So although Rhodri’s new (ITEOMD) wife might come to the relationship well versed in world affairs, she too would have to take up the smear-free French windows gauntlet, wouldn’t she? Then she wouldn’t have a bloody clue either about what was going on in the world because she would be too knackered on a daily basis to bloody well care – except, of course, on a human level of caring that people are living in fear and getting hurt kind of way. By Newsnight time – see? I don’t even know what time that is on, and I have sat in on TV scheduling meetings for the last four years – I want to do nothing more exerting than read about ex-Big Brother housemates and their exploits in Heat magazine.
Unless she didn’t care about them of course – the windows, that is, not people living in fear of their lives on a daily basis. BUT oh shit, I’ve just thought he could meet her in work and she could be a bloody BBC journalist, then her job would be to know those things on a daily basis. Ah, but then Rhodri would feel threatened by her superior knowledge of world affairs or he could be in awe of her and that would make her more attractive – bugger bugger bugger. Must start telling him how crazy and mad journalists are to put him off them.
September 19, Tuesday
Went to see the acupuncturist today, Rosie, who is very nice and very calm. The first session is about two hours long and is like a counselling session. She sits you down and asks you why you came and then asks other questions about your life and your work and your relationships. I think it is probably the first time in my entire life that I have said some of the things I have said to anyone in such a coherent way.
The questions kept coming back to me and Rhodri and our relationship, and we ended up mainly talking about that, not my illness. She says she needs to understand where the illness might be coming from. So I say that I am controlling and bossy and that he is emotionally immature and quite selfish. It was very enlightening, as I know I’m quite controlling but I’ve never seen it as a major problem, and usually make light of it, saying, ‘I’m a control freak,’ but I am a control freak and that does manifest itself in a lot of anxiety in my life, especially with the children. I feel that I have to control them because if they listen to me and do exactly as I say, then they can’t hurt themselves. Not sure that works with Rhodri but I think I control Rhodri because I cannot live with a man who thinks he could control me. My father was very paternalistic to us as children and I never want to feel like that again. Here I am subjecting my own children to my control and it’s taken an acupuncturist to show me.
September 21, Thursday
Oh my God, have been reading The Drama of Being a Child and there is synchronicity in this world because it is all about . . . controlling our children. I am reading on and resolving to be a less controlling, more giving and accepting mummy. I am, I am, I am. I have discussed my Rosie conversations with Rhodri and told him I thought we needed to go to a counsellor; he squirmed and wriggled like a worm but said yes only because I have cancer. Told Rosie this and she thought it was very positive.
September 22, Friday
Rhodri has been in Leeds for a week doing a piano competition. Life has been busy with two wee ones to look after on my own – although, of course, staying at home with only Welsh class and lunching with friends to keep me occupied (oh, and obsessively tidying the house) and someone else actually looking after my children between the hours of 9 and 5 is not exactly challenging.
I am feeling rather guilty about staying at home as I’m not ill now I’ve got over my operations, so I’m doing housey things like making chilli and shepherd’s pie for my family. I feel like a real homemaker, mother and wife – the epitome of the 1950s housewife.
The truth is, I really like being at home. I’d rather be making shepherd’s pie and picking my children up early and sitting down and helping them with their spelling or their maths rather than relying on overworked teachers to do everything. If someone had told me two years ago that I would have written that, I would never have believed them. I don’t know where this person has come from, but I just want to be with my children and at home.
If I could stay home all the time, I wouldn’t get fat and I wouldn’t watch daytime TV. I would just do my Welsh, potter in the garden, potter in the house, meet my friends, pick blackberries, find conkers with my children, have other people’s children over to play – and I’ve described my perfect existence.
