The night before my life began again

I wrote this in February and didn’t do anything with it. It was never meant to be a blog post, but I want to share it now, because it seems important that I do somehow.

It’s 11pm on 1st February 2014. I’ve just been standing outside in the dark looking at the stars, watching as the clouds are rushed through the black sky by the wind. I thought of all the skies I’ve seen in the past year. Vivid, beautiful and haunting in their own way. And I cried.

This time last year I’d packed my hospital bag, written letters to my nearest and dearest and said goodbye to my son. The next day I was going in hospital for an operation to fix my spine, stop my pain and give me the ability to walk again. I was prepared to come out either a very different person, or a very dead person. Either way I thought I was prepared. I still cried. I was still frightened but I was ready.

Standing outside tonight I reflected on all that has happened since this night last year. Another operation, pain, infection, depression, rehab, friends loved and lost. And I grieve. I grieve for what has passed. I grieve for the person I was who is now gone, I have a faint memory of her, but I like the person I am now, still flawed, still a bit broken, but I’m a new version of me. Jane.2 if you will.

There’ve been a lot of positives in the past year, but the pain, the physical I can cope with, the emotional less so. The 12 months of turmoil have wrung me out, left me struggling against the tide too many times. I’m broken but I’ve survived. I will continue to survive. What other choice is there? I looked at the sky and I cried, I broke down and cried.

Maybe it is a grieving process, maybe the first year is the hardest. But the sky will change in beautiful ways, clouds race, time moves on, the stars will always shine and I will heal. I will heal.

Earworm #1

It’s not often I share a piece of music I like, but I’ve had this earworm for the last 4 days now, it’s so beautiful I need to pass it on and spread the love.

It is Atmosphere by Joy Division, but much as I love their original, I am head over heels in love with this version by American band Codeine. Originally from the 1995 compilation tribute album: A Means to an End: The Music of Joy Division. It’s haunting and lovely and just about perfect.

It’s a bit beautiful isn’t it? I hope you love my earworm as much as I do.

How we celebrate Valentine’s Day on a budget

Having been with my lovely husband for more years than I care to remember (19 ok, it’s 19 years) we’ve celebrated a Valentine’s Day or two over the years. In the early days it was all massive bouquets of flowers and fancy pants meals in swanky restaurants. Then as time wore on we set a budget for gifts and nights out we’re replaced by takeaways.

How we celebrate Valentine's Day on a budget

Then when baby (now lively toddler) arrived, we sort of gave up on Valentine’s Day entirely. We were too busy and too tired to make an effort. But when you’re too busy and too tired to make an effort, that’s the time you really should be making an effort.

This year will be different. I’m now self-employed and all my disposable income has been disposed of elsewhere. But being a bit of a thrifty type I’m determined to make this one a little bit special even on my tiny, virtally non-existent budget.

Valentine’s Day this year is on a Friday which is obviously a work day. Hubs will have been at work and I’ll have spent the day with a riotous toddler. We’ll both be tired and maybe a bit frazzled, so what we plan needs to be not only budget friendly but incredibly simple, so this is what’s on the agenda.

7.30pm – Put riotous toddler to bed.
7.35pm – Breathe.
7.45pm – Husband (who never cooks but when he does it’s brilliant) makes his signature spaghetti dish.
8.00pm – Open leftover bottle of prosecco from Christmas (yes, such a thing as leftover booze does exist in our house, it’s rare but it does happen), consume spaghetti vongole.
8.30pm – I make a sexy pudding, which in this case will be some heart shaped biscuits the toddler and I will have made that afternoon. (Baking activity turned into slave labour, parenting at its best) served with nice Aldi ice cream and some raspberries.
9.30pm – Curl up on the sofa with the rest of the prosecco; exchange homemade cards and cuddles then watch a DVD.
11.30pm – Bedtime with extra snuggles.

Simple but lovely and what’s more, very, very cheap.

Will you be enjoying a budget Valentine’s Day? What are your penny-wise tips for passionate Valentines? I’d love to hear them.

2013 – The Year I Survived

I don’t know where to start with this one. It’s been a massive year, full of change. It’s been scary and awful and wonderful. I’ve been on Twitter today and people have been reflecting back over the last 12 months and most people are saying it’s been a tough year, or a weird year, certainly a year of change for most.

Last New Years Eve where was I? I’d seriously damaged my back and could barely walk. I was so off my face on painkillers I’d struggle to tell you my name and I was waiting for a call to go in for urgent surgery to try and fix it. My husband was worried sick and we’d just coasted through the most bizarre Christmas ever. To this day I have no recollection of my son getting up on Christmas morning and opening his presents. It chokes me up to think about that now.

Apart from being in unendurable agony, it was my sons third Christmas, he still wasn’t old enough to appreciate what was going on, but who doesn’t love a pile of presents under the tree?

I was employed by the NHS as a Project Manager, something I loved doing, I was in secondment from a job I really didn’t love doing and was trying to hatch an escape plan. Around Christmas time when I was laid up, it came to me that as I was already running the Twitter accounts for some friends businesses and I might be able to make a go of that. More of which later.

January came and went, still immobile on the sofa, still as drugged up as a human can be without actually being in a coma. On 1st February I went and had my first operation. It was to a degree a success. The searing pain had gone and I was able to move around more freely, but I was still in considerable pain.

