I found a journal entry that I wrote in August 2007.
I was in hospital having a stem cell transplant and I was off all food and drink.I started to crave fruit juices and favoursome drinks. Some of the ad's on TV used to really set my cravings off. I could have drunk whatever I wanted but it woul only have stayed down for seconds.
I used to take sips, taste the drink and then spit it out into a basin which I kept with me all the time. I was like an addict craving new and better tastes every day.
I had 7-up
Lilt
Lucozade
Coke
Fanta
Club Orange
Ginger ale
Appeltizer
Soda Water
I would last a day of two mouthwashing each of these for the taste and then I would feel sick at the thought of them. Then my Mum started to make dilutable cocktails for me with two types of dilutable drinks - she would mix them and put them in the freezer for me so as they would be nice and cold for me when they arrived to the room. I was confined to the ward as I was being nursed in isolation - my immune system was at ground zero. It was July and the room was really hot. I was not allowed to open th window or the door. The taste of a cold, icy drink was just heaven, even if I did have to spit it back out straight away.
Then a lot of the soft drinks started to sting the inside of my mouth so I took to drinking club source which had a high water content and which I was able to tolerate. \At one stage I put a call out by text to people to see if they could source me some bottles of Club Source - it was hilarious really and so many of my family and friends looked for it and i had three loads delivered to the hospital for me. It was wonderful. On one of the bottles I noticed a competition to invent a new flavour of club source. Even though I was really really ill, I decided that I would invent one or two and get them posted off.
These are the new flavours that I came up with:
Gushing Grapefruit
Grapefruit, Blood Oranges and Mango
Passion Crush
Passion fruit, peaches and pinepple
Pearfection
Pears, Apples and a touch of lime
Looking back at how sick I was, I can't believe that I was doing this sort of thing. I suppose I had a lot of time on my hands. I sent these ideas off to the people at CLUB but I didn't hear anything back nor did I ever see any of these flavours on the shop shelves.
I wrote these flavours down in a little notebook that I wrote in the whole time I was in hospital. I was looking through it today to find the flavours I created and I found the following random lines which I wrote about fruit:
Great gushing grapefruits, all tangy and tart
Oh how I'd like one as a morning start
Passion fruit and pomegranates
blueberres to make you anything but blue
Outrageous oranges all squirty and sweet
Magnificent mango
Glorious grapefruits all tangy and sharp
succulent strawberries, a rich ripe red
I think you could say I was slightly obsessed! I even used to dream about fruit.
My obsession with fuits and juices continued the entire time I was in the hospital and for many weeks afterwards. I think the body craves what it needs and sometimes what it can't have.
Thnkfully I can have whatever fruits and drinks I like now. But each morning when I pouring myself a glass of juice or biting into an apple, I am very grateful to be able to tolerate them.
B
xx
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
It's not just 'having chemo'!
I know this is the second blog in a row about cancer so I promise my next one will be on something else! LOL!
Everyone knows someone who has been touched by cancer. Everyone knows someone who has had chemo - but there in that short sentence lies so much sanitising - 'having chemo'. It's rarely explained, rarely delved into. Yes we have seen Hollywood actors and actresses bent over toilets vomiting as they play the role of someone with chemo!
But there is so much more to 'having chemo' than hanging your head over the toilet bowl vomiting.
I had two different types of chemo in 2007, three actually:
Type 1 was a doddle, I wasn't sick, didn't lose my hair, was able to eat all the time I was having it.
Type II was bit more challenging. I vomited for a few days, had nausea and discomfort, and I was off my food for about a week. Not too bad on the grand scheme of things, but it was frightening to lose control of my body for a while.
Type III was like someone setting off a nuclear bomb inside me.
It was the worst experience of my life. I received the chemo over two days, in through a line in my chest. Within a couple of hours of the first dose I was vomiting violently. I went on vomiting for four weeks. I did not eat for 4 weeks. I could not swallow water or any liquids for four weeks. This type of chemo is known as high dose chemo and it had to be high dose as it had to kill everything in the bone marrow to allow my own stem cells to re populate the marrow after my system was attacked by multiple myeloma.
But type III chemo did more than just make me vomit and stay off my food:
I had explosive diarrhoea for four weeks
I had a hemorrhage into both my eyes
I had a hemorrhage from my womb which went on for days
I had a nose bleed which went on constantly for almost 3 days
My mouth broke open with sores and peeling skin, my lips cracked, my body was swollen and engorged from all the trauma. My entire digestive tract was in trouble.
I could not speak for a couple of days as I did not have the energy to form the words.
I banned all food programmes and talk of food. All food trays were banned.
I craved drinks, going through so many different types - lilt, 7up, ribena, appeltiser, coke, fanta - but I could not swallow any - I would sip and swirl and spit and this went on for 3 weeks.
The first day allowed some liquid down into my stomach, it came up immediately.
It was the most challenging time of my life.
I had read all the materials but nothing prepares you for these sort of effects.
Nothing controlled the nausea and vomiting. Nothing stopped the diarrhoea. For a time I wore nappies!
I had constant anti-sickness meds being put in through my central line, an anti nausea pump in my hand and my stomach, antibiotics all the time, minerals and nutrients, food, glucose, anti fungal meds were all being pumped into me to treat the side effects and to prevent infection and pneumonia.
Finally a day arrived where I did not vomit, did not bleed and did not have diarrhoea. It was the most amazing feeling in the world.
Eventually after four weeks of intensive treatment I was allowed home - I was four and a half stone lighter, I could barely walk from one room to the next, I could not lift my 2 year old. I was short of breath. I was nervous. I would throw up without any warning - once when I was standing talking to a neighbour out the front I vomited all over the place. I was unable to eat and lived on half a yogurt a day as that was all I could tolerate. After a few days I was able to manage a sip of soup. That was August 2007.
My ability to manufacture saliva had been damaged so it was October 2007 before I could have a biscuit or toast or bread. I lived on a very limited diet. I was emaciated. My bones stuck out and I felt very ugly.
I lost my hair but that was a minor detail in comparison to everything else.
The nurses and doctors were amazing - they were angels. My family support was amazing and I could not have done it without them.
I don't remember being in pain, but at times it was a painful experience
I don't think I suffered, like some people are suffering in this world, but at times it was hard and I thought I could not hang on.
So 'having chemo' is not just a matter of hair loss and a head in the toilet - it is so much more.
