Remember that first winter we loafed about by the puddle behind the post office, the one that was crusted over with grubby ice and bicycle tyre marks and two perfect imprints of duck’s feet? We bled our knuckles playing Jacks, hunkered down with our backs sliced against the granite wall, army green balls of sheep shit breezing about in the wind.
Did we imagine they were platypus prints, the duck’s feet? Of course. We were exotic, then. Tanned little shy kids with reading ages well above our new peers and accents that stumbled and shrank when we fell.
Remember the post-mistress in her black Mini Cooper, her dim headlights scattering Mrs Campbell’s wall-eyed goats over the dry stone wall as the old woman crashed her gears, wheels skidding round the tight turn that everybody said the Council should sort before somebody or somebody’s dog was killed for God’s sake!
We weren’t there the night Mr Campbell’s croft burnt to the ground, the thatched roof a wild dazzle of yellow and orange jiggery pokery, a leaping spark setting off the neighbour’s byre, all six cows dead and the saddle-back sow in the lean-to roasted to a golden crisp.
Didn’t stop them blaming us, though. We’d brought it on them, they said, with our foreign ways and our fancy words. Shook their fingers in our faces. Clumped the sheep shit in our hair. Later my mother found me with my head in the sink scouring my scalp with a wire scrubber and coal tar soap. We hadn’t even got here by then, I wailed.
Why did we come here? Why?
For a while, they died. One young man spun his car off a cliff into sweet-scented gorse blooms twenty metres below. It was two days before the man from the Council spotted the tangle of wretched black metal veiled in pretty yellow flowers on his way back through the glen after a bitter public meeting that started off about pot holes and ended up about goats. He’d only stopped for a piss, legs wide in the brawning heather.
One night, sent camping by our mother into a local wood, we boiled a brew of gorse flowers, three of us bent over a blackened pot on a fire, stirring and chanting and arguing the toss about why the infusion didn’t taste of the coconut we could so obviously smell.
Twice a day, five times a week in term time the school minibus swept round the curve where the young man spun his car into the blossoms. Rod Stewart’s ‘Sailing’ was number one in the charts. All of us kids chorusing:
can you hear me, can you hear me
through the dark night, far away
I am dying, forever crying
to be near you, who can say
Old Duncan was found spread-eagled on his back in the frost in the car park outside the third pub a week after Valentine’s Day. Maureen, the cousin of the post-mistress once removed, swore she saw a robin hop hop hopping on the peak of Old Duncan’s hoary nose before she screamed and called for help.
Old Duncan had the misfortune to die in our second winter before the gorse flowers bloomed. He did, though, get the crystallised bird tracks on his marbled cheeks. They wanted for nothing, the locals. Nothing at all.
How do you plan your cycle trips? By what you think your limits are? Or by where you want to go? And do your use apps, or a paper map or just follow your nose?
On Saturday 6 May an older man and his wife in England were crowned. Up here in Scotland there was bunting, outrage, apathy, protests and more interest in the ceremony than many were prepared to admit.
The weather was dull, with heavy showers and thunder forecast. I was six months on from my partial knee replacement. I wanted to go for a day’s cycle trip to avoid the coronation. I was also building miles with a view to doing a 100 miler later in the summer. Fifty or so miles I thought. I ruled out Fife. I’d been a number of times recently and it was time for a change. I ruled out the Dalkeith Country Park loop. I’d done that too often, too. East Lothian, I thought. Gifford I thought. The WhiteAdder Reservoir I decided.
The reservoir, in the Lammermuir hills in East Lothian, is 245 metres above sea level. That doesn’t seem much for someone who has cycled over the Himalayas, but that trip was in 2001 and cycling up steep hills is not something I’ve done much of in the last few years because of my arthritic knee.
Given the distance of around 60 miles return I chose my 22 year old pink Cannondale road bike over the heavier more practical Bob Jackson tourer. Light weight with no mudguards it’s fast and easy but not useful for carrying bulky waterproofs. It’s also not ideal on off-road muddy paths.
I looked for my Spokes East Lothian map and couldn’t find it. Not to worry, I thought. I was sure I would remember the route once I was on the road. I believed there was a national cycle network route to Gifford, and after that it’s pretty much straight up.
I set off without a paper map, without decent gloves (I could only find one of them), in shorts, with a woolly hat, an orange cap, and a windproof jacket that would last two minutes in heavy rain.
In Musselburgh I was forced into the door zone of parked cars by the male driver of a private hire taxi. In frustration I gestured to him as he bullied his way past. This turned out to be a mistake. He veered into a parking place further down the street, waited for me and roared abuse as I cycled past. He then pulled out and overtook me again. Again he roared. Finally he took off down a street to the right. I knew what he would do. Sure enough he was waiting for me up ahead. More abuse followed as I cycled past him. Shaken, but not put off, I pedalled onto the shared use path that runs along the River Esk up to Whitecraigs.
From Whitecraigs I joined NCN1, then turned left onto the route that takes you through a farm, up a steep hill, and up onto the Pencaitland railway path. It was oddly quiet, very few folk on bikes, just a couple of horse-riders and dog walkers. Was everyone watching the coronation? Were they put off by the weather? Or were they taking advantage of the long weekend and had gone further afield? The path, smooth red gravel, runs for around seven miles. It’s a pretty tree-lined route and it was busy with low flying blackbirds and floating white blossom.