If I didn’t have to work, I’d have Osh at home for most of the week and just be a cooking, cleaning, lunching yummy (of course) mummy – except we need the money. The reason I have nice ‘things’ and a nice house and never think too much about credit card consolidation and children’s shoes is because I go out to work and work pays me money and money buys me stuff. I must remember to look up the Buddhist thing because I think Buddhist philosophy mentions stuff and ownership. Must do that, it’s not as if I haven’t got any time on my hands to be doing this or reading Richard E’s books. I have also banned myself from eBay for the time being. I actually had to go to town to drop the car off in the garage this morning and realised you can get great bargains there too – that was a bit dangerous. I never go into town because it’s too much hassle as I usually have at least one child with me. I will be ‘popping’ into town again soon to get the bumper fixed on the car where I went into the back of a Jaguar – yes, a bloody Jaguar – a new one as well. It was my fault – she stopped, I didn’t, and she was so lovely about it all, saying, ‘Never mind. At least you didn’t have your children in the car,’ pointing at the boys’ car seats. Ah, women are so even-tempered and practical. I bet if it was a bloke he’d have been calling me all the names under the sun, children’s car seats or no children’s car seats.
September 24, Sunday
Joanne came over to stay this weekend with Megan (four), and Julia was moving up to Mum’s. She has sold her house so is staying there while she finds a suitable house or plot to build on so we had Lloyd (four) with us. Not a bad ratio, two adults to four children under seven. We drank two bottles of wine on Saturday night. TOP TIP – looking after four small children and drinking a bottle of wine DO NOT GO TOGETHER.
It is not as if this is the first time I have done this and doubtless not the last either, but will I ever learn? I made Joanne vegetarian fajitas with Quorn which she raved about; they were very nice but after that much wine and not eating until nine o’clock, anything would have been wonderful.
We didn’t go to bed until late and we had a really nice time talking about life, the world and the universe. Why is it whenever I’m looking after a group of children I stupidly think they won’t wake up until late because they went to bed late? Life doesn’t work like that; they were all up by seven. So we took the only course of action open to two hungover adults: we let them play mindless games on the Playstation, had children’s TV on in two rooms, fed them chips and rubbish, let them trash the house and then took them to the park to wear them all out.
September 25, Monday
Rhodri came back from Leeds – was glad to see him for about half an hour then he started asking me banal questions which got my blood boiling, like why was I recording children’s films on Sky Plus and why was I doing this and why was I doing that. After a week on my own without anyone to question me or upset my routine, and spending quality time with the children and Sky Plussing to my heart’s content, it gets on my nerves. If we were fabulously wealthy we could have separate wings of the house and come together for food, sex and other stuff that doesn’t spring to mind – um, like children things. We tend to watch different programmes, apart from one, so we don’t even really watch the telly together.
I bet if we had separate wings he’d be pestering me in my wing for stuff (probably as a precursor to getting his leg over) but at last those banal conversations that drive me mad would mostly be dispensed with. I wonder if Madonna and what’s-his-name do that?
It would make for a bloody happy marriage, I’d say. Anyway, a bit later on he was sat in the living room and I went in and paused
the Champion’s League because I wanted to have a cancer conversation with Rhodri and thought that maybe, just maybe, he was growing up a bit. I was crossing my fingers and toes in anticipation.
I said that Jane had dropped Lloyd off with Julia and she asked me twice how I was after I had asked her how she was, as she is very pregnant.
I couldn’t understand why she asked me pointedly twice how I was – then it clicked. Shit, I’ve got cancer – or I had cancer, depending on how you look at it – and I’d forgotten. So I told Rhodri that I had forgotten I had cancer and that since seeing Mr Monypenny I was feeling that it was all OK now. I was going to live and I was seeing the chemo- and radiotherapy as minor blips to get over and I would live a long life and I thought I’d become complacent that this was it; I was cured and I felt guilty about feeling that I was cured and had not dared to speak of it before, and now I had gone from one extreme to another.