I am out the other side and thank God my chemo and stem cell transplant did the trick. I am in remission. My remission won't be permanent and I may have to have another transplant. In a way it will be better next time as I know what I have to face, but in a way it will be worse, because I know what I have to face!
B
xx
Everyone knows someone who has been touched by cancer. Everyone knows someone who has had chemo - but there in that short sentence lies so much sanitising - 'having chemo'. It's rarely explained, rarely delved into. Yes we have seen Hollywood actors and actresses bent over toilets vomiting as they play the role of someone with chemo!
But there is so much more to 'having chemo' than hanging your head over the toilet bowl vomiting.
I had two different types of chemo in 2007, three actually:
- Type 1 - oral chemo in tablet form
- Type II - liquid low dose chemo
- Type II - liquid chemo equivalent to setting off a nuclear bomb inside my body
Type 1 was a doddle, I wasn't sick, didn't lose my hair, was able to eat all the time I was having it.
Type II was bit more challenging. I vomited for a few days, had nausea and discomfort, and I was off my food for about a week. Not too bad on the grand scheme of things, but it was frightening to lose control of my body for a while.
Type III was like someone setting off a nuclear bomb inside me.
It was the worst experience of my life. I received the chemo over two days, in through a line in my chest. Within a couple of hours of the first dose I was vomiting violently. I went on vomiting for four weeks. I did not eat for 4 weeks. I could not swallow water or any liquids for four weeks. This type of chemo is known as high dose chemo and it had to be high dose as it had to kill everything in the bone marrow to allow my own stem cells to re populate the marrow after my system was attacked by multiple myeloma.
But type III chemo did more than just make me vomit and stay off my food:
I had explosive diarrhoea for four weeks
I had a hemorrhage into both my eyes
I had a hemorrhage from my womb which went on for days
I had a nose bleed which went on constantly for almost 3 days
My mouth broke open with sores and peeling skin, my lips cracked, my body was swollen and engorged from all the trauma. My entire digestive tract was in trouble.
I could not speak for a couple of days as I did not have the energy to form the words.
I banned all food programmes and talk of food. All food trays were banned.
I craved drinks, going through so many different types - lilt, 7up, ribena, appeltiser, coke, fanta - but I could not swallow any - I would sip and swirl and spit and this went on for 3 weeks.
The first day allowed some liquid down into my stomach, it came up immediately.
It was the most challenging time of my life.
I had read all the materials but nothing prepares you for these sort of effects.
Nothing controlled the nausea and vomiting. Nothing stopped the diarrhoea. For a time I wore nappies!
I had constant anti-sickness meds being put in through my central line, an anti nausea pump in my hand and my stomach, antibiotics all the time, minerals and nutrients, food, glucose, anti fungal meds were all being pumped into me to treat the side effects and to prevent infection and pneumonia.
Finally a day arrived where I did not vomit, did not bleed and did not have diarrhoea. It was the most amazing feeling in the world.
Eventually after four weeks of intensive treatment I was allowed home - I was four and a half stone lighter, I could barely walk from one room to the next, I could not lift my 2 year old. I was short of breath. I was nervous. I would throw up without any warning - once when I was standing talking to a neighbour out the front I vomited all over the place. I was unable to eat and lived on half a yogurt a day as that was all I could tolerate. After a few days I was able to manage a sip of soup. That was August 2007.
My ability to manufacture saliva had been damaged so it was October 2007 before I could have a biscuit or toast or bread. I lived on a very limited diet. I was emaciated. My bones stuck out and I felt very ugly.
I lost my hair but that was a minor detail in comparison to everything else.
The nurses and doctors were amazing - they were angels. My family support was amazing and I could not have done it without them.
I don't remember being in pain, but at times it was a painful experience
I don't think I suffered, like some people are suffering in this world, but at times it was hard and I thought I could not hang on.
So 'having chemo' is not just a matter of hair loss and a head in the toilet - it is so much more.
I am out the other side and thank God my chemo and stem cell transplant did the trick. I am in remission. My remission won't be permanent and I may have to have another transplant. In a way it will be better next time as I know what I have to face, but in a way it will be worse, because I know what I have to face!
B
xx
Friday, March 18, 2011
A Year to Go
Do you ever wonder what you would do if you were told that you had a year at most to live?
Would you sell up and travel the world, seeing all the sights that are on your to-see list?
Would you curl up in a ball and just let it happen?
Would you find all the people who you have fought with, are still fighting with, have hurt in your life, so as you can apologise to them?
Would you go sky diving, parachuting, hot air ballooning or some other mad activity that you had always been too scared to do?
Would you accept it? Would you deflect it and stay in blissful denial?
About 4 months into a diagnosis of cancer I was in the attic looking for some photos and I found a medical dictionary. I decided to look up my cancer - multiple myeloma - too see what the book would say. I read along, yes yes I know all that - it's a cancer of the plasma cells of the bone marrow.......yes yes I know! Then I read the last line which said: 'People usually survive for 3 to 5 years after diagnosis'. I almost fell through the attic hatch. What? WHat? WHAT?
I could not believe that I was looking at just four and a bit in this world. Why didn't the doctors tell me? I asked them repeatedly about my prognosis. I asked one of them if I was going to die. In my own attic I had the answer waiting for me - I had between 3 to 5 years to live! WTF?
I almost fell through the attic door. Then I sat and just cried. What had I done to deserve this? I started to do the maths about how old my kids would be when I died - Emma would be 14 and Cathal, my little baby would be just 7! I couldn't breathe such was the panic thinking of how little time I had left with them. How would my husband cope with two young kids, how would my family cope and would my young soon forget that I had ever lived.
I decided there and then not to accept those odds. I looked at the publication date of the book and saw it was at least 7 years old. There had been so many advances in cancer treatment since then.
I fought
I am still fighting
I have had a bone marrow translant and gone through hell
I am here
I have met people who have been living with myeloma for 15 and 16 years - I guess they decided not to accept the 3-5 year prognosis either.
I am living with myeloma for 4 years and 4 months now. I intend to break the five year prognosis barrier and push on to be one of those living with this cancer for 10 or 20 years.
Emma is almost 14 and Cathal will be 7 in the Summer. I have no plans to go anywhere anytime soon.
I am fearful for my future at times, but I have hope and sometimes hope is all that we need.
Brenda
18 March 2011
Would you sell up and travel the world, seeing all the sights that are on your to-see list?
Would you curl up in a ball and just let it happen?
Would you find all the people who you have fought with, are still fighting with, have hurt in your life, so as you can apologise to them?