There’s something meditative about cycling alone on a lightweight bike. I’d brought a bluetooth speaker for my handlebars and, when there was no-one else on the path, I listened to music, humming along, smiling, sometimes breaking into song. I got to the top of the railway path, stopped to watch a hare bounding into a hedgerow, found the NCN sign, turn left onto the road towards West Saltoun, cycled a few miles to East Saltoun and lost the NCN signs. I couldn’t remember whether the NCN continued to Gifford or whether it turned towards Haddington.
Without my paper map, and too lazy to use an online app, I followed the road signs to Gifford instead. While there was little traffic, the road was fast and several times I was passed by drivers who were too close doing what felt around 70mph. As a nervous cyclist (who wouldn’t be after being run over by an HGV driver) it was an uncomfortable ride. I pushed on as fast as I could, willing Gifford to come into sight. Despite the fear, it was exhilarating. Here I was powering myself through East Lothian on my own with my new knee. I felt strong, fit, liberated. What could possibly go wrong?
In Gifford, some twenty miles from Edinburgh, I stopped at the Lanterne Rouge, a much-loved cafe used by all sorts of cyclists. Oddly, there was only one other person there with a bike – an older man with an ebike who looked at me askance when I said I was going up to Whiteadder. It’s steep, he said, shaking his head. I know, I said, smiling. But I’d forgotten just how steep it was. The last time I’d been over the Lammermuirs it had been on an ebike from Dunbar.
It’s around nine miles to the reservoir from Gifford. I treated myself to avocado on toast with an egg on top and bought a fruit scone to take with me to eat at the top. I rammed that into my frame bag and set off up the hill. Google maps told me there were two routes to the reservoir, one that looped round through Garvald (11 minutes longer) and the shorter one that I knew.
I went via Garvald. It was the coronation. I was strong. I was fit. I was bold. I was a middle-aged woman at the top of my game. I was also clueless. I had no idea what was coming. The roads were narrow, quiet and beautiful. They were also very steep. There were at least two major fords with the road sweeping steeply down to them and sweeping even more steeply back up the other sides. Twice I had to get off. Not because I was out of breath but I simply didn’t have the strength in my legs to get the bike up what seemed like perpendicular roads.
Around a mile or so on from the second ford the thunder started and the sky smeared troubled grey. The air felt moist, thick.
I stopped, looked towards the hills. Looked back down the way I had come. There was no way I was going back through those fords and Garvald. I was committed. I pedalled up past a lone woman in a long skirt and walking boots (where was she was going?), we exchanged pleasantries, I continued up, and down came the rain.
It was a torrent, a maelstrom, a sudden dreadful sousing sent straight from the hereafter. There was nowhere to shelter. No sheds, no overhangs, not even a tree. I stopped, pulled on my hopeless jacket, and got back on the bike. Up up I went into the hills as the single-track road turned into a stream and then a river. My shoes filled with water. My black shorts slicked around my thighs. Thanks to my friend Al, I was wearing a Stolen Goat cycling cap. It kept the water off my glasses. I could see at least.
A driver loomed out of the dark towards me, flashed his lights and gave me a wave. I pedalled on. Each time I hit the crest of a hill another higher summit loomed into sight. And another. And another. I laughed. I muttered. I sang. I cranked up my speaker. Up I went with Shakira and Sonic Youth and Destiny’s Child and Beyoncé and Bob Dylan and Joan Jett and Patti Smith.
Still the rain came and still I kept going, the speaker spluttering in and out of life. I had no idea how far I had to go. I prayed that my tyres wouldn’t puncture. I prayed that my chain wouldn’t break. My legs pushed and turned, pushed and turned, and then, there it was, the slate glint of the reservoir on my left.
I didn’t stop to look at it. Didn’t stop to take a picture. I turned right onto the ‘main road’ and kept on pedalling. It’s one of the world’s great mysteries that the road is not downhill from there all the way to Gifford. There is however, a row of trees that provides a fulcrum of shelter. I stopped, ate half my damp scone too fast and hiccoughed.
By then my adrenaline had dissipated, my legs were heavy, my fingers red and numb and I was doused through. I was thirty miles from home. The music floundered and stopped. My phone died. I was less liberated and more fucked.
Up I rode towards Gifford. Up and up until the rain trembled and stopped and the sky breached. The downhill should have been a relief but I was trying not to get cold and trying to stop my brakes steaming and grating. Safe in Gifford I asked a local how to get onto the NCN. Turn right at the golf course he said. That turned out to be the same fast road (B6355) I’d come in on. I kept going. Losing my nerve I hugged the edge of the road, knowing that I’d only encourage the close-passers, which of course I did. But at East Saltoun I found the NCN again and I was on my way.
As I cycled back along the Pencaitland railway path I puzzled over whether it was uphill or downhill. For years I’d thought it was downhill towards Edinburgh until somebody recently told me the opposite. Cold and wet, my fingers now numb, I thought most of it was downhill. I do, of course, stand to be corrected.