Firstly I spent the best part of two months obsessing that I might die or certainly not live long, and now I have become so complacent that I had actually forgotten about it when Jane asked me about it. I just feel a fraud that I had a cancerous breast tumour and had two ops which didn’t really hurt that much and didn’t really make me ill, and that I was enjoying the time I spent at home and felt guilty about enjoying it – and even though I know chemotherapy isn’t going to be nice, it’s short term and I can deal with it and then I will have radiotherapy and life will go back to normal. Will it, will it? Am I mad? Am I deluded? Am I naïve? Am I just fooling myself into believing that this is it – that I’m OK and something will happen to wipe the supercilious smile off my face?
Rhodri, who did not object to the pausing of the Champions League (the beauty of Sky Plus), said,’ You’ve had a life-threatening illness; you are not over it yet, you are in the process of recovery and you will have to go through chemo and radio and it will probably make you ill.’
He said he thought I was very practical about it and very brave, and that I was entitled to make the most of my time off. I cried and wondered if Rhodri had sneakily been reading a publication entitled How to say the right things to your wife with breast cancer, having gone from one extreme to another himself. I asked him if he thought I was mad, imagining that I was cured. He said that since we saw Mr Monypenny he too felt very positive about it all.
The thing is, I’ve got another six months of this to face and yet I feel as if it’s over, that my story stops here. I just need to focus and remember some of my feelings and think about being calm. I’ve been given a second chance to look at life anew and I’m bloody well going to take it.
September 27, Wednesday
Rosie was in a chatty mood. She asked me if Rhodri was still up for going to see a counsellor. I said yes, but that I hadn’t got round to doing anything about it. Part of the problem is that he’s suddenly saying the right things to me and being all sensible. He says I have two good weeks where I am lovely and two bad weeks where I’m not because of my menstrual cycle. When I told Rosie this, she thought it might be interesting to see if he notices a difference with my acupuncture. Arguably Rhodri is the reasonable one and I’m Mrs Irritable. I would, however, have very much appreciated having this conversation with him over the last ten years at some point so that I could have addressed it sooner, is what I said to Rosie.
I told Rosie about my experience with Jane and how I had forgotten about my cancer. I said I wasn’t sure if I should say I still have it or I had it. She said she thought that once you’ve had it, it’s something that you always have to think about.
I explained to her that since Mr Monypenny had given me the all-clear I felt demob happy, and I know I have the chemo to come, which is no picnic, but I know it will end and I’m feeling like that’s it: I’ve done cancer, now let’s move on.
She told me that I must NOT be blasé about cancer and that things sometimes happen for a reason. This is a warning to me that I have to change things in my life – and she would remind me about that. I do agree with her and she is such a great help, a leveller, a reminder in fact of why I am feeling so positive because I am taking control of my life. I will eat healthily, I will address my relationships and I will never drink copious amounts of alcohol again. I want to feel my senses, I want to be more patient, and most of all I want to be healthy for my children and for ME. So I will endeavour to remember that this is a chance for me to put things right and be thankful for that. Rosie talked about Buddhism and chi and energy, and women being in touch with their inner feelings – and I resolved once again to look it all up on the internet.
September 28, Thursday
Elis is unwell today and is at home with Rhodri. Thank God and Mr Monypenny that I am going to live (fingers and toes crossed) long enough to see my children grow up. Did I say that I would not give Rhodri any instructions on looking after MY children? Let’s face it, I carried them and had the ‘natural’ childbirth, the internal bleeding, stitches and prolapse to prove it. Well, I’ve changed my mind! My letter may have something in it like, If your child has a temperature over 100 and has thrown up over the duvet, pillow and his favourite teddy, it might be a good time to take some action.
I asked Rhodri before I went to bed last night if he had checked on the children. It’s a joke between us because before I go to sleep I always check on them to make sure they haven’t got temperatures, are not too cold, etc. Paranoid, I know, but I do.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I checked on Elis twice tonight,’ because Elis has been unwell during the day. ‘He’s a bit hot but that’s because we’ve had the heating on.’ I went upstairs to find Elis had a raging temperature and had thrown up everywhere. In fairness to Rhodri I only saw the sick when I turned the light on but he was bloody boiling and clearly very unwell. Does our son have to be in a coma before Rhodri does something about it?
