Don't defer diagnosis

Have you put off going to the doctor because you are worried about the diagnosis or think you shouldn't bother others?   I have.  Have you ever said any of the following? I'd be surprised if you haven't:

"I'll leave it for now", "I'm sure it'll get better in time", "I'll get round to eventually", "yeah, but I have to... first". 

Here's a quick list I'd like you to read and consider carefully. Put aside your 'yeah but...' and put yourself first. 

1.    You are not 'wasting' the doctor's time with a symptom. However minor it might seem, if it is a marker for disease (eg blood in your urine or faeces, unusual persistent pain or anything else which you know is just not right for you), then tell your doctor and get an appointment. Insist if you have to.

2.    Attend all your scans and tests, no matter how uncomfortable or unpleasant. A scan or smear etc can detect something that you can't see or feel. You are not wasting time by attending these appointments, in fact you could be saving more than just time.

3.    Get on with it. It's very simple - the earlier something is diagnosed and can be treated, the more chance you have of living a longer, healthier life. And remember, early diagnosis may also mean you can sigh with relief that whatever has been bugging you is, in fact, something easily treatable.

4.    Have a regular 'feel'. A small lump could be something as simple as a cyst, and if it's anything else, the sooner it is attended to, the better.  You know which bits of you to check, I'm just reminding you to do it regularly.

5.    Getting a diagnosis can be scary, but it's also vitally important as early diagnosis has such an impact on the outcomes. 

6.    The shock of diagnosis (for you or a family member) can be huge. This is perhaps the hardest to get your head around, but is very important: take control - work with your clinicians, friends and family, with support groups and charities. Diagnosis is often a 'first step' in your journey, and everyone takes a different path. Your preferences and wishes should be listened to by all involved in your care. 

7.    Treatment can be challenging, but it may mean the difference between all your friends and family being there for your next birthday, or for your funeral. Treatments for different conditions are highly personalised these days so someone else's experience may not be a good compass for your journey. 

8.    It's OK to ask stupid questions. And it's OK to ask them more than once.

9.    You are not alone. You never know who else may understand what you are going through -  share (in the right way, with the right people, in a way that suits you). You will be amazed who comes out to support you.

I was prompted to write today not only because of my own experience, but because I read about a family who has had their child diagnosed with a life limiting condition. The diagnosis (which they did not delay) has shattered the family and they were frozen with fear. Nobody wants a diagnosis that casts such a shadow over their lives, it's out of human control, it's almost mind-bendingly difficult to assimilate. But others stepped in to seek help. In reaching out, their journey is no longer quite so desolate - there will now be someone there with them, with a lamp to help light the difficult path ahead.   

Useful links

• How do I check for cancer?

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Photo courtesy of https://greatpeopleinside.com/dealing-with-procrastination/ 

Author's note: after my first draft of this post, I went through and took out all the 'don't' statements. It's too easy to list what not to do - I hope turning it into what we 'can' do reads better.

Goosemilk and goatfeathers

 “Hail!” The King looked bored by the formal salutation the slave yelled loudly, as if to give it more gravitas than his voice could naturally command.  But said in that ridiculous Southern accent, the King couldn’t help but smirk behind his hand.

“What news from the valleys, slave?” He knew full well the man’s name was Garrad, but it was part of his policy of remaining aloof to know the names of, but not to acknowledge, the more strategically useful of his inferiors.

“Oh mighty King, ruler of the four lands, giver of hope and...” the King peered at Garrad and leaned forward in his throne rather menacingly.

“Just tell me the news, slave.”

Verging on panic, Garrad cleared his throat and stood up as straight as he could.  His beautiful bronze skin shone like a tiger’s pelt in the streaks of sun that dived through the long gaps in the stone that served for windows. 

“There is trouble in the South, oh great one.”  A harrumph from the King prompted Garrad to continue rapidly.

“There has been a plague of dust that has coated the corn, and the crops wither.”  The King’s brows furrowed, his pale cheeks beginning to redden with anger.

“Oh my King, we have done all we can, we have prayed to you for rain to wash away the dust, but in the South we... we did not expect the ...” the King shifted in his seat and leaned even further forward. Seated a meter above Garrad on his high throne, the effect was mortifying.  Garrad stuttered

“we, we, we don’t know why but the rain won’t come. And, and and..” the King’s patience was growing thin and Garrad feared that it may be the messenger who was blamed for the message.  His brief, uneventful life seemed to be standing by his side in the form of a miniature of himself, laughing and pointing as if to say ‘and it all comes down to this?!’

Garrad fell to his knees. “We have no taxes to bring you – the crops have failed. Our people are starving.”  The King sat back, his face clearing a little as he entered a realm of slightly more considered thought.  Garrad trembled before him, as he should, his eyes cast to the ground.

“And... my King...” the Royal brows furrowed again, wondering what other disaster this petty excuse for a human being wished to lay upon his beloved King!  “the animals are behaving oddly.”  He said the last almost in a whisper so that the words drifted up like the motes of dust caught in the shafts of sunlight.

There was a deathly quiet.  It must have lasted ten or more seconds – but to Garrad it felt like the time it took for a sword to descend upon his poor neck.  But no physical blow was received.  Just a jolt as the King quietly, and most penetratingly, asked one simple question:

“And what do you mean by that?”

Garrad looked up.  With what he had seen over the last month, and on the week long journey it had taken to reach the King, he realised that there was nothing more he could fear.  He stood, brazenly, and looked the King as close to in the eye as he could whilst looking up at such an angle.

“My King, strange things have happened. First the dust, then the heavy clouds that hang over us but do not rain.  The skies are dark and the air is...” Garrad didn’t quite know how to explain it – his vocabulary was fine when it came to cattle, to crops, to people. But this was something more, he felt, within the realm of the Priests and beyond his understanding let alone his ability to explain.  He did his best.