Back in Edinburgh my hands were so cold it took me a minute or so to get my key into my door lock. It seems I am that person who no longer listens to limits. I cycle where I want to go. I cycle where I think I should be able to go. I follow my nose. I am hopeless at understanding online maps.
That night I ordered a new fancy waterproof cycling jacket from the Netherlands. There’ll be a Brexit bonus tax to pay when it arrives. In years to come we’ll remember where we were for this coronation. I’ll remember it fondly – on an old pink road bike getting a sousing on the Lammermuir hills.
The route I took is here. Take gloves. And a waterproof jacket. And shake that ass up those climbs.
Anyway, take socks that sit too tight on the portly ankles of tumescent womenfolk.
They’re black they’re rust they’re fawn they’re blue slush they’re peach melba they’re mushroom they’re mildew they’re tusk they’re cask they’re sherry they’re Campari and soda.
The grippers with the too grippy grip.
The graspers with the too graspy grasp.
Mocking socks are discriminatory.
Mocking socks are misogyny.
Mocking socks can fuck off back to the factory.
What to do with socks that mock?
That cauterise and baudelise and turn toes mauve and ankles cantankerous?
Some say one should ship in the snippers, pinch each sock with two fingers and snip snip snip until the throttling stops. The trouble with the snipping is the inevitable unravelling, an unfurl here and an unfurl there until said socks have dropped beneath your ankles so deep into your soles you’re forced into a waddle that’s either John Cleese or excuse me dear where’s the nearest public facility?
Ach, I hear you cry. Why buy the mocking socks at all? Haven’t you heard of soft tops?
Soft tops are topsy turvy.
Soft tops are wrinkling monstrosities.
Soft tops don’t fangle with frocks. (But they wrangle with sandals).
Lock ‘em up the sellers of strangling socks.
Lock ‘em up dwellers of shrill ankles and sock bankers.
Introduction. Don’t go looking. I went looking. Progress at one week. Three. That amount of flexion. This amount of pain. Those miles of walking. These miles of cycling. Will my leg ever be straight. When to go back to work. How much weight loss is normal. What about fatigue. What does overreach even mean?
I don’t have the answers for these things. We are all different and comparing ourselves to others can be dispiriting. So this is a story with few numbers. No milestones to compare yourself to. It’s just my experience and how I approached some of the challenges of rehab and daily living after a lateral partial knee replacement in my right knee.
The anaesthetic. I was offered a spinal, accepted a spinal, and woke up in the operating theatre (don’t remember this) to complain of pain. Knocked out with a general anaesthetic immediately. Yes there was a lot of pain afterwards. No, I couldn’t control it. Not for the first few days. The great thing about pain is that it’s almost impossible to remember once it’s gone – and it will go. You just have to slog through it. I was in hospital for two nights but could have stayed longer if I’d wanted to. And yes, I did want to. But I hauled on my big girl pants and left on the Sunday evening – forty eight hours after waking up from surgery.
Painkillers. Left the hospital with paracetamol, codeine and some break through oxycontins. Never touched the latter. A good tip seems to be to take the painkillers for longer than you think you need them, always ensure you have pain cover for physiotherapy sessions, and taper down the stronger tablets first (codeine) and keep the paracetamol going. You can break the codeine tablets in half, and mix and match with different strengths of Co-codamol. I took paracetamol four times a day for a few weeks, then dropped down to just as required. If you’re taking codeine you’ll need to up the fibre in your diet, drink plenty of water and possibly add in a laxative. Happy times.
Sticks. I started on a walking frame, using it for a day immediately post-op, then progressed straight to crutches (the ones that you can hang off your arms). I live in a top flat (three flights of stairs) and had no problem going up and down once I got home (more on that later). At some point I moved to one crutch, and stopped using the crutch when I kept walking away without it. It was useful to take the one crutch out with me even after I didn’t need it. It felt safer, and was a good signal to bus drivers that they shouldn’t drive off until I’d sat down.
Going home. The first week was hard. Tiring, sore and difficult to move around. I stayed with friends for a week and would have struggled to manage at home on my own. I needed looking after. Having my meals cooked for me. A little help with the TED stockings for a couple of days. A hand into the shower. Some tender loving care.
Stocking up. I stocked the freezer before my operation, bought bulk food that was easy to prepare, and brought lots of fruit and vegetables home with me after a week away. Standing up to cook and do dishes was hard, but got easier quickly. Having a small kitchen was a godsend. I could swivel between the sink and the hob with little effort. I ate a lot of porridge and quiche (never together).
Sleeping. Getting comfortable in bed for the first few weeks was tough. I was advised not to sleep with a pillow under my knee (it would prevent my leg from straightening) and I managed that for the first couple of weeks but buckled eventually and used the pillow. Once I could turn over in bed and sleep on my side I put a pillow between my knees which helped. Sleeping on a fifteen year old concrete futon is not ideal post knee surgery.
Washing. I do love a bath board! The hospital team gave me a board to take home, but, while I was staying with friends I used their shower. The board and a non-slip mat in the bath were essential (my shower is over the bath) safety measures, and meant I could relax without worrying about slipping. The board has now moved on to the next patient – a friend who broke her ankle just before Christmas. I gave the board up when I had enough knee flexion to step in and out of the bath easily.
