Two years ago today I completed radiotherapy treatment and rang the bell to signal the end of my treatment.
 
It seems like a lifetime ago in some respects. Isobel was a baby when I was finishing treatment, just mastering sitting up and blowing raspberries. Today I came down the stairs to find the fridge door flung open and my inpatient 2 ½ year old Isobel sloshing herself - and the dog - a glass or 3 of milk. Evie has gone from being a sweet and shy 2 year old, to a kind and curious 4 year old. She loves to copy words and will present her handywork to me in an envelope. With pride, she says “Is it beautiful Mummy? What does it say?” I have a stash of love notes which include messages such as, “100% oats, Cheerios, Maya Heart Worm Pill – Love Evie x”.
 
2 years in their life has been most of their lives. It makes it easy for me to forget it really wasn’t that long ago that my survival was reliant on access to a healthcare team, hospital, a drip with a cocktail of ABVD chemotherapy drugs and a linear accelerator machine. Kind of a big ask on reflection.
 
I’m very fortunate I’ve had my girls keeping me occupied. My days generally finish with a full, grateful heart and a dash of exhaustion -- not leaving much space for worry. When I was in treatment I remember coming across a sign in a coffee shop which read “worry is a misuse of imagination”. As an avid day dreamer with a vivid imagination, this resonated with me.
 
Poor Nick gets bombarded with these day dreams verbalized daily and has allowed me to cram as many adventures as possible into these past two years. 
 
Although worry does still nip at my heels. I went to visit a new friend at a downtown hospital during her inpatient stay for treatment of a type on non-hodgkin lymphoma. Walking through the Hematology floor my heart was racing, I felt like a fraud who was clearly meant to be a patient not a visitor. 
 
My beautiful friend has a heart of gold, is full of good humour and hilarious anecdotes. Worry has very few opportunities to play in her company. Today I got a call from her with news that left me prancing around the kitchen, her mid treatment PET scan results were in and the chemo is working. I’m so happy.
 
Here’s to 2 years, good PET scans and daydreams!

I’ve been neglecting you my poor, beloved blog! You helped me muddle through my rough times and left you empty in my good ones. Bad blogger.

So it maybe 11pm and I may end up writing gibberish but I will update you my poor blog.

Life has begun to return into a more comfy routine, akin but still different to the one before cancer. My hair is resting on my shoulders and can be sported into a tufty little pony tail. The scar across my neck has faded a little and what is left has just become me. The days have begun to occasionally slip by, as they do when you’re caught up in the wonderful lull of day to day of life, but cancer and those affected by it filter through most of my thoughts.

During my Aid Worker days I journaled about the joy and laughter I would see many Zimbabweans display in spite of what I perceived as often heartbreaking, troublesome and sometimes horrific circumstances thrown their way. I was in awe of this joy but I didn’t understand it.  There was a period in Zimbabwe where I started to feel very despondent; I started to detach, feel isolated, angry and at one point, I wanted out. If the telephone lines hadn’t been down one night, I probably would’ve found my out. Using that lifeline, a fortunate set of geographic circumstances which has allowed me to be where I am today.

In the end it was the humor, tenacity and spirit of my Zimbabwean co-worker – Jameson – who pulled me out of my funk. He’d find me a stick of sugar cane to chew on, sing songs whilst we walked and have me in stitches with snippets of gossip.

I later read a book about Zimbabwe where this joy phenomenon was described by using an amphitheater as an analogy for life. In the center of the amphitheater there was a magnificent display of the beauty of life but there was also a display of ones’ inevitable death. Those closest to the center were most vulnerable to being drawn into their death but the display of joy was so vivid that the more alive and in tune to the essence of happiness you became. Those sat in the outer seats were positioned in a more comfortable distance from death, making it a much more distant reality. With that distance the performance of joy was also a little less vivid and harder to grasp in its full glory.

