I can do this, I said to myself.
The car is new and I hadn't had to change a tyre on it before so I knew the nuts would be tight. I just didn't realise how impossibly tight. One of the nuts on the wheel looked odd and I had a bad feeling about it as the wrench didn't look as thought it would fit. I started to loosen the nuts and it was unbelievably hard - I was pulling and pulling and blooming thing would not move. I jumped on the wrench to see if that would move the nut but
the wrench flew off and hit me in the shin! To say the air was coloured blue is an understatement.
I loosened the first three nuts and then looked at the wrench and the last nut. It was round while the others were hexagonal. There must be something special for this one. It must be a lock to protect my alloys being stolen. Where was the attachment? had a look in the boot but there was no sign of anything else - well there was another funny looking hook thing but I have no idea what that was for. I got the instruction book for the car and it gave me all sorts of advice:
1. Don't change the car tyre on a hill - CHECK
2. Make sure the handbrake is on - CHECK
3. Make sure the wheels were straight at the front - CHECK
Then it showed me a diagram of some sort of nut that I had to attach to the wrench. Where was the nut? I searched the boot again and checked for secret compartments or loose bits on the jack. No sign of it. At this stage several cars had passed me by - two women stopped - all the men drove past - nuts!!!!. I realised I would have to 'jack' it in or the kids would be late for school. Our next door neighbour arrived and we all piled into her car.
The kids got to school on time - with seconds to spare. Then my lovely neighbour drove me down to the train station where I collected my hubby's car so I could be mobile. I drove to the garage to see what they would advise me to do - I must have breakdown assistance I thought as it's a new car. At that stage my hubby had phoned the garage. Just as I was parking outside the garage he phoned to say there was a special attachment and that it might be in the glove box. It should be in the boot, but try the glove box. If it wasn't there it would take a week or two to order it in.
I drove home muttering to myself all the way - of course it was in the glove box, sure why would it be the boot with all the other bits. The glove box is the obvious place - NOT!
The rain was coming down heavy at this stage and my shin was bleeding from where the wrench had hit it. I grabbed a jacket from the house and went back over to where I had abandoned the car. This time I searched the glove box and there was the little locknut safely tucked up in the corner hidden behind some melted chocolate! Lovely!
I loosensed the normal nuts and the special locknut with the special attachment, then jacked her up and removed the nuts. I struggled with the weight of the punctured tyre but I got it off the rim falling backwards onto my arse on the grass verge in the process. A few more cars passed and I was ignored. That's fine, I thought as the rain streamed down my eyes - they didn't stop because I obviously looked like I knew what I was doing!
I got the spare tyre on and replaced the nuts - for good measure I jumped up and down on the wrench to tighten the nuts. I put the punctured tyre in the boot and drove off.
I decided to take no chances and to get it repaired straight away so I took it down to the local tyre repair centre. They saw me straight away - I looked like an emergency. The tyre was whisked from me into A & E and I was taken into the famil room to wait!
Then I saw a familiar face through the office window and realised that I had worked with him at the Ploughing Championship in 2006 when he came to do the special balloons for us on the diocesan stand.
I waved and he waved back and I knew he didn't know recognise me - that may have been because I was wet, dirty and bedraggled or it may be because the last time he had seen me I was three stone heavier!
He came in and I told him my name and when he realised it was me he gave me a bit hug and sat me down - I managed to hold back the tears as I was fairly agitated at this stage. But we had a chat and a laugh about the locknut. Crazy things he said as no one is taking tyres that much anymore.
The tyre was repaired and they put it back on the car for me and tightened everything up so I had peace of mind that the tyre wasn't going to fall off. I took out my money to pay and it was refused by - no way, he said, sure it was only a puncture! What a lovely man!
He waved me out safely and I was off. I was two hours late to work, filthy, knees in bits from kneeling on the road and a large chunk taken out of my shin.
I learned some things today:
(i) There are still good Samaritans out there - my neighbour Therese, and the other two ladies who stopped to help, and Noel, the tyre man who would not take any money.
(ii) What a locknut is!
(iii) How to change the tyre on this particular car (not that I want to make a habit of it)
(iv) There never seems to be the right nut around when you want it!!!!