“The air tastes wrong. The animals are unhappy and they are behaving differently.” The King remained quiet. Garrad was not sure whether this was a good sign or the calm before the storm, but he knew he had to explain why he brought no taxes from the South.  Garrad continued “the animals are also changing.” He paused.  This would take some explaining. He wished now that he had brought more than one of the geese with him to show the King just what he meant, but the animal had died shortly after he left the South and its corpse had spoiled so quickly it was not possible even to eat it!

The King leaned down “What do mean?”  Garrad gulped anxiously, but stood his ground.

“The animals are ... “ (he didn’t know the word ‘metamorphosing’, it would have been helpful if he had) ”... doing weird things.  They are changing shape, and growing feathers and fur and just not behaving normally!  Our village elder was attacked by a chicken that grew fangs” Garrad’s voice faltered as he realised how ridiculous he sounded.

The King sat back. A smile played across his face. Ah... so this was how the South were going to get out of their tithe!  A tall story; did they really think he’d fall for such nonsense?

Garrad continued to ramble, talking of goosemilk and goatfeathers, hens teeth and mares nests. The King made a discreet signal to his guards (who were permanently stationed behind the plinth upon which his majestic throne rested).   

“Take him to the torture chamber.  And when he is suitably reminded of to whom he is speaking and whom he serves, find out what he and his Southern scum have done with our tithe.”

This was duly done, and poor Garrad died far more quickly than his torturers anticipated, giving them angst in anticipation of the King’s anger.

“My King,” the head torturer said. “We have found all we need to know from the slave Garrad.”

“Who?” the King asked nonchalantly, as if it was of no great concern, though in fact he was more than a little worried that the camel trains of grain had not arrived as usual.
“The slave from the Southlands.”  The King raised an acknowledging eyebrow. “We have learned that he has traded with the foreigners from the Great Continent. They have taken your tithe!”

The King frowned (a popular look, for him).  “Does this mean war, then?”  He was not actually asking the torturer, more asking himself rhetorically.  After a few moments consideration, he said

“Go to the Guard. We will venture South and take what is rightfully ours!”  The Head Torturer disappeared quickly, eager to fulfil the King’s wishes and glad that he himself had not been subject to a more thorough inquisition.

The King did not go with the army to the South. But in time he did hear of the clouds that hung over the southern lands, and strange stories of animals - and the people themselves - behaving most unnaturally.  Few of the regiment he sent returned, and those that did brought such stories as to beggar belief.  But he still wanted his corn, for the lords and dukes of his City needed feeding.  Perhaps, he thought, they could drink goosemilk?

(C) Carolyn Tyrrell-Sheppard - originally written in 2016

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Memory triggers

The real Kempton

I took my mother Sally to see 'The Duke' - a film about Kempton Bunton, and the theft of the famous painting of the Duke of Wellington by Goya. It was a lovely film set in the 1960s. It was fun to see the original footage of the 60s, with Jim Broadbent added, and the whole timbre of the film gave you a real sense of the period.

At one point in the film, a reference was made to the Dr No film (which briefly showed the painting, implying maybe Dr No stole it!), and Sean Connery, suave and smooth as ever, gives it more than a passing glance.

Mother and I thoroughly enjoyed the film, and on driving her back home, it had obviously triggered lots of memories. "He took me in his arms and kissed me" - she was referring to Sean Connery who, in his early days, used to regularly drink in a pub in London frequented by actors (including my dad amongst others). "What did dad say when Sean snogged you?" I asked. "Oh, he did it nicely; he kissed all the girls." 

Connery in the 60s

Mother has often said that Sean was a great one for networking and drinking with the 'right people', whilst my dad came home to his wife and (by the mid 60s) his two children. Is that why my dad was less successful than Sean? Well, maybe the looks had something to do with it too. 

The memories continued, and she reminisced that Alec Ross had been dad's best man at their wedding. She went to Alec and Sheila Hancock's wedding on the train, with Sheila's agent, Miriam (and she can't remember the surname). She thinks Anthony was away at rep somewhere, and met him there. 

Years later my dad, Anthony, saw Alex, and he ignored him. It wasn't long after that Alec passed away - too young. Sheila, however, is still going strong today - and I wonder if she remembers Sally?

I must do more to capture Sally's stories, she started her career at Stratford working with Sir John Geilgud and Richard Burton, Vivien Leigh and ... she drops so many famous names that I have to sweep up afterwards! 

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Apologies to the copyright owners of the photographs, I couldn't identify original sources. 

Mentoring

I'm an 'old hand' in the fundraising world, I started in the not for profit sector back in the 90s! I've worked in higher education, conservation, medical research and emergency medicine charities, and all have been unique and invaluable experiences. I've focused on individual giving, but also done major donor fundraising, legacy marketing, trusts and foundation fundraising, and a little bit of community and corporate fundraising. I was writing in the fundraising media about GDPR in 2014 (trying to raise awareness of what was coming), and been a compliance champion both for data protection and gambling regulations (for charities). In other words, I've had a very well-rounded fundraising career to date. 

I don't just do fundraising

I'm not bragging, I'm setting out the scenario for why I have been mentoring other fundraisers for some time. My most recent mentee was in major giving; I was asked if I would support them by their director. I have to say it was a hugely rewarding process because discussing plans, ideas, and results with a different charity (and a different role to my current one) not only helped the mentee but also helped me think more about my own role and charity. The mentee did extremely well and I saw their confidence grow rapidly.  Our mentoring partnership has now finished and they have moved on to another charity. I know the mentee is happy, but not sure about their director - I don't think developing them out of the organisation was the plan.

But that, again, is what I love about the charity sector. We see the benefit in developing individuals who continue to contribute to the sector - who grow, and in turn grow the charities they work for, which - in the end - benefits everyone.

If you are considering mentoring, don't worry about whether you are expert enough - the conversations will soon show you how you can add value. And most of all, mentoring is as rewarding for the mentor as it is for the mentee. 