So in essence, the theory is that being in a position of suffering/fear also puts you in a better position to experience the beauty of life in a more intense way. I appreciate this isn’t always the way and it’s probably the late hour (or wine?!) bringing out the philosopher in me, but I can relate to this analogy having been shifted out of the comfort zone section of the amphitheater.

As such, we’ve been soaking in the joys of family over the summer (as well as the wine, gulp). I’ve found my coping mechanism is running, which makes me smile as someone at school once told me I ran like a goose. I’m afraid they may have been right but I do it in spite of that and weirdly enjoy it. I’ve also reacquainted myself with horses - the love of my childhood - and try to loose myself in riding and the lovely musky, sweet scent of a horse as often as possible (….ok, I’m putting the wine glass down).

There are occasions where I get side-blinded by the reality of the past few years or something triggers a sudden flash of fear. One of those occasions recently came out of nowhere. I am on the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s LTN Committee and volunteer to speak at the odd event which I do almost by second nature. The words flow out of my mouth and despite seeing upset in the faces of those I’m talking to, I feel a slight disconnect myself. Which is quite handy as I can only handle so many tears.

Well, one day I popped into a Burlington Coat Factory, one of LTN’s largest partners. I grabbed a small item and went to pay -- if the Sales Associate asked if I wanted to donate the LLS, I got to give them an Amazon voucher. Nice! I hadn’t given it much thought and ran through distractedly. When the Sales Associate suddenly looked up into my eyes and said, “Would you like to donate to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society today?” something about her big brown eyes looking at me opened the flood gates and out whooshed the tears.  I couldn’t get my words out, blubbering “yes, I do, yes”. Then I pushed the voucher to her and in-between big old sobs, mustered up a “Thank you – I’m a blood cancer survivor” before charging out the store and trying to push the pull door.. Insult to injury, embarrassing. I heard the Sales Associate say “bless your heart” as I fumbled my way out.

I hadn’t had an emotional outburst like that since the first day I debuted my short hair and cried in-front of the anchovies at Trader Joes! Apparently I’m a public crier.

So whilst I remain happy, deeply grateful, there's still a little shock and fear lurking in me which take me aback at times. I'm still intent on appreciating all the beauty this lovely world has to offer and hopefully I can do a little good to the world in return. 

I believe I have fulfilled my promise of late night gibberish and bid you goodnight!
 
 
 

I spent the day covered in mud, gardening in the sunshine. Evie was searching for worms and Isobel was busy doing her usual toddler missions. Days like this ground me, fill my heart with sunshine and there isn't an hour go by when I don't consider how different the picture could be. 

I love being a mother so when LLS asked me to write about my experience of motherhood and cancer, I jumped at the chance. If you'd like a ganders, here's the post

Happy Mother's Day to all 

This time last year, I wrote this post describing Isobel as a 'Loving Little Wild Thing', ​

She celebrated her second birthday yesterday and is living up to her title.  Instead of laying babbling at her tree, she runs, full pelt around it singing 'ring o ring o roses' or shouting for the dog 'Mayyyyyaaaa, Mayaaaaaa'. She always looks like she is 3 steps from toppling onto her face (and often is), her pigtails bounce as she runs and she holds her arms horizontally like balancing sticks. 

We've gasped a lot this past year and muttered quite a lot of 'Ohhh ......' as she's attempted various perilous toddler missions. Isobel doesn't have the same fear threshold as Evie so learning to walk, use the climbing equipment at the park, go up and down the stairs have been pretty hair raising as she is relentless.

Our little wild thing loves to be outside, still loves to be muddy and lives life to the full. Which is beautiful as she also loves to the full, she adores a cuddle. When she sits with you, she doesn't just sit next to you, she clambers up along your side and nuzzles herself under your arm, resting her soft, dimpled hands on you. Then she will glance up and give you a cheeky half smile. She melts me. 

Much of Isobel's time is spent doing one of two things; admiring and attempting to copy Evie or eating. Did I mention she lives life to the full? That certainly applies to food, she very much enjoys mealtimes especially if it includes sweet potatoes, corn, eggs or chocolate. When she eats, she hums continuously with joy. 