Happy Monday everyone - the week can only get better from here!!!
xx
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
School Daze
Growing up we had a lot of first days at new schools as we moved around a bit as a family (five children all born in different counties in Ireland).
I remember one particular first day in a new school vividly. I was 11, tall, gangly and skinny and at the age where I was uncomfortable with what was starting to happen to my body. I was very self aware.
The town we moved to was very small and my two sisters and I had been the subject of much speculation amongst the boys – well three new girls in a small town! We had also been the subject of much speculation amongst the girls – oh no, not three new girls!!!
The first morning we were starting school it was utter chaos in the house as my Mum lined us up for our morning ritual and one by one we stood fidgeting in front of her as she plaited our long hair – three sets of two plaits. We were going into 4th, 5th and 6th class in the local convent school and my My mum kept muttering to herself – everything has to be perfect.
To make matters worse there was no school uniform which meant clothes went flying in all directions in the bedroom as the three of us tried to decide what we should wear.
I knew we were missing books and I was worried that we would get told off. I also worried about whether we would be accepted into the school community. We were blow-ins after all.
I could hear my Dad out the front, impatiently revving the engine of the car. I could put it off no longer so I grabbed my spotless new bag and opened the front door.
Just as we were about to get into the car, Mum called out for us to wait – a Kodak moment she said. So we posed for the picture looking into her camera which was one of those with the external flash bulbs.
Flash! As we pulled up outside the school I was still half blind from it.
Dad said 'good luck, behave ourselves', and one by one each of us got out of the car.
I could hear the screams and laughter of the other children before I saw them. There was a narrow gate into the school that we had to push in, squeeze past, and then push out again and it could only take one of us at a time.
I checked my watch to make sure that we weren't late and the three of us walked together up a tunnel and stepped out into a sea of colour and children.
There were children running and laughing, some playing catch and another group playing camogie.
We didn't know what to do, so we just stood there staring up at the dark, grey, unwelcoming building. Is this it?, I thought, as I remembered the colourful, bright, modern school we had left behind us in Ballybay.
A nun appeared in front of us and said: “Are you the three Drumms?" I giggled, thinking of three musical instruments standing in the yard.
She said: “I'm Sr Finbar, the Head Nun”, and then she asked us who was who – so she obviously had a note of our names already.
A bell rang and within seconds the yard was empty. That's when the butterflies started in my stomach.
We were told to follow her and we did, obediently. The smell that hit me as we walked into the school hall was a rather odd mixture of fresh bread and toilets!
We were shown exactly where out coats were to be hung, told about wiping our feet, no running on the stairs and no shouting inside the school. Shouting, i thought, Shouting! I doubted I would ever be able to speak at all!
We were taken up a dark stairway, like something you would see in an old horror film.
We were brought to our classroom - 4th, 5th and 6th classes were all in the same room! So 36 sets of eyes turned to stare as we stood frozen to the spot at the door.
Then Sr Finbar said what I was hoping she wouldn't: “Here are the three Drumms!”. The children erupted into giggles and laughter, but then who could blame them.
Ends
I remember one particular first day in a new school vividly. I was 11, tall, gangly and skinny and at the age where I was uncomfortable with what was starting to happen to my body. I was very self aware.
The town we moved to was very small and my two sisters and I had been the subject of much speculation amongst the boys – well three new girls in a small town! We had also been the subject of much speculation amongst the girls – oh no, not three new girls!!!
The first morning we were starting school it was utter chaos in the house as my Mum lined us up for our morning ritual and one by one we stood fidgeting in front of her as she plaited our long hair – three sets of two plaits. We were going into 4th, 5th and 6th class in the local convent school and my My mum kept muttering to herself – everything has to be perfect.
To make matters worse there was no school uniform which meant clothes went flying in all directions in the bedroom as the three of us tried to decide what we should wear.
I knew we were missing books and I was worried that we would get told off. I also worried about whether we would be accepted into the school community. We were blow-ins after all.
I could hear my Dad out the front, impatiently revving the engine of the car. I could put it off no longer so I grabbed my spotless new bag and opened the front door.