Would you go sky diving, parachuting, hot air ballooning or some other mad activity that you had always been too scared to do?
Would you accept it? Would you deflect it and stay in blissful denial?
About 4 months into a diagnosis of cancer I was in the attic looking for some photos and I found a medical dictionary. I decided to look up my cancer - multiple myeloma - too see what the book would say. I read along, yes yes I know all that - it's a cancer of the plasma cells of the bone marrow.......yes yes I know! Then I read the last line which said: 'People usually survive for 3 to 5 years after diagnosis'. I almost fell through the attic hatch. What? WHat? WHAT?
I could not believe that I was looking at just four and a bit in this world. Why didn't the doctors tell me? I asked them repeatedly about my prognosis. I asked one of them if I was going to die. In my own attic I had the answer waiting for me - I had between 3 to 5 years to live! WTF?
I almost fell through the attic door. Then I sat and just cried. What had I done to deserve this? I started to do the maths about how old my kids would be when I died - Emma would be 14 and Cathal, my little baby would be just 7! I couldn't breathe such was the panic thinking of how little time I had left with them. How would my husband cope with two young kids, how would my family cope and would my young soon forget that I had ever lived.
I decided there and then not to accept those odds. I looked at the publication date of the book and saw it was at least 7 years old. There had been so many advances in cancer treatment since then.
I fought
I am still fighting
I have had a bone marrow translant and gone through hell
I am here
I have met people who have been living with myeloma for 15 and 16 years - I guess they decided not to accept the 3-5 year prognosis either.
I am living with myeloma for 4 years and 4 months now. I intend to break the five year prognosis barrier and push on to be one of those living with this cancer for 10 or 20 years.
Emma is almost 14 and Cathal will be 7 in the Summer. I have no plans to go anywhere anytime soon.
I am fearful for my future at times, but I have hope and sometimes hope is all that we need.
Brenda
18 March 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Friends on Facebook?
I reckon there are several different types of ‘friends’ that people have on Facebook.
The first type are those that you have never met, will never meet, have nothing in common with, have never spoken to, will never speak to, have no work connection with – these are the ‘friends’ that you agree to be friends with because maybe you want people to see that you have loads of friends. These are the ‘friends’ who make it their daily goal to have as many ‘friends’ as possible. These are non friends!
The next group of friends are those that maybe you have a loose tenuous connection with through a common interest – maybe it’s politics or the x factor, maybe it’s the Apprentice or something else like that. These ‘friends’ are people who have posted comments on a page that you LIKE and you have responded and then somehow you have ended up as ‘friends’. These are another group of ‘non friends’.
Next up we have the ‘friends’ that you know through work or clubs and societies that you may be involved with. It is likely that out of this category you may have one or two actual real friends that translate into real life. The rest I am afraid are ‘non friends’.
The school ‘friends’ who have re-connected with you through Facebook are the next group. Some of these people you would sooner not have re-connected with but you felt unable to ignore the friend request in case you upset them and you might run in to them in the next few years at a school reunion. Again, out of this group maybe there are one or two people that you actually chat with, that you actually genuinely liked at school and that you are happy to re-connect with. The rest are ‘non friends’.
Then we have family members. I am lucky enough to have a good few of my family members on Facebook and it makes for much cheaper connections with my sister in the UK and with cousins in America. These are genuine friends and they are the ones who will comment on what you do and how you are and will genuinely know what you are talking about. However, even in this group of ‘friends’ there are some who you really have no interest in – maybe you have minimised them so you don’t see their endless updates and nonsense posts, but you don’t want to disconnect with them in case it causes problems in the wider family circle. More non friends I am afraid.
Finally, you have your actual friends and if we are honest, for most people this group will amount to no more than maybe ten or twenty people – that may even be overly generous. These are the people who text you, call you, connect with you, send you a real birthday card without having needed to be reminded by Facebook. You meet up with them regularly and they know you inside out. These people are your FRIENDS.
We read this week about two very different sides of the Facebook ‘friends’ coin – one tragedy where a woman posted an update saying she had overdosed. Not one of her 1,000 plus Facebook ‘friends’ made any effort to help her – so did her friends belong in one of the ‘non –friend’ categories? Clearly hey did or maybe she would still be alive.
On the other side of the Facebook ‘friends’ coin we have a woman who is being helped financially by Facebook ‘friends’ following a cry for help after her husband’s departure left her in financial difficulty.
So next time you feel a twinge of jealousy because someone you know has 2,250 ‘friends’, ask yourself how many of these are real friends and how many belong to the non friends category?
P.S.
I have 152 ‘friends’ on Facebook!
Brenda Drumm
The first type are those that you have never met, will never meet, have nothing in common with, have never spoken to, will never speak to, have no work connection with – these are the ‘friends’ that you agree to be friends with because maybe you want people to see that you have loads of friends. These are the ‘friends’ who make it their daily goal to have as many ‘friends’ as possible. These are non friends!
The next group of friends are those that maybe you have a loose tenuous connection with through a common interest – maybe it’s politics or the x factor, maybe it’s the Apprentice or something else like that. These ‘friends’ are people who have posted comments on a page that you LIKE and you have responded and then somehow you have ended up as ‘friends’. These are another group of ‘non friends’.
Next up we have the ‘friends’ that you know through work or clubs and societies that you may be involved with. It is likely that out of this category you may have one or two actual real friends that translate into real life. The rest I am afraid are ‘non friends’.
The school ‘friends’ who have re-connected with you through Facebook are the next group. Some of these people you would sooner not have re-connected with but you felt unable to ignore the friend request in case you upset them and you might run in to them in the next few years at a school reunion. Again, out of this group maybe there are one or two people that you actually chat with, that you actually genuinely liked at school and that you are happy to re-connect with. The rest are ‘non friends’.
Then we have family members. I am lucky enough to have a good few of my family members on Facebook and it makes for much cheaper connections with my sister in the UK and with cousins in America. These are genuine friends and they are the ones who will comment on what you do and how you are and will genuinely know what you are talking about. However, even in this group of ‘friends’ there are some who you really have no interest in – maybe you have minimised them so you don’t see their endless updates and nonsense posts, but you don’t want to disconnect with them in case it causes problems in the wider family circle. More non friends I am afraid.
Finally, you have your actual friends and if we are honest, for most people this group will amount to no more than maybe ten or twenty people – that may even be overly generous. These are the people who text you, call you, connect with you, send you a real birthday card without having needed to be reminded by Facebook. You meet up with them regularly and they know you inside out. These people are your FRIENDS.