Staple removal. Not going to lie, it hurt. I booked the appointment with the nurse as soon as I left hospital (advice was to have the staples removed 10-12 days after surgery). It only took a few minutes but she did miss one (hard to see in amongst the swelling) and we spotted the silver glint just before I left. I should have taken strong painkillers in advance. Got a telling off from the nurse for not taking my dressings (provided by the hospital) in to cover the wound once the staples were out. REMEMBER TO TAKE YOUR DRESSINGS.
Physiotherapy. Physiotherapy wasn’t provided with my surgery so I arranged it myself. I found a local private practice two blocks from my flat (it was vital that I could get to physiotherapy on my own) and booked the first appointment for a few days after the staple removal (around three weeks after surgery). I wanted to get started quickly, and the sessions hurt – both at the time and afterwards. For me, physiotherapy meant goals, measuring progress (for example knee flexion and straight leg), having a professional on hand for reassurance and questions, and doing the stuff I couldn’t do myself (for example getting into the scar early to avoid the build up of scar tissue). I went every week until I was swimming and cycling, then dropped it to fortnightly.
Exercise. At home I already had a turbo trainer (my touring bike is on that), yoga blocks, therabands, ankle weights and hand weights. I bought a 6 mm yoga mat -the extra thickness made the physio exercises at home more comfortable. I had (and still have) a daily routine set out by the physiotherapist which he has changed every few weeks as I get stronger. This is a mix of stretches, strengthening exercises, and exercises to improve my knee flexion. Knee flexion has been relatively easy but getting a straight leg has proven much more elusive. As I write this (around week ten) I’m still around half a degree off that holy grail.
I started on the turbo trainer early on (ten minute sessions) and had to buy a step ladder to get onto it. I started off in an easy mode (spinning) and increased the resistance over time. I’m also lucky enough to live close to a swimming pool. I was in the pool soon after my wound had fully healed, doing gentle exercises before starting front crawl with a pool buoy between my knees, then progressing to wearing fins – and now I do a few lengths with fins, a couple without, a few with etc.
Walking. I’ve been advised to keep increasing the distance I walk but it’s been tricky in icy conditions. I started with a few steps in my street, building up to a block. My target was getting to the local Scotmid to buy supplies. Initially my leg felt stiff and sore, then I struggled with spatial awareness (standing on one leg is good for that, progressing to standing on a cushion to get a bit of a wobble.). The spatial awareness issue has resolved but I’m still conscious of my knee when walking. I was anxious on my first couple of trips into town on my own (using the bus) and tired afterwards. I was surprised at the level of fatigue even several weeks post surgery. Nobody mentioned that! I’m now able to walk further than I could when my knee was flaring (before the surgery).
Cycling. Before the operation I was advised to stay off my bike (outside) for around twelve weeks. This was for safety purposes. While I’d probably have enough flexion to cycle, the rough road surfaces and unpredictable drivers, dogs and pedestrians would be too risky. However, at my follow up with my surgeon around seven weeks, she advised I could start earlier. Again, I started gently, cycling off-road initially for ten minutes, with the second outing half an hour. I’m expecting to cycle to work next week.
Work. Going back to work will depend on what you do, whether you can work at home, and your employer. I am able to work at home, and have a supportive employer. I did a few hours of work in my fourth week post-op, had a two week break over Christmas, and then went back to my normal working pattern. The main challenge has been to remember to stand up every hour and do some physio to prevent stiffening up. As I work part time, I’ve been able to do more extensive physio on my days off, with lighter exercises on working days. And yes it was tiring going back!
Kneeling. Yep – it’s happening! Lots of people worry about this. I’ve been working on it over the last week, kneeling on a cushion and initially putting most of my weight through my unaffected leg. I’m starting yoga in a couple of weeks and I’ll be looking for postures that help my kneel confidently.
Aches and pains. Pain comes and goes in different places at different times. My main issues, outside the expected pain, have been pain across my knee cap during one particular exercise (leg raise off chair), and pain associated with a very tight ITB. I’m working on the ITB (stretches and spiky ball) and the knee cap pain will dissipate over time.
Cranial osteopathy. A few days before the operation, I had a cranial osteopathy treatment. Following surgery, I had a few more treatments. The treatments were calming and helpful in reducing pain as well as improving my mobility and stimulating the healing process.
So that’s it. As I write this, I’m just nine weeks post-op. The journey hasn’t been linear. Some weeks have been easier than others, and the seventh week was particularly unforgiving. There were a few tears in the first couple of weeks. I lost an astonishing amount of weight and am trying to put it back on. Chocolate and cheese is an ace combo. My friends have been superstars – providing emotional support and lots of shopping. I’ve stayed motivated, and worked hard. I have to make all of struggle worthwhile. If you’re starting out on this process, I wish you well. If you’re ahead of me, I hope your rehab is going as well as it can for you. It’s a long but fruitful haul.
I am not beautiful. I know this because a damson-faced man in a sad silver Mercedes (circa 1990) called me a fucking wee slag. Fucking wee slags are not beautiful. Especially when they’re the other side of fifty-five. Damson-faced men with concertina-slabbed bellies know a thing or two about beauty. They practically invented it. There they squat in the spill of an autumn morning, their foxy grey y-fronts cutting deep circumspect lines where their waists might have been. Damson-faced men drive with a psoriasis-spun elbow out of the smudged grease of a window that no longer shuts, not even close.