Just as we were about to get into the car, Mum called out for us to wait – a Kodak moment she said. So we posed for the picture looking into her camera which was one of those with the external flash bulbs.
Flash! As we pulled up outside the school I was still half blind from it.
Dad said 'good luck, behave ourselves', and one by one each of us got out of the car.
I could hear the screams and laughter of the other children before I saw them. There was a narrow gate into the school that we had to push in, squeeze past, and then push out again and it could only take one of us at a time.
I checked my watch to make sure that we weren't late and the three of us walked together up a tunnel and stepped out into a sea of colour and children.
There were children running and laughing, some playing catch and another group playing camogie.
We didn't know what to do, so we just stood there staring up at the dark, grey, unwelcoming building. Is this it?, I thought, as I remembered the colourful, bright, modern school we had left behind us in Ballybay.
A nun appeared in front of us and said: “Are you the three Drumms?" I giggled, thinking of three musical instruments standing in the yard.
She said: “I'm Sr Finbar, the Head Nun”, and then she asked us who was who – so she obviously had a note of our names already.
A bell rang and within seconds the yard was empty. That's when the butterflies started in my stomach.
We were told to follow her and we did, obediently. The smell that hit me as we walked into the school hall was a rather odd mixture of fresh bread and toilets!
We were shown exactly where out coats were to be hung, told about wiping our feet, no running on the stairs and no shouting inside the school. Shouting, i thought, Shouting! I doubted I would ever be able to speak at all!
We were taken up a dark stairway, like something you would see in an old horror film.
We were brought to our classroom - 4th, 5th and 6th classes were all in the same room! So 36 sets of eyes turned to stare as we stood frozen to the spot at the door.
Then Sr Finbar said what I was hoping she wouldn't: “Here are the three Drumms!”. The children erupted into giggles and laughter, but then who could blame them.
Ends
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A monthly reminder
Once a month I make the trip to Tallaght for blood tests and treatment to protect me from the side effects of the bone marrow cancer (Myeloma) which I have been living with since 2007.
I have been going to the haematology day ward in Tallaght for at least once a month since January 2007 (sometimes twice a month, sometimes twice a week, depending on what is going on).
I have fallen into a routine. I leave Newbridge at about 8.40am , having dropped the kids to school, checked that I have my blood forms and made sure that I have enough petrol in the car. It usually takes me 30 - 40 minutes to drive there and as I turn into the avenue up to the hospital, I stay in the right hand lane as this is the one for the multi storey car park. I am on auto-pilot at this stage and rarely bother to glance at the ground floor level for spaces, instead making my way to the first and sometimes second floor before I find a space. I park the car and grab my things - laptop, books, notebook and iPhone.
I always take the stairs down, because I am well now and don't need the lift.
I arrive in the front door of the hospital, listening to the automated voice telling me that 'this is a non smoking hospital'. Sometimes I take the revolving door and sometimes I take the ordinary door to the right. I immediately use the hand sanitisers and turn left down to the blood clinic. Large queues of people line the corridor, all waiting to have bloods done. I bypass all the queues and take a special yellow ticket, which means I am urgent and I get to skip the queue. Sometimes there is a queue of urgent people so I may get delayed by a few mins.
I sit in the blood chair and I confirm who I am. Then the vials are plucked out of their holders - two red, a blue and a green mostly, but sometimes three red, two blues, a black and a green! The phlebotomists are experts at taking the blood and I rarely feel the small scratch which they warn you is on the way. All finished and I thank them and leave.
Next, I head for the shop and get The Irish Times. Then across to the volunteer cafe where I get a banana and walnut muffin. Then I make my way up to the first floor, again taking the stairs, as this is proof to anyone watching, of just how well I am.
Into the office then to collect my hospital chart - the staff all know me now and my chart just comes out automatically. I am on volume three of three charts now and its cover is looking very faded and tattered from use.
I drop the chart into the nurses in the day ward and ask is there a space for me - most tmes there is a chair free, but sometimes there is a small wait in the chairs in the hallway.
Blood pressure, temperature and pulse are checked immediately. I never ask anymore if they are okay as I can read the results now as well as the nurses.