There are plenty of resources out there advising how to select a mentor, the dos and don'ts of mentoring, and how to record and track progress (eg goal setting, stretch goals, habit forming goals etc). It doesn't have to take a lot of time - an hour a month perhaps.

Please consider mentoring, and not just in your discipline - you will be amazed how you can support others and watch them grow, and enjoy your own development too. If you think you'd like to be a mentor, or have a mentor, then talk to your network, talk to your HR manager, but never be afraid to ask.

Useful links:

• Chartered Institute of Fundraising Mentoring Programme
• Mentorloop software (a good blog on mentoring)
• CIPD mentoring factsheets

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Two farewells and a welcome

My first farewell is to my wonderful son. He has gone to Australia to be a fully fledged citizen. He's got the long floppy blonde hair, he can surf, and everything!  Although I am of course sad that my son won't be just two hours away by car, I am so excited and pleased for him. He is going on the sort of adventure that, if I was just a little bit younger, I'd love to go on myself. He has a lovely partner, an amazing Australian family who have made him one of their own, and a whole exciting future to plan and enjoy. And, of course, we will get to go and visit him. I can't wait to get to Australia again and see more of that amazing country - and of course get to see my son. I may even visit Judy, my 'cousin' - the granddaughter of my father's half-brother who emigrated when he was just 16. 

With Alex leaving for Australia, our final ties to the market town of
Royston have been severed. The little house that I loved renting, and then provided a home for Alex too, has gone back to its owner, and the kind neighbours and friends we made are left behind. But I have so many happy memories - not just of the last few years, but of the many I spent in that town where my children grew up and where I was a PTA committee member (two schools), a member of the local Writers Circle, and generally a happy resident. Royston is special in its own way - it is on the crossroads of two ley lines, the Greenwich Meridian and the two oldest Roman Roads in Britain. There is the unique Royston Cave, lovely Priory Gardens (where  my children learned to cycle) and - once upon a time - there was a swimming pool and cinema. Royston changed, I changed, we all change. Although I also spent some dark time there, the familiarity of the town and the people in it was a comfort then. My memories of Royston will be good.

My final welcome is to my second grandchild, a little girl born in February. There is nothing that marks time passing like children. You can be married for years and nothing seems to change, but have a child and every month milestones are reached, and you notice the weeks, months and years. You have a comparison in your life that is unmatched. My babies are adults, my daughter a parent herself, and I am delighted to welcome this beautiful little girl.

These are hard times. There is a war on which I fear is only the start of bigger, and worse, things. There is more financial pressure on families and the economy than there has been for generations. Covid is still here and very present, and still making people ill and taking lives. I have a limited contract of work and will be job hunting again soon. Nothing stays the same. 

At times like this, when there are so many dark clouds on the horizon, then I look to the good things in my life; I have a job now, I have a wonderful (albeit far flung) family, an amazing wife, I live in a beautiful place and have many good friends. Things may change, things will change. This is life. Treasure it. 

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Tales from a fundraiser

When working for a dementia charity, I oversaw training our agencies, including telephone fundraisers. This was way before the pandemic, and even before GDPR, so we could meet in person and could ‘cold’ call using data that had been sourced with the right permissions. 

Photo from EngageEmployee.com

Before the callers arrived, I plugged in my presentation and set up the room. It was boardroom style. I took every chair in the room and turned it round – so the back of the chair was to the table. The callers came in and all looked confused, should they turn the chair round? Should they sit in it as it was?

 

They milled around for a bit, and I said ‘Good morning. How do you feel?’ And they all replied “Confused” (by the chair positions) and asked me what they should do. ‘Sit down please’. Some sat with the chairs facing outwards, some sat and moved the chairs towards the desk, or towards me. This confusion was exactly what I wanted to achieve. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Now you get just the tiniest insight into how someone with dementia feels every day.’ I then went into my formal training presentation, starting with ‘how many of you know someone or have a family member with dementia?’ – sadly nearly all the hands went up. 

The chair rearrangement was a small ‘trick’, but it prefixed a highly successful calling campaign (one of the callers themselves became a donor). If you can get your fundraisers – whether they are agency or staff – to think from your beneficiaries’ perspective for even a short while, then you stand a much better chance of them being more invested in a positive outcome from their efforts. Which, in the end, is better for everyone - from the recipient of the call to the charity beneficiary. 

Useful links 

• Alzheimer’s Society 
• Alzheimer’s Research UK 
• Dementia UK 
• Telephone Fundraising Code of Practice (current)

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Think before you...

Photo (C) courtesy of MDUK

I listened to a short radio interview today - a young woman with a muscle-wasting condition, talking about the 'microaggressions' she experiences as a person who uses walking aids. It really made me think - how often have you seen someone in a powered chair and thought or said 'Oh, I could do with one of those!'?  And the person using it would have swapped with you in a heartbeat to not have a disabled body.

The term 'microaggression' is an interesting one, and I found this definition: 

"They're something very specific: the kinds of remarks, questions, or actions that are painful because they have to do with a person's membership in a group that's discriminated against or subject to stereotypes. And a key part of what makes them so disconcerting is that they happen casually, frequently, and often without any harm intended, in everyday life."

Have I been guilty of microaggressions? Almost certainly. So how does it happen? This is my take: the unconscious bias kicks in, and the conscious tries to balance it out, and the result can be a microaggression that you are totally unaware of. 

With unconscious bias, the key is to make it known - if you have an underlying and maybe even unrecognised prejudice (and we all have them, no matter how woke we may think we are!), then you are halfway to being able to think before you speak and hopefully avoid that microaggression. 

Another thing that Louise said was about the 'pity smile' - a smile that is given which is born from another's attempt at empathy, but falls flat as a pancake. What I have taken away from Louise's conversation with BBC Radio Scotland (listen from 1:45:30) is that I need to think before I make assumptions and not apply my values to someone else's situation without understanding or considering their perspective.