I have a little 'parents book' someone bought me as a gift and in it, it asks you various questions over time, such as 'What do you feel ..... will be when the grow up'. Evie has an eye for details, loves books and is very considerate of others, she wants to be a doctor or a mail person. Isobel, based on current activities will be a fearless explorer.

We love you Isobel, happy 2nd birthday. You are a beautiful marvel and I' m so proud I get to play a part in your life.

I lost my phone the other day and in an effort to find it I grabbed the land line handset and dialed the first number that came to me. Which wasn't my number, it was my husbands. He was in Charlotte at a conference so didn't get the call. I re-dialed my number, found my phone in a pink talking picnic basket toy, along with the car keys, some receipts and a random selection of pebbles and didn't think anymore of it. 

Shortly afterwards, I get a call from Nick. He's in a taxi with a colleague and through the background muffles sounds worried,
"Hi, sorry I didn't call sooner, is everything alright?"
Weird. I reply that we are all good. Nick mentioned he didn't have time to talk but just wanted to make sure everything was fine. 

Our quick call and the anxiousness I could feel through the phone reminded me of changed times. There was a time before my diagnosis (and kids) that he wouldn't have worried about a missed call. He wouldn't have felt that surge of anxiousness when he saw my name in the missed call list. It made me a little sad as there would have been a time when he'd feel happy seeing my name pop up there. It reminded me that whilst I am navigating the new normal of life post cancer, so is he. 

Coincidentally, I came across this article today on the lack of attention given to the emotional impact a cancer diagnosis has on spouses and family members, specifically following successful treatment.

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/07/12/anxiety-lingers-long-after-cancer/?_r=0

​Fortunately these anxious little moments pass and plonk us back in the beauty of the present. Or in today's case, the beauty of cleaning my favourite red lipstick off Maya the dog...

As you can see I'm also adjusting to the challenges of parenting two toddlers

I recently joined a writers critique group, which I did because I’ve been writing up my Africa journals and was a little lost about where to go with it.  During one of our meetings we got talking about blog sites and ended up all exchanging websites. I paused before jotting down ‘Puddles and Rainbows’ and then contemplated whether to blur my writing a little to distort the address. I compromised with a smudge of the ink with my finger.

Driving back home afterwards I kept thinking about my sudden hesitation to share this website, which isn’t entirely odd as it is a mish mash of personal health info and life musings written in mixed British/American English.  What is more notably odd, is that I’m starting to care about that again. Some of the self-consciousness that lifted when I was going through treatment has suddenly seemed to settle back down again. Writing new posts feels a little uncomfortably self-indulgent and exposing.

There were many benefits to starting this blog – communicating with far away family and friends, helping connect with others in a similar position and it provided a cathartic outlet for my frazzled, chemo hazed self.  The main reason for starting this blog, the one that drove my frequent postings, was my girls.

Faced with my mortality, I realized that I could leave them before they got a chance to remember me and know just how much I love them.  For some reason it deeply disturbed me that they potentially wouldn’t know my favorite chocolate or how I like my tea.  I take great pride in knowing my mums preferences. Although she did recently surprise me by gobbling the alcohol infused chocolates -- broadening her horizons apparently.

I talked through these somber fears through with my sister shortly after my last chemo session, “I would make you a legend, Sedgie, don’t worry about that. Going by the remains of this chocolate box, we like most chocolates, no?!” That made me feel better, I’d like to be a chocolate fiend legend.

All the same, there’s nothing quite like reading a memoir or autobiography, it fascinates me that you can feel attached to the author, really feel you know them, despite only having read their written word. This isn’t a memoir, but it is documenting my girls growing up and our time together. I hope we can enjoy reflecting on it one day.

So with that said, I will continue to update puddles and rainbows, hopefully overcoming this awkward self-conscious feeling.
​
For the record - I like my tea strong with milk and no sugar and Louise is right, I’m really not picky when it comes to the chocolates.