Then Sharon or Christine or Roisin or Aine (I know all the nurses by name) arrive over with the pillow for me to rest my arm on while they insert a line. Another small scratch but my veins are good and this usually goes without a hitch.
Then I sit and wait for my blood results to come back. As I do I look around at the other people sitting in chairs like me and those lying back on the beds at the opposite side of the room - a lot of familiar faces that I have come to know, and all the time there are new faces - new cancers being diagnosed. I watch the fear on the faces of those people - overwhelmed with news and results and complicated sounding names of diseases and drugs and treatments.
I sit back and wait and sometimes give a knowing smile and nod to them, as if to relate 'I know what you are going through - I know the sheer terror you are feeling and the million and one questions that are racing around your brain'.
I close my eyes as I wait for my results. Some of the doubts and questions start to play out in my mind:
I check my email and flick onto my Facebook and Twitter pages, letting people know where I am and reading all the good wishes and good luck messages that come dilligently each month from my wonderful circle of family and friends.
Then Sharon comes over and tells me that my results are very good today - so I breathe a sign of relief. I am off the hook for another month. She attaches my treatment to my line and I sit back for the couple of hours that it will take to go in.
I text to let family know that all is well with me. Then I open the Irish Times to see what's happening in the world, because I know that all is well in mine - at least for another month anyway!
Ends
I have been going to the haematology day ward in Tallaght for at least once a month since January 2007 (sometimes twice a month, sometimes twice a week, depending on what is going on).
I have fallen into a routine. I leave Newbridge at about 8.40am , having dropped the kids to school, checked that I have my blood forms and made sure that I have enough petrol in the car. It usually takes me 30 - 40 minutes to drive there and as I turn into the avenue up to the hospital, I stay in the right hand lane as this is the one for the multi storey car park. I am on auto-pilot at this stage and rarely bother to glance at the ground floor level for spaces, instead making my way to the first and sometimes second floor before I find a space. I park the car and grab my things - laptop, books, notebook and iPhone.
I always take the stairs down, because I am well now and don't need the lift.
I arrive in the front door of the hospital, listening to the automated voice telling me that 'this is a non smoking hospital'. Sometimes I take the revolving door and sometimes I take the ordinary door to the right. I immediately use the hand sanitisers and turn left down to the blood clinic. Large queues of people line the corridor, all waiting to have bloods done. I bypass all the queues and take a special yellow ticket, which means I am urgent and I get to skip the queue. Sometimes there is a queue of urgent people so I may get delayed by a few mins.
I sit in the blood chair and I confirm who I am. Then the vials are plucked out of their holders - two red, a blue and a green mostly, but sometimes three red, two blues, a black and a green! The phlebotomists are experts at taking the blood and I rarely feel the small scratch which they warn you is on the way. All finished and I thank them and leave.
Next, I head for the shop and get The Irish Times. Then across to the volunteer cafe where I get a banana and walnut muffin. Then I make my way up to the first floor, again taking the stairs, as this is proof to anyone watching, of just how well I am.
Into the office then to collect my hospital chart - the staff all know me now and my chart just comes out automatically. I am on volume three of three charts now and its cover is looking very faded and tattered from use.
I drop the chart into the nurses in the day ward and ask is there a space for me - most tmes there is a chair free, but sometimes there is a small wait in the chairs in the hallway.
Blood pressure, temperature and pulse are checked immediately. I never ask anymore if they are okay as I can read the results now as well as the nurses.
Then Sharon or Christine or Roisin or Aine (I know all the nurses by name) arrive over with the pillow for me to rest my arm on while they insert a line. Another small scratch but my veins are good and this usually goes without a hitch.
Then I sit and wait for my blood results to come back. As I do I look around at the other people sitting in chairs like me and those lying back on the beds at the opposite side of the room - a lot of familiar faces that I have come to know, and all the time there are new faces - new cancers being diagnosed. I watch the fear on the faces of those people - overwhelmed with news and results and complicated sounding names of diseases and drugs and treatments.
I sit back and wait and sometimes give a knowing smile and nod to them, as if to relate 'I know what you are going through - I know the sheer terror you are feeling and the million and one questions that are racing around your brain'.