Learn more:

• Walks Like a Duck - Louise on the BBCLouise on the MDUK website
• What exactly are microaggressions? Vox media
• Unconscious bias - Harvard's IAT test (it's well worth taking!)
• Louise on Twitter

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It's nearly over

But it's only just beginning really.

My son and grandson

2020 and 2021 have been challenging years in so many ways, but 2021 is nearly over and 2022 beckons. It's unbelievable really - the last few years have been so different. We will have to live with this new Covid world for some time, I believe, before it normalises into (what some already call it), a flu-like condition that we can treat and manage similarly. 

This Christmas I was able to see my family - which is wonderful compared to last year when so many of us were locked-down and couldn't see those we love if we didn't live with them. My delightful grandson is nearly three, and in 6 weeks time I will have another grandchild. Well, more accurately, my daughter will have another child.  And in February, 2022, my son will emigrate to Australia and become a permanent resident. He will join  his wonderful partner who lives out there, and embark on a whole new life.

And what will 2022 hold for my wife and I? We don't know yet, but fingers crossed it's better than the last few years have been what with us both having cancer, and then the pandemic hitting us all.

So 2021 is nearly over, and 2022 is just about to begin, but most importantly every day is a day to be treasured. I treasure the time we spend together sitting quietly, or playing a board game, or cooking together. Walks in the woods with the woofers, playing our guitars together, even falling asleep in front of the TV. I treasure the moments with my family, my friends, and even strangers when we meet and share a moment, whatever that may be. 

So for 2022 I wish you all peace, happiness and health, and for those of you who have lost a loved one, I send love and support. 

Useful links:

• Six ways to feel happier (NHS)
• The Ministry of Inspiration

Other posts in this blog: 

• Pond life
• Lost in Loughton (before the days of satnavs)

Resistance is (not) futile

Picard did escape the Borg in the end.

It's over a year since my surgery - since a large chunk of my lower bowel was removed, evicting Gertrude and her offspring. It's a year since Ripley was introduced and I am now so used to it, I don't really think about her (until she makes a really terrible smell!).  Abdominal surgery is pretty full on (ask anyone who's had a caesarean section) and recovery is slow. But at Ipswich hospital I was put on the 'enhanced recovery after surgery' programme which meant they tried to get me moving on day three (which would have been fine if I hadn't collapsed). 

My initial exercise regime was walking the dogs, gardening and working my way slowly up to chopping logs. Though I was getting my fitness back (and I had lost weight thanks to Ripley) my core - those muscles that had been cut through to complete my therapeutic surgery - had about as firm a six pack as a blobfish.

Initially I started Pilates at our village hall. I still go every Thursday evening and (although I can't do the exercises laying on my front) I am definitely making progress. But a few months ago the Hospital called me - they have a pre-hab and re-hab exercise class for people who will have or have had bowel surgery.

The classes involve resistance bands and, I have to say, the first few sessions, even the warm up got my heart rate up more than I'd been used to since pre-surgery. There were only a few of us in the class - two of us post-op, and one pre-op (though more joined later). Each of us had a unique experience of surgery and recovery, including our instructor, but there is no doubt that every one of us benefitted from the class. I managed a couple of classes at our local swimming pool too (thanks to the John Le Vay centre at Ipswich), but the new job meant I couldn't carry that on during the day sadly.

I'd never done resistance exercises before - but there was so much that was relatable with the breath training I'd done with Jen Tiller. I love it when things all tie up - Buteyko breathing, Pilates, resistance exercise in swimming class and resistance band training.

Now I'm back at work, and though I sit at a desk all day again (instead of pottering around the house and garden), I find that I am improving my posture, breathing better, and still doing regular resistance and Pilates classes.

Resistance isn't futile - resistance is part of getting my fitness back and building confidence in my body. It may have had a serious run in with cancer and lost a large section of my insides, but I am alive, and kicking, and grateful for the care of the NHS, and the love of my wife and family. Resistance is futile in just this one instance - love. 

Useful links:

• John Le Vay Centre for Cancer Support at Ipswich Hospital
• Bowel cancer symptoms 
• Exercise guidelines for cancer patients
• Move more for health

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Always learning

Research - vital in finding treatments
for muscle wasting conditions (C) MDUK

'Always learning' is what I replied to a LinkedIn post asking 'what two words sum it up for fundraisers?"  Because no matter what job I have had, I have always learned something new, and I've learned a lot more from recent interviews too. Each job I applied for I researched the charity, and for those that I interviewed for, I was privileged to talk to some of the team members and learn even more.

Last week I started a new role (a maternity cover) at Muscular Dystrophy UK (MDUK). And the learning for me is in full swing. I had no idea that ther are over 60 different muscle wasting conditions, and that muscular dystrophy is more of a collective term. The most common, or perhaps just the one I'd heard of, is Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, and it is common in male children in the UK. It's scary to think that your newborn could end up with a condition that means reaching 30 years old would be an achievement.

The charity are small compared to some I've worked for, but the cause is big. 70,000 or so individuals with muscle wasting conditions in the UK, and their families - parents, grandparents, carers, siblings... they are all affected by MD.

I'm only her for 10 months, but while I am I am going to do everything I can to make the team I work for a success, and help raise income for the work of MDUK which includes research, support and information, advocacy and campaigning. 

It's early days in the role, but I am always learning, and (I can't help it), always fundraising. I will be posting more as I learn more. 

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• Charity Begins ... from November 2011
• Proud to be a fundraiser - from October 2016
• Fundraisers are human too - from July 2019
• Expect to pay for the packaging - January 2013

Useful links:

• MDUK - A-Z of conditions
• Changing Places map (toilets for people with special access needs)
• Play the MDUK Christmas Raffle (go on - you may win a prize and you will be helping people with muscle wasting conditions)
• Win a Mini raffle - very cool prize!