I am not beautiful. I know this because a tall beautiful man I lived with took it upon himself to grab me, to force me up against our kitchen bench, to push so hard my hand, of its own trembling accord, reached around behind me for a knife I knew I couldn’t use. This tall beautiful man had history. Her turquoise violation lingered for days in amongst crisp white sheets and reclaimed hardwood floorboards.
I am not beautiful. I know this because a shorter beautiful man with skin woven from chitins grew bored of our planned life together, ending it after a scramble of life decisions already made and briskly undone. Still, this shorter beautiful man continued to play me a bit-part, pulling my knee-strings, indispensable for walking, How those of us who are now ugly clamour for a nod or a touch from those who remain beautiful, refuting the adage that beauty is only skin deep, how can it be when they have everything and we have nothing?
I am not beautiful. I know this because I have a job in a building with a toilet mirror that pitches my lower lip, that punnets my cheeks, that reptants my neck (is that even a word?). Mirrors in shops are liars, we all know that. They groom us and swoon us, shaking us down into frocks we don’t need, careening heels that will murder us on escalators (manslaughter at least). But office mirrors? Are even they in the misogyny game now?
Two weeks seems a long time to wait with a breast abnormality red flagging for cancer. But many women in the UK wait much longer. And women in low and middle income countries face an appalling scarcity of facilities for detection and diagnosis, as well as poor access to treatment.
You ponder this on your wait. You consider women in Afghanistan, in Yemen, in Sudan, in the DRC, in Pakistan, in Somalia. You imagine finding a lump or an inverted nipple as you shelter from a bombardment in Ukraine, as you trudge a scurfed track for water in Bangladesh, as you queue for food aid in a Syrian refugee camp years from your own home.
These thoughts, along with a twice daily mindfulness practice, dial down your anxiety. You find, to your surprise, you can put things in perspective. You stop catastrophising. Here in Scotland, in the capital city, you have access to health care. You have a close circle of supportive friends. You’ve lived already. That’s right. You’ve lived. The fear fizzles, flattens, fades.
You are permitted to take a support person but you choose not to. Going alone normalises it. Going alone says there’s nothing to fear. It’s just another medical appointment. And anyway, you want to cycle through the two parks and along the tree-lined paths with the robins and the chaffinches and the thrushes. You want to smile at the jittering blackbirds. You want to belly breathe the lucidity of the light.
You arrive at the hospital and there’s no cycle parking so you lock your bike to the Cancer Centre sign and you hope this isn’t disrespectful.
You walk in.
You walk and walk. Through the Cancer Centre, up one floor in a lift, down a listless grey corridor, past the cafe, down another indifferent corridor, turn right, into a narrow opening, up a tight set of stairs, and there it is. Your tummy tumbles. Name. Date of birth. You are ushered to a door on the right.
The waiting room is bright, fresh and awash with whispers. A TV on the far wall presents the news. A story about a woman suing a rape crisis centre for not providing a female only support group. A ferry procurement scandal. Grief worn statistics from Ukraine.
How does anyone decide where to sit? The closest chair? A chair with no next door neighbour? A chair on the far side by the window involving a walk past Other People who will look at you or not look at you and either of those outcomes will be utterly shameful? You choose, wrongly it turns out, a seat close to the entrance.
A poster on the wall explains that men get breast cancer, too. You know that but this is largely a women’s place. Nearly all the people waiting are women. A few have men with them. Others look like mothers and daughters. And yet others have female partners or friends.
Hands entwined. Phones scrolling. Fingers twisting. Reading the posters. ALLOW FOUR HOURS FOR YOUR APPOINTMENT. One woman, alone, young, her head in her hands. Another woman, elderly, deaf, a red anorak, can’t hear for the television. You get your book out. Names are called. You can’t hear the calling. You get up, move to another seat closer to the callings. You do the walk of shame without the shame. You’ve got this. You grin.
You are called forty minutes after your appointment time. You drift into the process. Catch the tide. It is efficient, compassionate, and thorough.
Interviewed by the nurse practitioner.
Examined by the nurse practitioner.
A mammogram of both breasts and an ultrasound of one breast by a female consultant.
She gives you the results.
All clear.
Back upstairs to wait for the nurse practitioner.
Book out, reading. (Check the woman with her head in her hands).
Feedback on your results from the nurse practitioner.
Another physical examination by a male consultant.
‘Wear and tear’, he says.
‘Shy nipple’, she says, laughing.
Nothing to see here.
Patient discharged.
You walk back through those listless, disinterested corridors. You smile at the peeling paint, the curling posters, the automatic doors. You unlock your bike from the Cancer Centre sign. On the bench beside the sign a nurse sits with a patient. The patient, a gaunt woman perhaps in her fifties, is wearing a headscarf. Her skin is grey amber. She tells you she has cancer. The nurse tells her not to bother you. But you are not bothered. She is the first person you tell about your all clear. You are uncomfortable in the telling. Why you and not her? She wants to talk. You struggle to understand her. Her words are all swollen lips and rasping tongue. She gives you a thumbs up.