I close my eyes as I wait for my results. Some of the doubts and questions start to play out in my mind:
- Will this month be the month when things go wrong for me?
- Will this month be the month when they tell me I need a bone marrow biopsy as some of the levels are off?
- Will this be the month when they tell me that there are signs that the myeloma is on the march again?
I check my email and flick onto my Facebook and Twitter pages, letting people know where I am and reading all the good wishes and good luck messages that come dilligently each month from my wonderful circle of family and friends.
Then Sharon comes over and tells me that my results are very good today - so I breathe a sign of relief. I am off the hook for another month. She attaches my treatment to my line and I sit back for the couple of hours that it will take to go in.
I text to let family know that all is well with me. Then I open the Irish Times to see what's happening in the world, because I know that all is well in mine - at least for another month anyway!
Ends
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
A case of mistaken confectionery
Last Friday 18 June 2010 was a big day for me - we had the launch of Myeloma (bone marrow cancer) Awareness Week 2010 at 12 noon in the Mansion House in Dublin which is the residence of the Lord Mayor of Dublin. We had been working on the launch for months, weeks and we were anxious that everything would go well.
The day started well for me - I looked out the window first thing in the morning and there were two magpies sitting in the garden. I quickly recited the rhyme: "one for sorrow, two for joy". Whew, I thought, two for joy, I am okay I thought.
I was hyper as I had not been able to sleep the night before - partly because of the excitement and partly because I am on steroids. I guess I was also just anxious that everything would go well.
I showered, dressed, changed outfits, did my make-up, decided - bare legs or tights, made my son Cathal's lunch, got his school bag ready, put breakfast out, woke the kids, supervised the morning school routine.
Then I loaded the car - six boxes of our mugs for myeloma for our fundrasier, two banners, laptop, projector, camera, handbag, change of clothes, high shoes (as I can't drive in them), make-up, briefcase with all the literature and my speech, a scissors, sellotape and a birthday candle.
We dropped Cathal off to school and my daughter Emma (our helper for the day) and I drove straight to
Then we got to work and my co-ordinator of Myeloma Awareness Week arrived with balloons to be blown up and with a gigantic projector screen. All the piecees of the puzzle were soon in place and all we were waiting for were the guests and our birthday cake which we were having to mark our website’s first birthday – oh and our guest speaker Miriam O’Callaghan,
While waiting out the front of the Mansion House and having some pictures taken a man approached with a box and said: "Do you know anything about a birthday cake?" "Yes I said, we are expecting a birthday cake." So he handed me the box and walked off. I put it inside under the table ready for the moment when we would formally mark the first birthday of our website http://www.mymyeloma.ie/ .
In the meantime we had some more pics done and as we were taking them I looked to the right and saw two magpies on the lawn of the Mansion House. I recited the rhyme again: "One for sorrow, two for joy". Whew, there were two and we were okay!
Miriam arrived – she had been delayed in RTE. She was immediately wonderfully warm and enthusiastic and dived into the middle of the photo session in the garden. There was no awkwardness or formality – a warmth and a instant ray of sunshine.
Pics done we went inside. I was MC for the event and we had about 80 people. My Dad was first up to speak about what it was like for him to live with the fact that I have a serious illesss. I had told him in advance not to say anything that would make me cry. As he spoke I got emotional and Miriam came over and stood beside me and put her arm around me.
She heckled my Dad a few times trying to ecourage my him to tell us the things I had told him not to say as he had just told the audience that there were things that I had told him not to say!
Miriam spoke, she used no notes, no prompts – it was from the heart. It was wonderful and she just added such a wonderful lift to the whole event. Then we had some medical professionals including the wonderful doctor, now a Professor, who saw me through my stem cell transplant.
Then the talking was over and my daughter Emma was called up with the cake – a giant, pink cupcake with little white stars dotted around the top. It was stunning and the photographers started to take snaps of the cake. Miriam was handed it and she pretended to eat it as did Emma and I. There was a lot of flash bulbs going off. Then we left the cake down and went in for refreshments.