Change is in the wind

Thankfully, there is something good to have come out of Covid. Really? Yes - the flexibility of the workplace. Employers now realise that 'working from home' does not mean employees are being lazy or inefficient, in fact in many cases it means the opposite. You really can trust your staff.

Our new woodwork shed

Technology of course has enabled home working in a number of ways, with easy ways to meet, chat with colleagues and have those 'coffee machine' moments even when you are not in the same building. But culture has a lot to do with it. 

I went to an interview pre-Covid and asked whether home working was a possibility. The Trustee on the panel said 'We give plenty of holiday, home working isn't necessary'. Well, I was gobsmacked, and knew that the Trustee totally didn't understand the reasons or benefits of staff working from home. I wonder if they've changed their tune now?

After just about five years with EAAA, where my contract was home based (but I chose to go into both offices often, to connect with my team), I have had a few months off and now I'm going to help out a charity in London with a maternity cover post. 

Travel to London from my home in the woods is at least a two and a half hour journey, so if it wasn't for the option of home working, I wouldn't have taken the job. But it's a great charity, and even though I'll only be there for 10 months, I'm looking forward to making a difference and helping them through unitl the post-holder comes back.

We made the workbench

Meantime my health is great (living with Ripley is no problem at all), and I am probably fitter now than I have been for years. I go to Pilates every week, to an excercise class for post and pre cancer operation fitness, and I've started a swim class too. And, of course, I'm still chopping and shifting wood, making things (like our shed, love our shed!) and walking the dogs. 

It's nearly a year since  my surgery, and I am here, smiling, looking forward to a new job and enjoying married life. A positive outlook has got me through and I am going to carry on as best I can with that - no matter what.

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Useful links:

• Economist's special report on the future of work
• Wall Street Journal on home working and innovation

Photos (C) Carolyn Tyrrell-Sheppard

Resilience

I started writing a resilience article as a thought piece, but it felt very self-indulgent (which it was). In it I used an analogy, so instead of presenting my unsubstantiated opinion, here's a fictional story:

The waterfall

The children and their parents stood at the bottom of the waterfall. It was beautiful, the water rushing down, the rocks shining and gleaming as the cascade tumbled past and clouds of water droplets shone in the sunshine. Each side there were large boulders, suitable for climbing. “Let’s go to the top!” said mother. The children looked excited. 

“No.” said father. “It’s wet and slippery, and could be dangerous.” Of course, it would involve some risk – but with care the waterfall could be ascended quite safely.

 

 “Come on,” said mother, feeling the risk was acceptable.

 “No.” said father. Unwilling to take a chance, however small, on any of them slipping. 

“I’ll go,” said mother, “and tell you what it’s like”. She climbed, and it was safe – the rocks at the side were not wet and slick and were easy to climb. She reached the top. She had assessed the risk and anticipated the reward – and reward there was! The view was amazing – watching the cascading water below and looking across the fabulous landscape at the top. 

“Come on up,” she shouted down. “No.” said father and the children listened to him, because they always obeyed their father, even though they could see mother at the top, and how happy and excited she was, and they wanted to see and feel that too. The children missed out on the view, and the experience. They may have slipped, they may have bruised or even broken, but they never found out how beautiful it was to feel the thrill of climbing a waterfall and reaching the top. 

Do you think that we protect our children too much, that we don’t teach them to manage risk but to avoid it? Do you think this impacts their capacity for resilience and, long term, mental health?After posting this on LinkedIn – I was usefully directed to this by Josie Jacobs: ‘The Gift of Failure’ by Jessica Lahey - which speaks directly to this issue. She describes us as the generation that “invented over-parenting” - and despite our best intentions, we are robbing our children of their failures and therefore their learnings…and their natural resilience! When we take away our children’s opportunities to fail and learn (FAIL = First Attempt In Learning no less!), they never learn to trust their instincts and develop their innate resilience. We are in fact a very resilient bunch but - true of adults too - we have all lost touch with our own intuition. It’s not just parents but schools too - a friend’s school has just banned football because people were getting hurt… what about if we taught our kids HOW to play nicely or HOW to climb 🧗🏽‍♂️ safely… both the boulders you speak of, and this life?! 😊

Challenged!

My writing buddy Cathy and I were chatting on line and I said how nice it will be not to write about cancer for a chance. I asked her for a challenge, and she said to write a story for my grandson! So here goes... (this is written to be read aloud)

Deep below the slippy slimy sludgy grunge, there lived a Blobby Grubber. Now you will have never seen a Blobby Grubber I'm sure, because you will never have gone deep below the slippy slimy sludgy grunge! The blobby grubber looks blue and green, like the slippy slimy sludgy grunge he lives below, so he can hide very quickly when the Gloop Monsters come. 

If you tried to grab a Blobby Grubber you'd never succeed - they are squirmy and soft and can slide out of the grasp of almost anything! The other things that live beneath the slippy slimy sludgy grunge are the small and speedy Tiddflippers, and they flit about like little lightning bolts, their shiny neon stripes lighting up the dark world beneath the slippy slimy sludgy grunge turning it into a funfair of colour. There are also the Glup Truggers, which are fat and slow, and live on the bottom, clearing up the grungy bits that fall to the floor of the slippy, slimy sludgy grunge. The Glup Truggers were often chased by Gloop Monsters, so they would bury themselves in the grunge at thte bottom, and hide until the Gloopers had gone.

One particular Blobby Grubber, called Groop, lived a long time ago beneath the slippy slimy sludgy grunge and - he thought - what is above? He was a curious Blobby Grubber and wanted to see more of the world than  his dark, slippy slimy world. But he didn't know how to get above the grunge, so, he needed help.

He asked the Tiddflippers if they ever went above the grunge, and they said no, there was too much fun to be had rushing around below.  

OK - I have by no means finished this story. My question is - do you want me to? Every story should have a beginning, middle and end - but all I have here is the beginning. And there's lots of 'tell' instead of 'show'. But which is best for children's fiction? Any suggestions appreciated - please comment below!