We read this week about two very different sides of the Facebook ‘friends’ coin – one tragedy where a woman posted an update saying she had overdosed. Not one of her 1,000 plus Facebook ‘friends’ made any effort to help her – so did her friends belong in one of the ‘non –friend’ categories? Clearly hey did or maybe she would still be alive.
On the other side of the Facebook ‘friends’ coin we have a woman who is being helped financially by Facebook ‘friends’ following a cry for help after her husband’s departure left her in financial difficulty.
So next time you feel a twinge of jealousy because someone you know has 2,250 ‘friends’, ask yourself how many of these are real friends and how many belong to the non friends category?
P.S.
I have 152 ‘friends’ on Facebook!
Brenda Drumm
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Cackelkine by Emma (age 13)
Guest post by my daughter:
CACKLEKINE by Emma Tobin
Age 13
I sat down on a cracked dusty pew in the abandoned Church in Edenville and bent over to examine my shoes while fighting back tears. I watched with fascination as they dripped one by one onto the floor forming a small puddle. My headache drummed a heavy beat into my skull, duh – dum, duh – dum.
The sound of a giggle shattered the silence around me. It began low, just a chuckle, but quickly escalated into a hysterical cackling that bored into every crevice of my brain. I stood up slowly, backed down the aisle and scanned the rows of empty pews. The laugh stopped as I desperately searched the mouldy interior of the Church for the source.
“Sweet, oh sweet human blood”, a voice too close to my ear for comfort said lustfully.
“Who are you? My voice sounded strange to me, too low and faint.
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt a bit” the voice said.
I spun around and stared into the cold, clear, blue eyes of a hideous ……..thing, crouched cat-like on a nearby pew. It was wearing a straightjacket, battered prison combat pants and sandals. Its jagged, yellow teeth gleamed in the sunlight that streamed through the stained-glasswindow, and blood dribbled from its chin.
“They thought they could keep me locked up”, it mumbled as it approached me. I stood there, just watching, not running like I should have. Its wicked eyes seemed to stare right into my soul. I tried to scream, but I could only manage a squeak as I crumpled onto the cold ground, sapped of all energy.
“They put me in this”, it squirmed in the straight- jacket, “but they underestimated my feet”. It showed me a sandaled foot, with long sharp toe nails that looked like blades.
Then it said, “Now I will feed on the bones, flesh and blood of a human”. A strange calm had descended around me and I watched with resignation as it lifted up my pale arm and bit into it. I screamed so loudly it flinched. I squirmed and lashed out at the elongated mass of shadows that my world had become. The only thing I saw clearly was the drips of blood that were escaping from its mouth as it sucked my blood.
Suddenly it jumped up and staggered away from me. My world came back into painful focus.
“You, you, you”…..it said over and over as it staggered to the door. It made it half way down the aisle before it collapsed. It shook, convulsions wrecked its body. Then it exploded and blood splashed the stained glass windows as bits of it fell around me like warm, sticky, confetti!
Next thing I was aware of was footsteps coming towards me. My vision was blurred but I could just make out four figures dressed in crimson garments walking in tight formation up the aisle.
As I watched, one broke off and ran towards me and I shied away when I saw the glint of the blade that he………no she, carried.
“Rayne, I think I will need your help with this one”, she shouted back to the group.
My vision finally cleared and I saw a boy break away and walk towards me. “Who are you?”, I asked, feeling dizzy as I spoke. He ignored me and reached out for my arm. I slapped his hands away, hissing angrily in a way I never realised I could. “Ssssh”, he said.
He knelt down and reached out to touch my arm. I looked up at him, transfixed by his eyes which were every colour of the rainbow. I felt myself going limp as his cold fingers probed my wound. “Lorenzo bit deep”, he said.
“Don’t dawdle, just get the poison out, preferably before the human dies”, a new voice says. I felt a stab of indignation - who was he to call me human, he was too, wasn’t he?
“I need to know the extent of her wounds before I heal them”, Rayne hissed. “ Why don’t you two go clean Lorenzo off the walls or something and leave this to me”
Rayne suddenly raised his hand and hissed – “I hear human police”.
“Great”, the wall cleaner said happily, “let’s leave her for them!”
“What?”, Rayne exclaimed angrily, “ Have you seen her cuts - they have Leecher poison in them. She is going blue”.
A pair of ice-cold hands lifted me from my pool of blood. I cried out in pain and a voice cooed in my ear – “It’s okay”. I felt myself losing consciousness. Who are these people, I wondered numbly. Who………..
It took a huge effort for me to open my eyes. Rayne was unwrapping a blood-stained bandage from my arm, which was a light shade of blue. Seeing my eyes open, he smiled tentatively at me. “I fixed you up, but your arm will be blue for a while”, he said as he finished dressing my wound.
“Where am I”, I asked.
“Cleo will explain everything - she is waiting for you at the fire, Rayne said. I noticed how cute he was.
Rayne lifted me and as he did, I looked up to the sun as it filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead.
Rayne set me down gently at a crackling fire and sat down at the opposite side of the fire.
A girl of about 16, was sitting at the fire. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes and she smiled at me when I looked at her. I guessed she must be Cleo.
Cleo turned to me: “I am sure you have a lot of questions”, she said.
I blurted my questions in quick succession:
“Where am I?
“What was that thing?
“Why did it explode?
“Who are you people?”
She didn’t flinch as she replied:
“We are in a forest just North of Edenville
“That THING was a Leecher.”
“Like a vampire”, I asked.
“No, a Leecher is mortal like us but it feeds on human flesh, blood and sometimes souls.”
“Souls!”, I exclaimed, “then how come I am not an empty shell. Did it not get my soul?”
“No, but it did get a good deal of your blood which is why you feel so weak”, she said.
She paused and locked eyes with Rayne, who shook his head. I wondered what was going on. That glance between them must have meant something.
Cleo spoke again. “As to who we are we are known as the 22nd Cell of the Metro Police. We have powers which have been handed down since the beginning of time”, she boasted.
“Oh, that’s er ….. nice”, I stammered.
Cleo gave me a withering look and said “and you Sasha Hope, are one of us”.
As she spoke a blinding light shone out from her eyes and two beams struck me, one on my forehead and one to my heart. I screamed in shock and pain and tried to roll out of the way but a strange sensation pulsed through my body, a feeling of immense power.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”, I yelled!, “AND WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?