I must admit I thought it a bit strange that when I went into the refreshments room thre was another cake in there – an enormous one with the words Happy Birthday My Myeloma on it. That’s nice I thought, the Mansion House must have given us a cake also for the day. I preferred the cup cake as it was much more striking so I took a few of the stars off and ate then and Emma had a couple too.
There was mixing and mingling and a wonderful hope-filled atmosphere as patients and family members shared stories. My Dad’s speech was the star attraction and people queued up to shake his hand. I was immensely proud of him and I could see that my Mum was too. It was effortless for him although he told me after he had been nervous.
A journalist called on the phone for an interview and asked to speak to my Mum. I gave mum my phone and left her to it, having pre-warned her that she was talking to a tabloid newspaper. Ten minutes later she gave me back the phone.
"How was it", I said,
"OK", she said.
What did she ask you?, I said.
I don’t know Mam said.
What did you say, I said
I don’t know, she said! I forget.
Guess who is dreading the tabloid newspaper on Monday.
People started to trickle away as the event ended and as I looked around the almost empty room I noticed that the pink cupcake cake was still there. It had not been cut or touched. I placed it back in it’s box but not before Emma and I had one more star each from the top and took some more silly pics of us pretending to eat it. Then we left it with the rest of the things to go to the car/van as no one else wanted to take any cake home with them.
We were saying our goodbyes when a very stressed looking girl came out and said: “Does anyone here know anything about a large pink cupcake, cake?” Emma and I looked at each other and immediately sidled out the door to retrieve said cake from beside the car where it had been deposited with all the other bits and pieces from the launch. On the way in we met my colleague who told us that the cake was not ours after all, that in fact the one we had cut and eaten was ours. "Oh I said, no harm", and I brought the cake in and handed it to the girl and the Mansion House manager. "ER we can’t seem to find the lid of the box", I said, and "er, I am sorry that the bottom of the box is wet, I spilled some water."
"Who owns the cake?" I asked.
"Well the Lord Mayor is having a birthday party tonight for her sister and this is the birthday cake", she said.
Well Emma and I almost choked on the stars we had taken from the top of the cake! We then went on to try and explain how the delivery man had just handed me the cake on the side of the street and walked off.
We laughed about it – not a case of mistaken identity but a case of mistaken confectionery!
"No harm done", I said to Emma as we walked out to the front of the Mansion House to the car. "No harm done at all and what’s a few little icing stars between the Lord Mayor and one of her citizens, sure no one will ever know we had her cake!"
Then suddenly it dawned on me – the photos that the photographers had taken for the papers – what if they end up on the front page of tomorrow’s newspapers – how will the Lord Mayor’s sister feel about her birthday cake being mock eaten by complete strangers. A few frantic calls later and we had the reassurance that none would be used. We said our goodbyes and drove away from the Mansion House tired but very satisfied.
As we left
Friday 18 June 2010 was a truly joy-filled day. But then some scientist had said that that particular day was the happiest day of the year.
Friday, May 28, 2010
A brush with treasure
I am not sure when it started but from the time my son Cathal was about one he used to get a hairbrush and go around brushing his hair and then my hair. At the time I had long, thick hair and it used to kill me as the hairbrush would get stuck in all sorts of tangles and it would end up just hanging there in some part of my mop.
As he got older he used to watch me doing Emma's hair, adding clips to it as I got her ready for school in the morning. When he was about two year's of age he began to add the clips after he brushed my hair. Most of the time the clips would be stuck in my head rather than my hair and there would be a lot of ouch and aagh coming from me.
I think it used to soothe him to sit behind me on the couch, brushing my hair, while we watched telly.
In June 2007 I lost all my hair as a result of chemo I received as part of cancer treatment. My hair had thinned considerably and I had a bald batch, so I decided one Friday it had to go. While the kids were at school I shaved what was left of my hair.
I collected Cathal from his creche and Emma from school, wearing a hat to hide what I had done. I had tried my best to prepare them and I was able to show Emma (aged 9) and sort of have a laugh with her.
I was more concerned about how Cathal would feel. He didn't know I had cancer - cancer would not mean much anyway to a two-year old. I had told him that my hair would fall out because of some special Mammy medicine I was on. He would shrug and just run off again and play.