Last Wednesday marked one year since I finished treatment. Can I get a tentative Whoop Whoop?!

I say tentative because I don’t want to get too excited, you know, let us not tempt fate and all that.

My superstitious side kicks in at times and I feel an awkward anxiety about how to handle these new dates in my calendar. The dates I was diagnosed, finished treatment and found out I was officially in remission are now etched into my psyche. There is no logic involved in this awkward feeling as logic would say, “celebrate in the now, think positive, zen out all the superstition and fear. Celebrate for those who got you here, for those you love, for those in its midst and those who didn’t make it this far”. Ideally logic would say this in the voice of David Bowie.

I couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to make a poster to pose with, eat cake and drink champagne. Ridiculous problem I know.  After bargaining with logic and superstitions I eventually settled on marking the day with tea and dark chocolate. Although I’m not going to lie, most of my days consist of dark chocolate and tea, so I actually did nothing unusual to celebrate the day. I did however give the day a virtual nod of recognition and gratitude. 

As Evie and Isobel clambered over me whilst I was trying to read them their bedtime story, I breathed in their baby soap clean smell -- ran my ringers over Isobel’s wonderfully pudgy little hands, tracing over the dimples on her knuckles and brushed Evie’s hair off her flushed soft cheeks, tucking it behind her ears. I soaked in every bit of them as they rolled around on our bed, chuckling and squealing as Nick blew raspberries on their bellies. I chatted with Evie as she organized her menagerie of teddies around her pillow, “Thanks for the fun day Evie”, “You’re welcome Mummy”. I've never felt more alive. I wonder if I've made it into the realm of her long term memories yet. 

Thank you to all who got me here, for an amazing year and the opportunity to be in all these moments and memories. I will do my best to be a useful and loving human.  

As Evie loves to hum along to 'Rebel, Rebel', I will sign out with a tribute to David Bowie,

"I don't know where I'm going from here, but I promise it wont be boring"

​

Thought I'd squeeze in one last post for 2015, just to break up my wild night of excessive drinking and dancing until the wee hours. 

Only joking. We celebrated the New Year with the London Fireworks at 6pm Chi time and are now in pajamas listening to our daughters sleepover fun through the monitor. We may have another drink. We may also fall asleep on the sofa and set our alarms for 11:45.

To make ourselves feel a little more cool, Nick and I were reminiscing about New Years of past where we spent our time freezing at a West End street party in Glasgow and celebrating with friends in Vegas. We'd never have imagined 7/8 years ago that life would've taken us to where we are now, a little battered but extraordinarily grateful to be here with our little brood. I still have to pinch myself occasionally to remind myself this is real, the bad and the brilliant. This time last year, I had a radiotherapy session and welcomed the New Year with friends and pizza. If someone had told be me then, that I would be here now; in pjs, in remission, with my family and A DOG snoozing at my feet, I'd have found it almost too perfect to believe. 

Here's to 2016, to the amazing possibilities it holds and making the unbelievable, wonderfully believable.

Wishing you all a Happy New Year!

This time last week I had the opportunity to speak at the Light the Night event in Glenview, Chicago. Standing on stage and seeing all the lanterns bob in the dusk felt quite spectacular and a little surreal given where I was one year ago, mid way through my chemotherapy treatment. It was beautiful!

The best bit was having the opportunity to bring Evie, Isobel and Nick on stage to countdown to the walk kick off. I think the girls were a little baffled but Evie keeps playing the video of me on stage over and over. She was pretty chuffed I was on stage. I'm quite chuffed too. 

Thanks to everyone who's supported and rooted for us, I certainly would't have been there without you. Together we raised well over $2k for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society this year. I find it a little hard to watch the video back, the urrmmms and ahhhs are a bit cringeworthy and I missed out the two jokes I'd been excited to share. That said, if you'd like to watch it, here you go....