“You are a pure blood” Cleo said, “and that is why the Leecher exploded. They can’t withstand blood so powerful. You are bound to the Metro Police. You are one of us!”
I shocked her I think when I smiled and said: “When do I start?”
THE END
CACKLEKINE by Emma Tobin
Age 13
I
I sat down on a cracked dusty pew in the abandoned Church in Edenville and bent over to examine my shoes while fighting back tears. I watched with fascination as they dripped one by one onto the floor forming a small puddle. My headache drummed a heavy beat into my skull, duh – dum, duh – dum.
The sound of a giggle shattered the silence around me. It began low, just a chuckle, but quickly escalated into a hysterical cackling that bored into every crevice of my brain. I stood up slowly, backed down the aisle and scanned the rows of empty pews. The laugh stopped as I desperately searched the mouldy interior of the Church for the source.
“Sweet, oh sweet human blood”, a voice too close to my ear for comfort said lustfully.
“Who are you? My voice sounded strange to me, too low and faint.
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt a bit” the voice said.
I spun around and stared into the cold, clear, blue eyes of a hideous ……..thing, crouched cat-like on a nearby pew. It was wearing a straightjacket, battered prison combat pants and sandals. Its jagged, yellow teeth gleamed in the sunlight that streamed through the stained-glasswindow, and blood dribbled from its chin.
“They thought they could keep me locked up”, it mumbled as it approached me. I stood there, just watching, not running like I should have. Its wicked eyes seemed to stare right into my soul. I tried to scream, but I could only manage a squeak as I crumpled onto the cold ground, sapped of all energy.
“They put me in this”, it squirmed in the straight- jacket, “but they underestimated my feet”. It showed me a sandaled foot, with long sharp toe nails that looked like blades.
Then it said, “Now I will feed on the bones, flesh and blood of a human”. A strange calm had descended around me and I watched with resignation as it lifted up my pale arm and bit into it. I screamed so loudly it flinched. I squirmed and lashed out at the elongated mass of shadows that my world had become. The only thing I saw clearly was the drips of blood that were escaping from its mouth as it sucked my blood.
Suddenly it jumped up and staggered away from me. My world came back into painful focus.
“You, you, you”…..it said over and over as it staggered to the door. It made it half way down the aisle before it collapsed. It shook, convulsions wrecked its body. Then it exploded and blood splashed the stained glass windows as bits of it fell around me like warm, sticky, confetti!
II
Next thing I was aware of was footsteps coming towards me. My vision was blurred but I could just make out four figures dressed in crimson garments walking in tight formation up the aisle.
As I watched, one broke off and ran towards me and I shied away when I saw the glint of the blade that he………no she, carried.
“Rayne, I think I will need your help with this one”, she shouted back to the group.
My vision finally cleared and I saw a boy break away and walk towards me. “Who are you?”, I asked, feeling dizzy as I spoke. He ignored me and reached out for my arm. I slapped his hands away, hissing angrily in a way I never realised I could. “Ssssh”, he said.
He knelt down and reached out to touch my arm. I looked up at him, transfixed by his eyes which were every colour of the rainbow. I felt myself going limp as his cold fingers probed my wound. “Lorenzo bit deep”, he said.
“Don’t dawdle, just get the poison out, preferably before the human dies”, a new voice says. I felt a stab of indignation - who was he to call me human, he was too, wasn’t he?
“I need to know the extent of her wounds before I heal them”, Rayne hissed. “ Why don’t you two go clean Lorenzo off the walls or something and leave this to me”
Rayne suddenly raised his hand and hissed – “I hear human police”.
“Great”, the wall cleaner said happily, “let’s leave her for them!”
“What?”, Rayne exclaimed angrily, “ Have you seen her cuts - they have Leecher poison in them. She is going blue”.
A pair of ice-cold hands lifted me from my pool of blood. I cried out in pain and a voice cooed in my ear – “It’s okay”. I felt myself losing consciousness. Who are these people, I wondered numbly. Who………..
III
It took a huge effort for me to open my eyes. Rayne was unwrapping a blood-stained bandage from my arm, which was a light shade of blue. Seeing my eyes open, he smiled tentatively at me. “I fixed you up, but your arm will be blue for a while”, he said as he finished dressing my wound.
“Where am I”, I asked.
“Cleo will explain everything - she is waiting for you at the fire, Rayne said. I noticed how cute he was.
Rayne lifted me and as he did, I looked up to the sun as it filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead.
Rayne set me down gently at a crackling fire and sat down at the opposite side of the fire.
A girl of about 16, was sitting at the fire. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes and she smiled at me when I looked at her. I guessed she must be Cleo.
Cleo turned to me: “I am sure you have a lot of questions”, she said.
I blurted my questions in quick succession:
“Where am I?
“What was that thing?
“Why did it explode?
“Who are you people?”
She didn’t flinch as she replied:
“We are in a forest just North of Edenville
“That THING was a Leecher.”
“Like a vampire”, I asked.
“No, a Leecher is mortal like us but it feeds on human flesh, blood and sometimes souls.”
“Souls!”, I exclaimed, “then how come I am not an empty shell. Did it not get my soul?”
“No, but it did get a good deal of your blood which is why you feel so weak”, she said.
She paused and locked eyes with Rayne, who shook his head. I wondered what was going on. That glance between them must have meant something.
Cleo spoke again. “As to who we are we are known as the 22nd Cell of the Metro Police. We have powers which have been handed down since the beginning of time”, she boasted.
“Oh, that’s er ….. nice”, I stammered.
Cleo gave me a withering look and said “and you Sasha Hope, are one of us”.
As she spoke a blinding light shone out from her eyes and two beams struck me, one on my forehead and one to my heart. I screamed in shock and pain and tried to roll out of the way but a strange sensation pulsed through my body, a feeling of immense power.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”, I yelled!, “AND WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?
“You are a pure blood” Cleo said, “and that is why the Leecher exploded. They can’t withstand blood so powerful. You are bound to the Metro Police. You are one of us!”
I shocked her I think when I smiled and said: “When do I start?”
THE END
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Sick Stuff Folder
I found it just now when I was tidying up in the spare bedroom – a brown manila folder with the inscription ‘Brenda illness 2007 – miscellaneous’. I really had no idea what was in it as I thought I had all of my ‘sick stuff’ filed away in one of the drawers of my bureau.
The fact that the folder says miscellaneous must mean that it is bits and pieces of 'sickstuff' that I never got around to filing away.