On the day of the reveal I sat him down at the table and we had a drink each. I told him that my hair was gone and I asked him if he wanted to see. He nodded and I took my hat off. He looked and me and said: 'put your hat back on Mammy'.
That was that. No tears. No look of shock or horror. He went off about his business.
The following night we were all sitting down in the living room, watching TV. Cathal came in with a hairbrush in his hand and said: 'Mammy, can I brush your hair?'. I remember looking over at my hubby in shock. What do we do about this? I panicked and then froze.
Cathal came over and said 'take off your hat Mammy', which I did. He sat up behind me and brushed my bald head. He didn't bat an eyelid, he never said: 'Where's your hair?' He didn't bother with clips, just sat there brushing. It all happened so fast that I barely had time to react - which was just as well.
I was shocked really by how natural the whole thing was. For him, it was no different, he didn't look at me any differently bald than he did when I had hair. He saw the big picture - just me, his Mum, and not a stranger with an egg head. He took comfort from the ritual that he had been doing for months.
It was one of the most emotional and poignant moments of my whole cancer journey and I will treasure the moment forever.
That particular memory all came back to me this evening - three years later, when out of the blue Cathal came up and asked me if he could brush my hair. I have hair now, it grew back thick and strong - not that it would make any difference to Cathal anyway!!!!
xx
As he got older he used to watch me doing Emma's hair, adding clips to it as I got her ready for school in the morning. When he was about two year's of age he began to add the clips after he brushed my hair. Most of the time the clips would be stuck in my head rather than my hair and there would be a lot of ouch and aagh coming from me.
I think it used to soothe him to sit behind me on the couch, brushing my hair, while we watched telly.
In June 2007 I lost all my hair as a result of chemo I received as part of cancer treatment. My hair had thinned considerably and I had a bald batch, so I decided one Friday it had to go. While the kids were at school I shaved what was left of my hair.
I collected Cathal from his creche and Emma from school, wearing a hat to hide what I had done. I had tried my best to prepare them and I was able to show Emma (aged 9) and sort of have a laugh with her.
I was more concerned about how Cathal would feel. He didn't know I had cancer - cancer would not mean much anyway to a two-year old. I had told him that my hair would fall out because of some special Mammy medicine I was on. He would shrug and just run off again and play.
On the day of the reveal I sat him down at the table and we had a drink each. I told him that my hair was gone and I asked him if he wanted to see. He nodded and I took my hat off. He looked and me and said: 'put your hat back on Mammy'.
That was that. No tears. No look of shock or horror. He went off about his business.
The following night we were all sitting down in the living room, watching TV. Cathal came in with a hairbrush in his hand and said: 'Mammy, can I brush your hair?'. I remember looking over at my hubby in shock. What do we do about this? I panicked and then froze.
Cathal came over and said 'take off your hat Mammy', which I did. He sat up behind me and brushed my bald head. He didn't bat an eyelid, he never said: 'Where's your hair?' He didn't bother with clips, just sat there brushing. It all happened so fast that I barely had time to react - which was just as well.
I was shocked really by how natural the whole thing was. For him, it was no different, he didn't look at me any differently bald than he did when I had hair. He saw the big picture - just me, his Mum, and not a stranger with an egg head. He took comfort from the ritual that he had been doing for months.
It was one of the most emotional and poignant moments of my whole cancer journey and I will treasure the moment forever.
That particular memory all came back to me this evening - three years later, when out of the blue Cathal came up and asked me if he could brush my hair. I have hair now, it grew back thick and strong - not that it would make any difference to Cathal anyway!!!!
xx
Friday, April 23, 2010
FAMA
My weakness has to be fashion - clothes, shoes, make-up, handbags and accessories! I love it all. But I am not a slave to fashion, I never just go with the trend – thankfully, well can you imagine me in a puffball skirt at age 41? No, I didn’t think so. I am not a lemming to the slaughter (albeit a well dressed lemming), I make my own styles.
My best friend Sara will tell you that I was doing the ‘wearing a dress with trousers’ style before anyone else was – certainly before any of the designers were. I didn’t do it because I had a vision that it was the next big fashion trend, no, I did it because I hate wearing tights and because on that particular day I was just too darn lazy to shave my legs!!!!!!