You get on your bike and bump down the kerb. Turn and wave to her. You want her to live.
The day you find an abnormality in one of your breasts, breast cancer is everywhere. On Women’s Hour. On Twitter. On the back of a bus. On a leaflet dropped through the door advertising private health care. A smiling woman in a white headscarf holding hands with a smiling man who still has hair. Magaluf tans.The ‘Big C’ they call it. Monstering and terrifying. Everyone smiling. Everyone holding their breath.
You know you shouldn’t but you do it anyway. Surge through the Internet. NHS Inform. Breast cancer is the most common type of cancer in the UK. Fingers trembling on the scroll bar. Click click click through the links. Breast Cancer Awareness. Five Deadly Signs. The tumour pulls the nipple inwards, inverting it. Six questions to ask your GP. Double mastectomy and chemotherapy. YOUR BRA CAN KILL. Connecting patients, survivors and loved ones. BE BREAST AWARE. About 8 out of 10 cases of breast cancer occur in women over 50.
You plough through the symptoms again and again. You (YOU) should speak to your GP if you notice any of the following:
a lump or area of thickened tissue in either breast
a change in the size or shape of one or both breasts
discharge from either of your nipples (which may be streaked with blood)
a lump or swelling in either of your armpits
dimpling on the skin of your breasts
a rash on or around your nipple
a change in the appearance of your nipple, such as becoming sunken into your breast.
You are an animal. Prodding and plucking. Staring in the mirror. Teasing and fooling. Promising (you’ll not look for another hour, really, yes, or even two.). You want to bounce your head off the bedroom wall. Maybe you do. You decide it’s time to write your will.
You pull and haul on the future you’ll never have. Coil it round an arthritic finger, Twist the threads, burn off the ends with a candle scented with fresh figs. You sneak another look. Maybe it’s not as bad as you thought. Maybe it’s worse. You try different lights. Unusual angles. Your breast will not be tricked. It waves its red flag.
There is no other explanation. The Big C. You focus on those you know who’ve survived and flourished. But the faces of those who didn’t, those that were buried and lamented, they boss and push to the front, stepping on toes, scheming and leering.
As with the vet, it’s always at the end of the working week. When it’s not possible to get an appointment with a GP. Even though you know, you understand, a couple of days isn’t going to make any difference. But YOU MUST FIND OUT.
You phone the GP practice anyway. Maybe god is on your side.(She isn’t). Call us first thing on Monday morning the receptionist says. She is both kind and resigned. You imagine she’s had a hard week. That’s she’s straightening her creases. Not raising her voice to the deaf. Forty-eight hours. What will you do with forty-eight hours? With immense discipline, you stay off the Internet. Do not engage, you say to yourself. There is nothing for you there. You phone a friend. Two. You climb down from the ceiling. Eat pasta straight from the pan. And lemon curd straight from the jar.
Mindfulness is sorcery. You do it exceptionally well.
You spend forty-eight hours attempting the right thing. You go for a cycle. You walk round the block. You hold a book in front of your eyes. It’s even the right way up. You meditate meditate meditate. You also do the wrong thing. Lie n your bed wishing it all away. Hour after misting hour. You make it to Monday. On speed dial to the GP. at 8am. You get through on the fifth attempt. The GP phones you back an hour later. And an hour after that you are in the surgery. Naked from the waist up. The NHS does not prioritise arthritic knees. It pins a lot on breasts.
The GP is kind, considerate and professional. Maybe, when she’s investigating the breast tissue through clever, experienced fingers, she has her eyes shut. Or maybe that’s you. You can’t remember. You hang onto the things that need hung onto. This can be part of the ageing process.But I’m making an urgent referral to the Breast Clinic anyway. The waiting time is no more than two weeks.
No more than two weeks. You will meditate meditate meditate. On Tuesday, or maybe the Wednesday, either way you’re at work, you have a missed call. A number you don’t recognise. The Breast Clinic. They’re calling you in.
To be continued in Part 2. (Spoiler – you get the all clear at the clinic.)
The image is from a Scottish Government campaign on breast cancer.
This week I didn’t get a job. It took five weeks from starting the application process, through the two interviews, to learning the result. It struck me during the process that it might be interesting to share the various emotions I experienced through those weeks. Some of those emotions will be universal, some are more likely to be experienced by women, and a few no doubt, are just mine.
Stage 1 – Discovering the vacancy
I see the advertisement on Twitter. Yes, I think. I’d love to work with those people! After all, I already know some of them, so I know what I’m getting into. And it’s part-time so I can manage my disability. And it’s with an organisation doing something I believe in. I am excited. I start to imagine myself in this organisation. Out and about at events with them. Plotting and planning with them. In shopping parlance, I’m already wearing the outfit. Looking in the mirror, checking myself out in this fabulous new cloth. Yes, my bum looks good in this. Yes, it suits me. Yes, I’ll take it. Oh – how much does it cost?