Going through the folder there are several prints of emails which were exchanged between myself and some of the girls in work. One of them is dated 11 April 2007 and it was sent from me to Noreen. It reads:
‘I am nervous about the transplant, even scared. At the moment I suppose I can take refuge in the fact that the transplant is ahead of me. There’s a certain sense of security in that. I’m not frightened about the actual process, I guess it’s what will come after. There are worries and concerns – being away from the kids for three weeks is one. The major concern I have is ‘will the transplant work?’
'But as these cocerns and fears float around in my head, my philosophy kicks in – be positive and take it a day at a time. That is all I can do.
'I hope you had a good Easter. There were and still are so many eggs in our house that I don’t know if we will get through them in time for next Easter.
'It’s late so I will sign off……’
There are several other emails between us – catching up and filling each other in on what was happening. Work was in freeze frame for me at that stage and I honestly never knew if I would be able to go back.
As I flick on through the folder I find a hand written list of all the medications I was on – this was a list I brought everywhere with me in the early days after my diagnosis as I very quickly got used to rhyming off the names of the drugs and the doses to whichever nurse or doctor asked me:
• Nuseal 75mg per day (aspirin)
• Valtrex 500mg per day (keep away viral infections like shingles)
• Diflucan 30mg per day (keep away fungal infections)
• Zoton 30mg per day (for my stomach)
• Alfacalcidol 0.25mg per day (for calcium)
• Zylorix 100mg per day (can't remember!)
• Calcichew D3 Forte per day (for calcium)
• Thalidomide 300mg (6 tablets) per day (this was the main drug used to fight the myeloma)
• Septrin (2 per day every Monday and Tuesday) (an antibiotic)
• Pamidronate 30mg intravenously (bone strengthener)
• Vitamin B12 injection every month (for anaemia)
• Dexamethasone (steroids = massive amounts 4 days a month) (worked in combination with thalidomide)
Aranesp was another injection - I had to give myself two of these every Wednesday. Straight into the tummy. I was black and blue.
Finding this list brings back memories of so many many tablets of so many different colours which I used to line up each day. I had two plastic cups – one for the morning dose and one for the night time dose. Thalidomide had to be taken last thing at night as it made me very sleepy. The steroids sent me a little crazy and a little bit weepy once a month.
Thankfully I do not take any more tablets – I am off everything which is amazing really.
Flicking on I see the letter from St James’s Hospital in Dublin which was dated 5 June 2007.
"Dear Brenda,
A note to give you the dates for your admission and transplant. We hope to procveed with stem cell reinfusion on the 9/7/2007. Therefore your chemotheraphy will need to be administered in Tallaght on the 5th and 6th July. You will be transferred to St James’s Hospital on the 9th as a day patient for reinfusion of your cells. ...."
I remember opening that letter and it was the best and the worst news in the world for me to receive. I finally had the date that my transplant would take place on – 9 July 2007, but I also knew that the 5 and 6 July were the dates assigned for me to have the high dose chemo. That chemo would challenge me almost to my limits. I sat down on the kitchen floor in shock and excitement and dread and numbness.
There are a lot of photocopies of medical sick certs and weekly disability benefit forms - even when I was ill I kept my filing system up to scratch!
I keep looking through the folder and I find a letter dated 30/5/2007
"To Whom it may Concern: Brenda Drumm is currently receiving chemotheraphy here and requires a wig. "
That was the letter officially telling the wig people that I would be in need of their services.
Further on in the folder there's a handwriteen foolscap page on which is written:
‘Difficult days come unexpectefly like a flood. You cannot plan for them, neither can you prepare for them.
Every morning you have an option – you can choose to be discouraged or choose to hope. ‘
These may be the words of Pope benedict for the World Day of the Sick – I must have read them somewhere and they spoke to me at that particular time.
Then in the middle of the folder a little drawing catches my eye. It’s a picture of Bob the Builder which has been traced and it has been coloured in by my son Cathal who would have been two at the time I was sick. It says "To Mammy, from Cathal" and I assume this was written for him by his big sister Emma who was 9 at the time.
As I move on through the folder I am suddenly faced with a picture of myself – printed out in colour on an A4 page. I am bald, bloated, ugly. My eyes are raw red and swollen, bloody and bruised. My nose is caked with dried blood. I look like a man – the Michelin man. That picture was taken on 18 July 2007 in the middle of the worst part of the transplant process – I had been in hospital for just under two weeks at that stage and I was in a very bad way. Seeing that face looking up at me shocks me.
I think it may be out of place (so much for my filing) but there is an article in the folder on road safety. I have no idea what it is doing there – maybe I clipped it from a paper.
I find a 12 page letter written by hand to a friend of mine in London who has just caught up with me after about 5 years. I was trying to fill her in on five years of my life and it took me twelve pages to do that. I had the time to write twelve pages because I was off work.
The last page in the folder is a letter from my consultant in Tallaght Hospital dated 10 December 2007 which read:
‘I am writing this letter on the request of Brenda to confirm that she has finished her treatment. Her disease is under control and she is recovering quickly. I feel that she is ready to return to work. There are no specific limitations but it is reasonable to reflect the level of her energy and to avoid direct contact with people having an acute mainly respiratory infection.’
I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma on 10 January 2007. I had been through massive doses of chemo, had my own stem cells harvested, received a stem cell transplant and spent 10 weeks in total in hospital and then on 10 December 2007 I was being told I could get back to my life - well my work life anyway.
I am glad I came across the folder this evening. I may file all the sickstuff in its proper place and then again I may just leave it as it is – like a snapshot of a year in which I came very close to being just a set of memories on pieces of paper.
Brenda
xxxxxx
The fact that the folder says miscellaneous must mean that it is bits and pieces of 'sickstuff' that I never got around to filing away.
Going through the folder there are several prints of emails which were exchanged between myself and some of the girls in work. One of them is dated 11 April 2007 and it was sent from me to Noreen. It reads:
‘I am nervous about the transplant, even scared. At the moment I suppose I can take refuge in the fact that the transplant is ahead of me. There’s a certain sense of security in that. I’m not frightened about the actual process, I guess it’s what will come after. There are worries and concerns – being away from the kids for three weeks is one. The major concern I have is ‘will the transplant work?’
'But as these cocerns and fears float around in my head, my philosophy kicks in – be positive and take it a day at a time. That is all I can do.
'I hope you had a good Easter. There were and still are so many eggs in our house that I don’t know if we will get through them in time for next Easter.