I am not saying that I don’t sometimes make mistakes – last weekend an RTE cameraman asked me to take off my coat as it was too loud and was ruining his shot! The coat was rather loud for wearing inside a cathedral now that I think of it – especially when everyone around me [all priests] were well men in black.
Dresses are my particular weakness - I have a kaleidoscope of different colour dresses in my wardrobe – I just can’t walk past them in the shop and I know that having 20 LBD’s (little black dresses) goes against the laws of fashion as there should only need to be one LBD, but they were all so yummy looking in the shops!
Now don’t assume that I am up on all the fashion lingo and names – I am no Sara Jessica Parker and I certainly don’t have the luxury of getting a brand new wardrobe of clothes each time a season changes!
But I often think of how different things would be if I was made Taoiseach! One of the first things I would do (after doubling whatever wardrobe allowance Brian Cowen has) would be to create a Department of Fashion Affairs with a Minister for shoes and handbags, a Minister for trends and accessories, a junior make-up Minister to keep an eye on all that side of things and an Ambassador for Irish Fashion – imagine the junkets to Paris and Milan Fashion Weeks!
Walk-in wardrobes would be compulsory in all new houses and I would introduce a scheme whereby older houses could get a grant for having them retro-fit!
I would have to introduce a new National holiday to give people more time to shop and of course there would have to be a new element to An Garda Siochana – in that I would have to introduce a new division to them – yes a fashion police. We could call them the Gunaí Gardai!!!!!
There would have to be a new tax relief introduced on the purchase of handbags and shoes – the more expensive - the higher the tax relief. I would make sure that the State would underwrite all credit card splurges on clothes and shoes etc. In fact, in the case where girls were under threat of having their credit cards taken away, we would even write off some of the debt as bad impulse buys! I would call that agency FAMA – Fashion Asset Management Agency!
The country would probably be in just as bad a state as we are now – but gosh we would look and feel great!
Brenda
xx
My best friend Sara will tell you that I was doing the ‘wearing a dress with trousers’ style before anyone else was – certainly before any of the designers were. I didn’t do it because I had a vision that it was the next big fashion trend, no, I did it because I hate wearing tights and because on that particular day I was just too darn lazy to shave my legs!!!!!!
I am not saying that I don’t sometimes make mistakes – last weekend an RTE cameraman asked me to take off my coat as it was too loud and was ruining his shot! The coat was rather loud for wearing inside a cathedral now that I think of it – especially when everyone around me [all priests] were well men in black.
Dresses are my particular weakness - I have a kaleidoscope of different colour dresses in my wardrobe – I just can’t walk past them in the shop and I know that having 20 LBD’s (little black dresses) goes against the laws of fashion as there should only need to be one LBD, but they were all so yummy looking in the shops!
Now don’t assume that I am up on all the fashion lingo and names – I am no Sara Jessica Parker and I certainly don’t have the luxury of getting a brand new wardrobe of clothes each time a season changes!
But I often think of how different things would be if I was made Taoiseach! One of the first things I would do (after doubling whatever wardrobe allowance Brian Cowen has) would be to create a Department of Fashion Affairs with a Minister for shoes and handbags, a Minister for trends and accessories, a junior make-up Minister to keep an eye on all that side of things and an Ambassador for Irish Fashion – imagine the junkets to Paris and Milan Fashion Weeks!
Walk-in wardrobes would be compulsory in all new houses and I would introduce a scheme whereby older houses could get a grant for having them retro-fit!
I would have to introduce a new National holiday to give people more time to shop and of course there would have to be a new element to An Garda Siochana – in that I would have to introduce a new division to them – yes a fashion police. We could call them the Gunaí Gardai!!!!!
There would have to be a new tax relief introduced on the purchase of handbags and shoes – the more expensive - the higher the tax relief. I would make sure that the State would underwrite all credit card splurges on clothes and shoes etc. In fact, in the case where girls were under threat of having their credit cards taken away, we would even write off some of the debt as bad impulse buys! I would call that agency FAMA – Fashion Asset Management Agency!
The country would probably be in just as bad a state as we are now – but gosh we would look and feel great!
Brenda
xx
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