If I had to illustrate this story, I just might use a blobfish....

Photo Credit: Wonderopolis

Good news

"All clear kid"

On Thursday last week I had a call from my oncologist. He is always jolly and kind on the phone (and when I met him, a week before he got Covid), and this time he had some good news for me. My scan results show that I am all clear - no cancer!

I asked if I had to take this last course of chemotherapy and he said yes, so I have just over a week left of treatment and then the main cancer treatment is done! Dusted! Over! There is a huge sense of relief, even though I still have one last hurdle to complete.

Now that my cancer treatment is (nearly) over, I can look forward to a reversal operation for my ileostomy. That means another long operation (several hours) and some recovery time, but I will be able to get back to 'normal'. I don't think it will be soon as they have to wait a couple of months after chemo, and the NHS have a lot of operations to do that are more important, but it would be good not to (sorry for being graphic here) poop through my belly any more.

What I am most looking forward to is getting back to work - though it will be strange after so long off. Since I stopped work I have a new CEO, new team members, and we all have a brand new building. 

In the meantime I still have some appointments and am having trouble with my ear/jaw, but compared to cancer that's nothing!

Watch this space for updates on things other than cancer for a change - maybe about the amount of cabbages I have planted, or how my strawberries are doing, or how much jam/pickle I am making!

Photo credit Star Wars (source unknown). 

What a week!

Monday

Got married! Managed to share the day with our friends, thanks to rules allowing more than 30 (we had 32) we had a super wedding lunch with those we love. We wish more could have come/been invited, but we are planning a huge party next year. Watch this space. I will upload the wedding photos soon.

After the wedding we drove to The Hyde Dovecote in Kinver. Although Axle was away in Norfolk and Diesel at kennels, we took Chizel with us as he has a problem with his legs and we couldn't leave the poor lad.

Tuesday

The Dovecote

The Dovecote is small, and the wooden staircase proved too much for Chizel so we had plenty of exercise lifting him up and downstairs. After unpacking more, we walked down the river to Kinver, had tea and cakes in the village, and then walked back by the canal. It was a lovely day with mild weather and stunning countryside.  We had lunch in the Vine by the canal and Sheena was most impressed that her favourite cola was just £1.80 a pint (as opposed to £3 back home). We went back to the Vine for supper, but they had finished serving at 8pm. Instead we raced over to Harley's Smoke House and managed to get our order in just before 8.30. We had rushed there so we rushed our meal, which was nice but the salt pot bottom fell off on Sheena's dinner, and there was so much in my plate of nachos that I left half. Good food though, and well distanced tables. 

Wednesday

I popped briefly into Stourbridge for some shopping, struggling with parking and carting shopping down the high street. I forgot half the things I was supposed to get, but did get cheap meat!  We walked down the canal route and spent a lazy day at the Vine, playing Splendor and just relaxing, watching the canal barges and chatting to a man with one arm. Lunch was delicious. The weather was mostly bright, but a bit windy which ruined one of our games as the cards went all over the place! We found a quiet corner and - amazingly - I actually won a game (haven't won for ages).  

Thursday

The sun was shining brightly so we had another quiet day, this time at the Dovecote, with a barbecue for lunch and playing our guitars on the raised patio. We had another walk, and were so full from lunch we just had strawberries and cake for supper.

Friday

We went into Bridgnorth and spent the day in the town, wandering round the castle gardens, sitting by the river eating ice cream and going up and down in the funicular. We also bought a pushchair off Facebook for Chizel who was struggling with the walking.

Friday night we went to a gig! We had been told about it by our hosts, and trotted over to Ashwood Marina at Kingswinford to see the excellent Buzzin Hornets. A lovely evening (with a small audience), and so good to see live music again. Larry, our host, was there with his partner Anni. We swapped music videos of our respective performances, of course!

Saturday

Rock house

Our last day! We visited the rock houses at Kinver Edge and then crossed county lines into Worcestershire for a visit to Witley. It was a beautiful day and we loved the ruined house, the wonderful gardens and the amazing fountain.  We had supper at the Fox, which (after a long wait) was very nice, but it felt a little crowded. Covid restrictions have made us a lot more aware of the space around us.

Sunday

An early start, packup and drive home. When we did get home, the garden had gone mad! Peas were ready for harvest, I had a courgette and a cabbage ready to pick, strawberries and redcurrants, and our flower borders were blooming. It looks wonderful, and we are hoping for lots of produce as the season continues. Thanks to a kind neighbour, all the plants were watered whilst we were away (and the cat fed too).

Monday

We've been married a whole week! I drove to Norfolk to pick up Axle, Sheena picked up Diesel, we visited both mothers and Chizel visited the vet for some x-rays.  Now it's onwards and upwards. We had a lovely week, but it's great to be home here in beautiful Suffolk.

The spectacular fountain

More photos coming soon...

Ding dong....

Tomorrow morning at 11.30 am we are getting married!  What a rollercoaster time we have had:

Chapter 1

I met Sheena, and we hit it off immediately. In the same February that we met, we were hit by 'Beast from the East' and we were snowed in together for a week. That year also saw very hot weather - so with extreme winter and a hot summer, a lot of the dog training Sheena does had to be cancelled. She also had a major back problem and was unable to work, and suffered from vertigo (which thanks to a neat trick we managed to cure!). 

Chapter 2

It was October of the same year that we met - 2018. Things were going really well. I went to Australia to visit my son, but Sheena couldn't come as she'd lost so much work time due to the reasons above. And it's a good thing too or she'd have missed her mammogram that identified stage 2, grade 3, breast cancer. (More here.)

From October 2018 on we spent a lot of time in Ipswich hospital, with Sheena losing her hair during chemo, radiotherapy, breast surgery and herceptin injections that finally finished in January 2020.