'It’s late so I will sign off……’
There are several other emails between us – catching up and filling each other in on what was happening. Work was in freeze frame for me at that stage and I honestly never knew if I would be able to go back.
As I flick on through the folder I find a hand written list of all the medications I was on – this was a list I brought everywhere with me in the early days after my diagnosis as I very quickly got used to rhyming off the names of the drugs and the doses to whichever nurse or doctor asked me:
• Nuseal 75mg per day (aspirin)
• Valtrex 500mg per day (keep away viral infections like shingles)
• Diflucan 30mg per day (keep away fungal infections)
• Zoton 30mg per day (for my stomach)
• Alfacalcidol 0.25mg per day (for calcium)
• Zylorix 100mg per day (can't remember!)
• Calcichew D3 Forte per day (for calcium)
• Thalidomide 300mg (6 tablets) per day (this was the main drug used to fight the myeloma)
• Septrin (2 per day every Monday and Tuesday) (an antibiotic)
• Pamidronate 30mg intravenously (bone strengthener)
• Vitamin B12 injection every month (for anaemia)
• Dexamethasone (steroids = massive amounts 4 days a month) (worked in combination with thalidomide)
Aranesp was another injection - I had to give myself two of these every Wednesday. Straight into the tummy. I was black and blue.
Finding this list brings back memories of so many many tablets of so many different colours which I used to line up each day. I had two plastic cups – one for the morning dose and one for the night time dose. Thalidomide had to be taken last thing at night as it made me very sleepy. The steroids sent me a little crazy and a little bit weepy once a month.
Thankfully I do not take any more tablets – I am off everything which is amazing really.
Flicking on I see the letter from St James’s Hospital in Dublin which was dated 5 June 2007.
"Dear Brenda,
A note to give you the dates for your admission and transplant. We hope to procveed with stem cell reinfusion on the 9/7/2007. Therefore your chemotheraphy will need to be administered in Tallaght on the 5th and 6th July. You will be transferred to St James’s Hospital on the 9th as a day patient for reinfusion of your cells. ...."
I remember opening that letter and it was the best and the worst news in the world for me to receive. I finally had the date that my transplant would take place on – 9 July 2007, but I also knew that the 5 and 6 July were the dates assigned for me to have the high dose chemo. That chemo would challenge me almost to my limits. I sat down on the kitchen floor in shock and excitement and dread and numbness.
There are a lot of photocopies of medical sick certs and weekly disability benefit forms - even when I was ill I kept my filing system up to scratch!
I keep looking through the folder and I find a letter dated 30/5/2007
"To Whom it may Concern: Brenda Drumm is currently receiving chemotheraphy here and requires a wig. "
That was the letter officially telling the wig people that I would be in need of their services.
Further on in the folder there's a handwriteen foolscap page on which is written:
‘Difficult days come unexpectefly like a flood. You cannot plan for them, neither can you prepare for them.
Every morning you have an option – you can choose to be discouraged or choose to hope. ‘
These may be the words of Pope benedict for the World Day of the Sick – I must have read them somewhere and they spoke to me at that particular time.
Then in the middle of the folder a little drawing catches my eye. It’s a picture of Bob the Builder which has been traced and it has been coloured in by my son Cathal who would have been two at the time I was sick. It says "To Mammy, from Cathal" and I assume this was written for him by his big sister Emma who was 9 at the time.
As I move on through the folder I am suddenly faced with a picture of myself – printed out in colour on an A4 page. I am bald, bloated, ugly. My eyes are raw red and swollen, bloody and bruised. My nose is caked with dried blood. I look like a man – the Michelin man. That picture was taken on 18 July 2007 in the middle of the worst part of the transplant process – I had been in hospital for just under two weeks at that stage and I was in a very bad way. Seeing that face looking up at me shocks me.
I think it may be out of place (so much for my filing) but there is an article in the folder on road safety. I have no idea what it is doing there – maybe I clipped it from a paper.
I find a 12 page letter written by hand to a friend of mine in London who has just caught up with me after about 5 years. I was trying to fill her in on five years of my life and it took me twelve pages to do that. I had the time to write twelve pages because I was off work.
The last page in the folder is a letter from my consultant in Tallaght Hospital dated 10 December 2007 which read:
‘I am writing this letter on the request of Brenda to confirm that she has finished her treatment. Her disease is under control and she is recovering quickly. I feel that she is ready to return to work. There are no specific limitations but it is reasonable to reflect the level of her energy and to avoid direct contact with people having an acute mainly respiratory infection.’
I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma on 10 January 2007. I had been through massive doses of chemo, had my own stem cells harvested, received a stem cell transplant and spent 10 weeks in total in hospital and then on 10 December 2007 I was being told I could get back to my life - well my work life anyway.
I am glad I came across the folder this evening. I may file all the sickstuff in its proper place and then again I may just leave it as it is – like a snapshot of a year in which I came very close to being just a set of memories on pieces of paper.
Brenda
xxxxxx
Friday, October 29, 2010
A Weighty Issue
For a lot of my adult life I have worried about weight and I have been every size from a 12 to a 14 to a 16 to a 20. For my wedding I was a svelte size 12 and on both my pregnancies I was all bump with a little bit of extra padding just to balance things front to back.
In recent years I have always been a size 16-18. People are surprised when I tell them that because I am tall and I can get away with it just a little bit more.
It was a nice surprise for me then in December 2006 to be suddenly told by a lot of people that I had lost weight. In the early part of 2006 I was a size 18 -20 dress and jacket. My father in law Eamon had the strongest reaction when he saw me for the first time in a few months. He and my Mum in law had come for the weekend for some shopping. When i got home from work and went into the sitting room to say hello he was visibly taken aback and commented on all the weight I had lost. I was still in size 16-18 so I didn't really think there was much of a difference.
No woman I know has ever complained when she lost a few pounds! Then to have someone notice it - well for a lot of women there's nothing nicer to hear from someone that the words - HAVE YOU LOST WEIGHT?
The reason for the wight loss became clear on 10 January 2007 when I was diagnosed with a cancer of the bone marrow called multiple myeloma. I was not expecting that to be the cause of the weight loss - I was 38 and otherwise very healthy.
From January to August 2007 my weight was constantly monitored. I attended the hospital every two weeks and every pound that I lost was monitored. I started new drugs including steroids and I put on weight - I had a moon face and went back up a size or two.
Then in May 2007 I had my first dose of chemo and I lost weight after receiving it as I was off my food for over a week and puking a bit.