Stage 2 – The person specification
How much does it cost? In other words, do I meet the criteria, and can I live on the salary? Let’s leave the salary to one side for the moment. Many person specifications have three columns. The first has the criteria, the next is the column for ‘essential’, the final is the column for ‘desirable.’ I can tick off most of the essential criteria. There are perhaps two or three that I can’t. But two of these criteria are knowledge-based. In other words, if I think about it rationally, I can learn what I’m currently missing on the job. I can also tick off most of the desirable criteria. No problems there. But, perhaps because I am a woman, I pause at not getting a perfect score. Perhaps I shouldn’t apply. Doubts set in. Then I remind myself how I look in the new outfit. And that I need the money. Surely it’s worth a punt. And anyway, the average man I tell myself, wouldn’t have any doubts at all.
Stage 3 – The salary
I cast the doubts aside. I am in the new outfit, striking off down the catwalk. And, as I have been on a career break for three years with no income at all, I start spending the money. Not actually spending it of course. But I plot. I fantasise. I’ll get the lights fixed in the kitchen, replace the linoleum floor, get someone in to help with the interminable silicon issues around the bath. I’ll pay off my missing years’ National Insurance. I’ll take the people out who’ve bought me lunch and dinner over the last three years. I’ll treat them and treat them and treat them to Edinburgh’s finest. Of course, during these fantasies I’m also sure I won’t get the job. I don’t meet the criteria. There’ll be someone better, younger, smarter, more suitable. So I’m spending the money and not spending the money because someone else better than me will be spending the money instead.
Step 4 – The application
Some vacancies require you to fill in an online form. In this case, it’s a letter and a CV. The letter needs to refer to the person specification – the essentials and desirables (here I’d like to say something amusing about deplorables but nothing obvious comes to mind). This is tricky. There’s an art to writing a succinct letter that covers a person specification. How much detail to give for each criteria? Detailed examples or one-liners? Should I write a short story about each one? Should I use the competency approach beloved of the public sector? Should I include my major strategic successes? Or stick to small specific examples? A two-year project taking a government’s climate change plan through from inception to publication? Or a blog for a local active travel campaign? Might I be considered overqualified for some of the criteria but underqualified for others? I decide that the letter must be no longer than two pages. And I rework my CV to suit the post. I submit.
Step 5 – The interview
The email arrives with the offer of an interview. It will be an online interview given the covid situation. More mixed emotions. The heft of success – hurrah, got through the first round! Then the anxiety. Since being run over by a lorry some thirteen years ago I’ve not been as effective as I might be at interviews. This, I discovered when taking part in some post cycle/vehicle collision research, is relatively common. I tend to overprepare, am overanxious at the interview itself, and don’t take enough time to pause and think when being asked questions. With this new self-awareness, I spend some time researching the organisation again, and rehearse some of the stories that I used in my essential/desirable criteria. Am I still trying the outfit on? Oh, yes. Am I spending the money? Oh yes. But I’m also talking myself down. Remembering other failed interviews. The interview with the Tramadol (not recommended but was essential medication at the time for pain control). The interview that was supposed to be online but the recruiter didn’t understand the technology so I only had audio but the panel could see and hear each other. That was, I believe, verging on the deplorable.
Step 6 – The wait
This interview is not deplorable. It is fair. As fair as an interview can be online. Of course, afterwards, I focus on all my negative aspects. The things I didn’t say but should have. My inability to read the room on Zoom. No facial cues to bounce off. No body language to check. Just thank you very much we’ll be touch. And then the wait. We are all waiting. I no longer dare to wear the outfit. I don’t spend the money. But I am caught in the coursing ebb of an unknown future now outside my control. Two futures. One in work, and all that that entails. And one that continues as is, free, loose, but without structure.
Step 7 – The second interview
OK – I absolutely did not expect this. I did not expect a second round of interviews that include preparing some content, doing a presentation, and answering more questions (provided). Initially I am surprised and perplexed. This hiatus of two potential futures is discombobulating. I apply myself to the task. Learn the basics of new software for the presentation. Prepare answers for the questions. I consider what to wear to the interview given 1) I’ll be cycling there and 2) what the panel are likely to be wearing. My choice of clothes involves entering my wardrobe for the first time in months or even years. I attend the hybrid interview in person (we’re all hybrid now). Once again the interview is as fair as an interview can be. It is a Friday. We’ll be in touch on Monday, they say. Thank you, I say. Thank you.
Step 8 – The news
I don’t think about it over the weekend. It is now, as they say, in the lap of the gods. My interview clothes are back in the wardrobe. I live my weekend without a possible new future. And then it is Monday. We all do it, don’t we? Make the calculations that is. We know that the successful candidate is contacted first. And that as the day wears on, we are less likely to be that candidate. My phone rings. This is it. But no, it isn’t. It’s the police (that’s a story for another day). And then, finally, the call. We know, don’t we. All of us. In the first second, we know. The gut punch. The rush of heat to the neck. We hear the explanation. We breathe. We are adult about it. We might take something positive from it. Or, if we are in the habit of beating ourselves up, we might not. In this case, the successful candidate has a different set of skills to mine. And those skills are the ones selected by the recruiting organisation. And that is fine. That is the best outcome for the organisation. And the things the organisation aims to achieve.
The gut punch doesn’t last. The almost future dissipates, dissolves, and disappears. For five weeks, my bum looked pretty good in it. But hey, there’s more than one way to dress a bum.