Chapter 3

One month after Sheena's final cancer treatment, I was diagnosed with bowel cancer.   So it was back to Ipswich hospital. By this time I'd moved into Sheena's house permanently, which is just as well as she has had to care for me through radiotherapy, chemotherapy and surgery. Sheena was in and out same day for her surgery, mine meant I had to stay in for seven days to make sure that the 'mechanics' of my insides, including my brand new stoma (named Ripley) were OK. I haven't been to work since March 2020.

We had lockdown, and we built a pond. Sheena again couldn't work fully due to Covid restrictions, but she started online dog training classes. 

Chapter 4

Starts tomorrow! We shall be married then go on a short honeymoon in the Midlands. Hopefully I will finish my treatment (scan last Thursday, let's hope all good), and I  am optimistic that I can back to work in August. Chapter 4 is the start of a great future, we've certainly worked for it!

Useful links:

• Our full cancer journeys
• Building our pond
• Bowel Cancer UK
• Breast Cancer Now

Coming soon... wedding pictures.

The Step Well

Oh dear, no posts since last writers' circle! Well the only development for me is that I had my CT scan today, but I won't hear results from that for a bit. So here's tonight's writing, inspired by a picture of a spectacular Indian Step Well.

Some secrets are never revealed, some are liberated by loose tongues, and some are exposed by the heartless sun.

-o-

By Doron - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0,
commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2761923

The sun was blistering, the sky so clear and blue that it seemed to be a perfect reflection of the water in the well.  The well was low– very low. The women had to walk down eleven levels to get to the water. They complained as they descended but were silent in the breath-snatching air as they ascended with their hard-earned loads.

Ramesh was sitting at the very top. He ran his hands through his dry, brittle hair. Sweat poured off him, and his foot involuntarily tapped a tattoo upon the dust. He looked down into the water, unaware of those around him.

The older women smirked at him, whilst some of the younger ones looked shyly towards him or giggled as they passed in groups. He did not see any of them. He just sat by the well, watching the surface of the water, as the sun punished him.

He wanted to see if the water would go down another level; Ramesh had not seen it this low since he was a small boy. The sun continued its persistent assault on his skin, and after two hours, without seeing any change in the level, Ramesh sighed hugely and eventually departed.

He visited the well every day, and as he saw more and more water taken, but the level staying stable (even without the rains), he grew slowly more confident. By the second week, he started to look up when the young women giggled, and would bow most graciously to the older ones, gaining just a little affection from them. After a month, he had learned the routine of the water gatherers and had noticed one young girl in a beautiful orange sari that was edged with lime; he picked her out each time she came, and gave her his widest, whitest smile.

His hair was now shiny and bright, and he would wear his best dhoti. He waited on the side of the well where he knew she would come. And one day, he waited at the bottom of the well, and carried her pitcher up to the top for her. The older women watched, and chattered their concern, if not quite disapproval. Daily, Ramesh’s confidence grew. He now visited the well daily not to watch the water level, but to see Binita.  

The summer went and the rains came, and Ramesh stopped his daily visits to the well. Now he could work on his small farm during the day and went only once a week to the well to meet Binita and carry her water. She wasquiet, but approachable, and Ramesh soon discovered that her mother had plans for her that did not includeher spending more time with the ‘waterboy’. His mind was now focused on the problem of Binita’s mother.

Ramesh made enquiries, developed acquaintances and learned as much as he could about Binita and her family. They were reasonably wealthy so might expect a large dowry, but then again they might have already got a husband in mind. Ramesh let options and opportunities occupy his mind as the cool weather dulled his anxieties and gave him fresh hope for the future.

-o-

In a town not twenty miles from where Ramesh had sat, a new well was being built. There were plans to plant more mango trees and they needed water. There was water under the ground that would feed their well as it did the one in Ramesh’s town. Sacred rituals were performed, architects’ plans followed and work commenced in the evening when the searing heat of the day dulled. If Ramesh had known, he may well have left town. Because in one year or maybe two, when the new well was complete, if they had a summer like this one, then the level in his well would most certainly go down. And then Ramesh would not be able to hide from the truth at the bottom.

Note:    I may be inaccurate in attributing names/clothing to the right regions where there are step wells, but I've done my best. Comments/corrections welcome.

And a quick PS - I'll have a very different subject for the next blog as Monday (21 June) is a very big day!

Useful links:

• Stepwell - from Wiki
• Beautiful stepwells - Lonely Planet

Writing circle fun time

At our last writers' circle meeting we were tasked with writing what happens to a £10 note when it passes through the hands of at least three people. On the night we had stories from the note's point of view, theft and some adventures. We had 40 minutes writing time. Here's my contribution:

Henry’s Present

It was a miserable, wet, windy autumn evening. The show started at 7 and Henry could hardly contain his excitement. Holding tight to his mother’s hand, he stood in the queue patiently, but even so hopped from foot to foot in anticipation.

“Be still Henry, we will get in, I promise you.” The long queue for the new blockbuster ‘The Yellow Rolls Royce’ was full of chatting people, and it moved so slowly. As they neared the entrance to the Gaumont, the huge poster outside showing the famous faces of the cast loomed over Henry. He thought they looked like giants! Henry grew from excited to anxious. “Have you still got it, mamma?” he queried, looking up at her in her fawn overcoat and matching hat. “Of course dear, your birthday present from Grandma is safe in my handbag.” Which was, of course, also matching.

Henry’s legs were cold in his shorts, but mother had insisted he wear his clean school uniform for such an important night out. After what seemed an age they reached the kiosk and mother handed the cashier the crisp ten pound note that marked Henry’s 10^th birthday. “You will look after the change, won’t you mamma?” he asked, and she smiled, taking the tickets and the change from the serious looking cashier (a ten pound note needed at LOT of change!). They went in, and Henry’s night went from anticipation back to excitement as he looked forward to his first cinema trip that also promised ice cream at the interval. It was the culmination of a wonderful day – his grandmother had given him the ten pound note – “a pound for every year of your life so far, dear Henry” she’d said, and he had grasped it with astonishment. Mother had quickly taken it into her care, and after much discussion the cinema trip was planned. Now the ten pound note was with the cashier, and there was plenty of change from the six shillings it cost them both to get in. Plenty for ice cream, and plenty for Henry’s greatest ambition, the new bicycle!