In July 2007 I had high dose chemo and a stem cell transplant and I was so sick after the chemo that I could not eat for 4 weeks. even when I did start eating I lived on a yogurt a day, graduating afterwards to a cup a soup.
While I was in hospital for the transplant for the month of July I was so bloated that I did not notice how much weight I had lost. I was not very mobile and I had no interest in looking in the mirror as I was so sick. I was so ill some days that I can't remember large chunks of time.
I was discharged from hospital in early August and it was a few days before I realised that NONE of my clothes would fit me. I had lost weight but I had no idea that none of my clothes would fit!!!!!!
I was still quite weak and sickly but we decided to get out of the house and to take a trip over to Kildare Village, the outlet.
My husband said I should treat myself to some Levis. Levis - sure you have to really skinny to look good in those and I would always avoid the shop like the plague as they have American sizes and I never knew what size and they all looked really small.
I went into the Levis shop and looked through some of the jeans. I picked up a couple of pairs and took them into the changing room and they were huge. The assistant came in and she said: What size are you? I said I was a 16 or a 14 and she said: Eh I don't think so. She left and I thought - what a cheeky cow! How dare she say I am fatter than that.
She came back minutes later with a size 14 and I tried that on -way too big.
She came back then with a size 12 and I tried them on - way too big.
I smiled as I realised she could see my new size, long before I could!!!! I apologised to her in my head!
She came back in with a size 10 and I tried those on and they were too big also!
She shook her head and I said that it might be the styles.
I looked at the pair of jeans which was on the mannequin and I asked her about the style. She said that was the only pair she had left. She went over to the mannequin and took the jeans off it and handed them to me. I shrugged thinking there was no hope that a pair of jeans from a mannequin would fit me. I tried them on and they were perfect.
I was in shock as I realised I had gone from a size 18-20 to a size 8!!!!!!!!
I took the jeans off and held the little waist of them in my hands. I was a stick insect.
I did a twirl in front of the changing room mirror and I could see ribs sticking out where they had not stuck out before. I went in for a close up on my face and my bones were sticking out there too. I was gaunt, sickly and stick thin. I felt horrible.
All my adult life I had wanted to be thin - but not like this and not because of sickness!!!!!
I bought the jeans and I wore them and looked good in them but I missed my curves and my womanly shape.
The new diet which was imposed on me soon saw the return of a curvier and healthier me. I am not too skinny and I am not a size 18 anymore - I think I am just right.
I still have those jeans. I take them out every so often to look at them. They are also a reminder to me of how sick I was. They are a reminder to me that being stick thin is not all its cracked up to me and besides in 2010 having curves is the new black so I am well and truly in fashion.
In recent years I have always been a size 16-18. People are surprised when I tell them that because I am tall and I can get away with it just a little bit more.
It was a nice surprise for me then in December 2006 to be suddenly told by a lot of people that I had lost weight. In the early part of 2006 I was a size 18 -20 dress and jacket. My father in law Eamon had the strongest reaction when he saw me for the first time in a few months. He and my Mum in law had come for the weekend for some shopping. When i got home from work and went into the sitting room to say hello he was visibly taken aback and commented on all the weight I had lost. I was still in size 16-18 so I didn't really think there was much of a difference.
No woman I know has ever complained when she lost a few pounds! Then to have someone notice it - well for a lot of women there's nothing nicer to hear from someone that the words - HAVE YOU LOST WEIGHT?
The reason for the wight loss became clear on 10 January 2007 when I was diagnosed with a cancer of the bone marrow called multiple myeloma. I was not expecting that to be the cause of the weight loss - I was 38 and otherwise very healthy.
From January to August 2007 my weight was constantly monitored. I attended the hospital every two weeks and every pound that I lost was monitored. I started new drugs including steroids and I put on weight - I had a moon face and went back up a size or two.
Then in May 2007 I had my first dose of chemo and I lost weight after receiving it as I was off my food for over a week and puking a bit.
In July 2007 I had high dose chemo and a stem cell transplant and I was so sick after the chemo that I could not eat for 4 weeks. even when I did start eating I lived on a yogurt a day, graduating afterwards to a cup a soup.
While I was in hospital for the transplant for the month of July I was so bloated that I did not notice how much weight I had lost. I was not very mobile and I had no interest in looking in the mirror as I was so sick. I was so ill some days that I can't remember large chunks of time.
I was discharged from hospital in early August and it was a few days before I realised that NONE of my clothes would fit me. I had lost weight but I had no idea that none of my clothes would fit!!!!!!
I was still quite weak and sickly but we decided to get out of the house and to take a trip over to Kildare Village, the outlet.
My husband said I should treat myself to some Levis. Levis - sure you have to really skinny to look good in those and I would always avoid the shop like the plague as they have American sizes and I never knew what size and they all looked really small.
I went into the Levis shop and looked through some of the jeans. I picked up a couple of pairs and took them into the changing room and they were huge. The assistant came in and she said: What size are you? I said I was a 16 or a 14 and she said: Eh I don't think so. She left and I thought - what a cheeky cow! How dare she say I am fatter than that.
She came back minutes later with a size 14 and I tried that on -way too big.
She came back then with a size 12 and I tried them on - way too big.
I smiled as I realised she could see my new size, long before I could!!!! I apologised to her in my head!
She came back in with a size 10 and I tried those on and they were too big also!
She shook her head and I said that it might be the styles.
I looked at the pair of jeans which was on the mannequin and I asked her about the style. She said that was the only pair she had left. She went over to the mannequin and took the jeans off it and handed them to me. I shrugged thinking there was no hope that a pair of jeans from a mannequin would fit me. I tried them on and they were perfect.
I was in shock as I realised I had gone from a size 18-20 to a size 8!!!!!!!!
I took the jeans off and held the little waist of them in my hands. I was a stick insect.
I did a twirl in front of the changing room mirror and I could see ribs sticking out where they had not stuck out before. I went in for a close up on my face and my bones were sticking out there too. I was gaunt, sickly and stick thin. I felt horrible.
All my adult life I had wanted to be thin - but not like this and not because of sickness!!!!!
I bought the jeans and I wore them and looked good in them but I missed my curves and my womanly shape.
The new diet which was imposed on me soon saw the return of a curvier and healthier me. I am not too skinny and I am not a size 18 anymore - I think I am just right.
I still have those jeans. I take them out every so often to look at them. They are also a reminder to me of how sick I was. They are a reminder to me that being stick thin is not all its cracked up to me and besides in 2010 having curves is the new black so I am well and truly in fashion.
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