In today’s writing class we considered excerpts from Sara Baume’s Handiwork. We discussed some of the themes of her book – labour, home, hobbies, inheritance – along with the craft of her writing. We also returned to Lopate’s work on the writer as character in essays.
The fragments below are from the writing exercises in the class.
Queensland 1987 in the last pass of the cucumber season. Twenty-two years old and leader of a chain gang. Picked up on a dusty violet dawn by a gang master outside a state government unemployment office. Back tray of his ute backward-facing leant on backpacks, towels tied around faces as dust jackets. Later, the conveyor shuffles the cucumbers in starts and fits. It’s the motor that’s distressed. Sacked by the gang master for the audacious act of fixing the conveyor belt chain.
This is the desk that Scott built. Scott is dead. Killed, he said beforehand, by the genes of his father and the distractions of his doctor. I’ll not live past fifty he said, as he sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor building this desk from a John Lewis flatpack. He was right and I write here in amongst the skirmish of desiccated pens and never finished notebooks and mugs of hot water, mugs bought on the Wild Atlantic Way from an Irish woman in a yellow apron who threw in a fruit scone with the white tissue-paper wrapping. How to Write Like Tolstoy. March Was Made of Yarn. The Trip to Echo Spring. The Student Guide to Writing. Concise Scots Dictionary (nothing concise about it). Scott is dead but he built this desk and now he is rinsed from the Internet. A GoPro, a stapler out of staples, a dried-out Pritt Stick, a Christmas stamp yet to be used, a wash-blue ceramic plant pot crammed with pointless pens for a pointless whiteboard I never crown.
Bought. A red sandstone flat, listed, in an empire building named Windsor Mansions by someone who may or may not have been taking the piss in 1896. Bought from a couple who rode a motorbike over the Alps in 1949 and never invested in gas central heating. Inside the flat, plants clamber and vegetables spoil and there’s a red thing happening which all started with the purchase of a post-box red Bakelite phone, bought with the proceeds of a focus group payment.
Some people have hobbies. She has campaigns, diatribes, schemings, manoeuvres. It is said, in whispers, that she begs, cajoles, witters on. She crusades and yet she is no crusader. No tunic or tabard, no applique red cross or oversize brown leather gloves. There is a sword in a museum up the road. If push comes to shove.
Watching north is not the same as watching south. The accordion bounces chipper on the Macedonian’s knees, the wheeze of his instrument his wheeze, my wizard. His knitted hat turns bare head turns sun hat turns bare head turns knitted hat. A year in hats with a constant, three beat, bouncing wheeze. Or a tango. Hats and accordion watching north.
I am curious about the relationship between a living daughter and her dead father.
I am curious about fishmongers that fight to the death.
I am curious about the relationship between a single person and their ageing cat.
I am curious about people who choose a brush over a comb.
I am curious about black satin sheets.
I am curious about fibre versus salt.
I am curious about people born from the wrong parent.
I am curious about emergency avocados.
Here is a quiz. This is a quiz about me, not you. Answer quickly and honestly. Answer yes or no. Am I:
astute
patronising
loyal
a cheat
a liar
forgiven
forsaken
overwrought
unreliable (narrator)
selfish
deluded
stuck
Stuck! That’s it. I am curious about why I am stuck. Stuck in the middle of you. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle of me.
Did you tick yes or no on stuck? Go on, tell me. I can take it (or I can’t – believe what you need to believe). I need to know. I won’t hold a grudge, I promise. Grudge wasn’t on the list. Does Kirsty bear a grudge? Oh yes, she is the queen of grudge-bearing. Wraps them up in tissue paper and sprays them with lavender oil and cedar to keep the moths at bay.
I am curious. Is there anyone out there who is more stuck, with more grudges, than her?
Mrs Watson once told me to stack my characteristics in a pyramid. Your best at the top, she said, pointing to her jade encrusted crown, and your worst at the bottom, she said, pointing to her mud encrusted wellington boots. But I’m not daft. She meant I only had one likeable trait, and several that would be found wanting. Stupid old bat. So I inverted the pyramid. On the top line: Affectionate, Broad-minded, Compassionate, Dependable, Efficient, Forgiving, Generous, Honest, Imaginative, Just, Kind, Loyal. On the next line more in the same sequential vein with some unfortunate afflictions thrown in. Oppressive, Rigid, Secretive. And so on until I had just the one negative trait left to provide.
I chose irascible. At the base of the unstable wobbling toppling hierarchy of me I chose irascible. Irascible is a heavy lifter. Irascible has ballast. Irascible has toe holds and firm footings. Irascible will neither budge nor blether. Irascible is anchor and resistance and purchase.
Irascible is a top word that is best placed at the bottom.
When I am down I retrieve my grudges from their moth proof wrappings. I hold them to my face. Stroke them and stoke them. Stroke, stoke. Stroke, stoke. Stroke, stoke.
There’s a lot I could say about Dr Strangelove.
And charm bracelets.
I wrote these notes from today’s writing class. We discussed Philip Lopate’s essay ‘On the necessity of turning oneself into a character’ in To Show and To Tell.
SANDERLINGS 