They went into the cinema and took their seats, and as the credits rolled, the cashier was banking the door takings into a large canvas bag. There were a few pound notes, and many ten shilling notes, but only the one ten pound note. She let her fingers linger on it, admiring the picture of the Queen, and feeling the strange texture as it slipped from her fingers into the cash bag. A small sigh escaped her. She wouldn’t be seeing many of those in a hurry.

Inside the cinema Rex Harrison was buying a yellow rolls Royce as an anniversary present. Henry briefly wondered if he could have afforded one with his ten pound note, but was soon lost in the magic of cinema. Henry loved the film – the car, the music, the exotic locations. Funny really, as that morning he had woken in his bed at home in Finchley, waiting for his grandmother, like any normal boy.

Margaret (Henry’s grandmother) had planned the generous gift for some time. It had taken her months to save up and when she at last had the full ten pound notes, she went specially to the bank to change it for a single note. That had been the previous week, and in the days leading up to Henry’s birthday, she had put it away safely in her dear departed husband’s family bible. “No one would look for money in there,” she thought to herself, and tucked the money into Genesis at her favourite part: “Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the vault of the sky.” She always imagined god waving his hand and birds appearing as if he was scattering petals. Every evening she had gone to the Bible to ‘read’, but in truth it was to touch the note and imagine the excitement of her small grandson as she gave it to him.

The bank manager had been so kind, concerned that she was giving a young man such a huge sum – and such responsibility! But she knew that her daughter would look after it, as she had Henry. With kindness, consideration and care – and above all, thoughtfulness.

The film came to an end and a very tired Henry yawned and clung on to his mother’s hand as the throng of people left the cinema. It had been wonderful! “Have you still got the change, mother?” He asked again. She smiled and pulled him through the crowd, holding tight on to her handbag that held the nine pounds and twelve shillings that remained of Henry’s birthday present. (If you are busy doing mental arithmetic now, don’t forget they had ice cream!)

Henry and his mother went home, and the shutters came down on the cinema as every last person, even the projectionist, had gone home. The manager had come and taken the cash bag ready to pop into the night safe. And the cashier, she headed home with her high heels and bright lips, and a guilty conscience. The ten pound note that had slipped into the cash bag had also slipped out again, and into the pocket of her coat. As she walked down the dark, wet street, her hand was thrust deep into her coat, and she could feel the note crisply scrunched as she tried to push her guilt out of sight.

Turning off the high street and into her road, she imagined the sound of footsteps behind her. Was she being followed? She daren’t stop and look! The street lights shed a dim yellow glow, but even so there were plenty of shadows for someone to hide in. She walked more quickly, hurrying towards her little house and her husband. How would she explain it to him? She wouldn’t. Her hand was sweaty on the note, and she was as tense as a cello string. She reached her door and turned to look – no one there. She huffed at her own imagination and opened the door.

Inside her husband was asleep in his chair, with the radio still playing the light programme. “Hello dear” she said, and he started as he woke at the sound of her voice.

“Oh, hello. Good film?”

“You know I don’t watch them,” she chided. “I’ll make some cocoa. Time for bed.” She took off her coat and palmed the note, thinking about where she should hide it (from her husband as much as any imagined robber). She saw the Bible in the bookshelf and, while her husband busied himself with emptying his pipe, slipped it in. She didn’t know it, but she’d popped it right at Timothy, 6:10 “For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils”. There was an irony, had she ever read the Bible. That ten pound note stayed there for almost two years – hiding itself, hiding her guilt. She was never found out at the cinema, but was wracked with anxiety every time the same denomination appeared at the cashier’s kiosk. What she did with it, well that is another story, and another family’s excitement and drama. Ten pounds may not seem much today, but in 1964, you could do a lot with ten pounds – far more than just going to the cinema and buying ice cream.

Liked this? Try...

• Troublesome angels
• Famous last lines

Useful links:

• Royston & District Writers Circle

It may be cute but...

A few years back there was a popular video
of a pet slow loris circulating on social media.
They do not make good pets.

On a cat lovers' group on Facebook someone had posted a 'cute' video of a small marmoset dressed up, and it got lots of likes and the comment 'Wish I had one'.

This is SOOOO WRONG! Whether the animal itself was captive bred or not, images like these encourage people to think owning wildlife means they will have a 'cute' pet - no consideration for the damage to the species, the illegal trade (serious crime involved in wildlife trade from primates to orchids), and the damage to the environment they live in.

Don't think this is a big problem? Check this out - Tech companies take down 3 million online listings for trafficked wildlife. Yes, 3 million, and as well as each one of those posts, there are thousands of other wildlife traded in posts that are 'disguised' on social media (eg ivory sold as white plastic). I won't even start on the wildlife markets, but they are almost certainly to thank for Corona Virus jumping to humans.

Please - if you see a cute picture of a wild animal kept as a pet, do not hit like or share, but report it to the admins of the site/group and point out the danger of encouraging people to want wild animals as pets.

(Oh, and in case you think this is just a problem in Asia, if you go on holiday and bring back a shell, or an item made of a rare wood, you may well be committing a crime too!)

Further information:

• TRAFFIC - the charity tackling international trade in wildlife
• WWF - who partner closely with TRAFFIC to stop illegal wildlife trade
  
• IFAW/Responsible Travel - and the danger of wildlife holiday souvenirs

Liked this? Try...

• Being in Malaysia
• An overheard conversation
• A night on the Brecks

Photo credit: TRAFFIC.org