I was VERY calm. I moved Elis to a mattress on the floor in our room to keep an eye on him, which also meant neither of us had to sleep directly with him. The last thing I want is for Rhodri to get this bug and give it to me the week before I start chemotherapy. I’ve waited a bloody lifetime to start already – they will have found a cure for cancer by the time my treatment is done and dusted.
I then quietly chastised Rhodri and gave him some tips on knowing if it is a temperature (the 100 mark on the thermometer) and asked did it occur to him to take Elis’s temperature? No, apparently it didn’t. ‘How can I ever trust you with them?’ I said, but not in the usual rasping, snake-like voice, more of a resigned tone. I didn’t want to shout in front of Elis (not in front of the children); actually, I didn’t want to shout at all. I just thought, Thank God I am here to look after them. I will bring up the subject of children and temperatures at a later date to make sure Rhodri knows what he’s supposed to do. I mean, he’s been a father for nearly seven years – hello!
I asked Rhodri to sort out the sicky blankets, pillow and duvets as I had done them the day before, when Elis had also been sick, and I want to minimise my contact with Elis’s germs as I don’t want to get anything before chemo if possible. Anyway we ended up having a screaming row – both of us. Rhodri rarely raises his voice. He’s standing there, really pathetic, saying, ‘How do I get the sick off?’ Now what makes me fucking mad is that in work he is the epitome of cool calm collectedness, in control, making decisions, in short a flexible, intelligent, well-rounded individual. So why, oh why, oh why can’t he be like that at home? It’s called transferable skills.
I said, ‘I don’t know. YOU decide how to get the sick off.’ I can’t even believe I have to have this conversation. “Scrape it off with a stick, hose the sheet off in the garden or wipe it off. You decide.’
He picks up the bundle of blankets, scattering sick all over the kitchen floor, then proceeds to hose it all down in the garden. Then he comes through the door and everything is soaking wet. ‘Don’t bring that in like that,’ I said, knowing the floor would be awash.
‘Well, how on earth am I supposed to get it from
the door to the washing machine?’ he shouted. I knew the bloody answer – a bucket, a bowl, whatever. I wanted him to work it out for himself, which is what I screamed at him, so he left the stuff at the door and got a bowl.
He gets it all in the bowl and puts it in the washing machine and then starts having a go at me for having a go at him. ‘I wasn’t shouting at you when you were doing it yesterday,’ he said.
‘No, that’s because I wasn’t standing in the door like a pathetic kid saying, “How am I supposed to get it from the back door to the washing machine without dripping”. God help you if you are ever stranded on a desert island,’ I snarled.
‘Well, at least I’m not afraid of spiders,’ he said.
I said that was an entirely different argument and he was always pulling the ‘pathetic card’ when he basically didn’t want to do an unpleasant job. If he complained enough, I would give in and do it, and he just didn’t like it because for once I hadn’t said that I would do it, and that was why he was shouting, because he actually had to do something unpleasant. Do you know what he did when I said that? He smiled, because I had hit the nail on the bloody head – bang to rights.
I sat on the bed with a poorly Elis this afternoon staring at the clouds, and he said, ‘Do you know, those clouds will blow all around the world and when it comes to Christmas they come back and snow on us.’ I wanted to cry it was so beautiful and sweet. I never ever want him to grow up and be cynical and world-weary or have to worry about anything.
I had my appointment at Velindre Hospital today about my chemotherapy. Rhodri couldn’t come with me because he had to look after Elis. I thought it would be fine. It’s just a consultation – I could write the book on cancer and chemotherapy; there’s really no surprises left for me, I thought.
My Mummy Wears a Wig - Does Yours? A true and heart warming account of a journey through breast cancer Page 7