The months rolled by, I was still a zombie, eating handfuls of strong painkillers several times a day just to be able to exist. I wasn’t a wife, I wasn’t a mother. I was a thing on the sofa that cried, cried out in pain, cried in sorrow, cried in grief for not being the mother I should’ve been. For months on end I couldn’t cuddle him or do anything for him, the day I made him a piece of toast, the first piece of toast in five months was a monumental one. I hope he has no memory at all of this year.

The pain continued until mid-April when I stood up and felt something go in my back. I knew instantly I’d really, badly messed myself up again. Five days later I was lying prone in an MRI scanner knowing what would happen next. I was not chuffed to put it lightly. The following week I had my second urgent surgery of the year. Just to explain, a disc in my back had cracked open on both occasions spilling its contents so they were pressing on my spinal cord (huge risk of permanent paralysis and/or double incontinence) and my nerve root (unendurable pain and lasting pain). Thankfully my second surgery was successful but I was so weak I couldn’t sit for more than 20 minutes without everything hurting, my core muscles had all but gone and I was unable to walk even to the end of my road. I was fixed but I’d never felt more broken.

Luckily I was referred to a wonderful physio who instantly got me. He worked with me for months giving me tasks and homework to complete, telling me off for pushing myself too far and too hard. After three months of hard work I was able to touch my toes again and I was going on three mile walks. I was stronger and feeling good about myself. I now swim twice a week and go to Pilates as well as trying to keep up with the walking (weather permitting). I will never be able to thank my amazing physio enough.

However during this time my mental health deteriorated. I’d been stuck in the house unable to move with virtually no company or visitors. During that time friends on Twitter had kept me sane, but once the physical pain had levelled out I realised I was in trouble. I acted out, I drank a lot, I was having full blown anxiety attacks, my self esteem was through the floor. I hated being in the house, I couldn’t wait to go out. The walls of my house had kept me in like a prisoner for months, and I never wanted to see them or be confined by them again.

So I had a summer of madness. Self harming, suicidal thoughts, drinking, partying. I had a lot of fun, I met some great people. I met some horrors too, but I had a mad summer, there were incredible highs and the lowest of the lows. God knows how or even why my husband stuck with me. It must’ve been like being married to an overactive 16 year old. But I was moving through the depression and anxiety and trying to find a path forward which suited me.

I was assessed by various professionals and put on stupidly long waiting lists for therapy. I have no idea when or even if I’ll see someone, but through my old work I was referred for therapy. I was allowed six sessions which was perfect. It kick started a process of healing inside me. I’m no longer on my meds, I’m standing up by myself for once. I know I’ll need more therapy but it’s a start.

As far as being a parent, I love it, my boy is the business. He’s so funny and loving. I wish I could do more with him. I can take him to the park now, but I can’t run and chase him, I can’t pick him up and swing him around. If he falls I can’t pick him up for a cuddle. For a start he’s a big lad and it’s not worth risking taking all those steps back. I never want to go back to being a sofa slug again.

2013 for all it’s dark, difficult days did force me to make a much needed change. I’ve set up my own business. I tweet and Facebook for businesses and charities now. I love the copywriting aspect of what I do, I produce email newsletters and I have my blog. No two days are the same. I love the variety, I love everyone I’ve worked with and all the friends I’ve made. Yes it’s really, really early days and if I’m being honest, I could do with a bit more work (hint) but I’m happy and I get really good feedback from my clients.

I couldn’t have got through this year without my husband, he’s been amazing. He’s had to look after us all while I was physically incapable and then he’s put up with me while I was spiralling out of control. The man is a legend and I’ve never loved and appreciated him more.

Having a year like the one I’ve just endured makes you really realise who your friends are. Some stepped up, some didn’t. I made a whole raft of amazing, funny, brilliant new friends and I met some horrors, well one horror and a few weirdos. But I’m ending the year with more friends than I’ve ever had and better friends than I’ve ever known.

Looking back to last New Year, when I toasted the coming year with some diazepam and codeine, I am a completely different person. I’m stronger for my struggles, I know where I stand with people, I’m happy, I have a future, I have a life, my life, and I have my boys and if they love me half as much as I love them then I’m a lucky woman.

Happy New Year. Hope 2014 treats you well xx

Bloggers Spa Day in Bolton

Since the age of 13 I’ve worked. Paper-round; Saturday jobs; stints in hellish kitchens; a great job as a Nanny. All that was pre-university. Post university, as a journalist, a manager in education, a lecturer and various jobs in what was the NHS. I’ve worked, I’ve known graft. I’ve done 20 hour days, I’ve got my hands dirty, rolled my sleeves up and got stuck in during a pandemic; I’ve done the lot. But I’ve never worked as hard as I have since I became a Mum.

Since then, through illness, infirmity, depression, and exhaustion, I’ve never had a day off. The hours are terrible and almost certainly in breach of EC Regulations, but the perks of the job are incredible. The pay is poor but it’s worth it for the cuddles. And to be honest, I’m getting used to the uniform (pjs splattered in various foodstuffs and bodily fluids).

I think it’s fair to say that recognition for my efforts isn’t officially rewarded, or at least wasn’t until I got an invite to a lovely, lovely spa day from Andrex. They have apparently done some research (and I’m paraphrasing and maybe making some of this up) and Mums are the unsung heroes of the household, we’re run ragged and we get lumbered with all the thankless tasks around the house. One of which is the changing of the empty toilet roll.

If I’m lucky, I mean very lucky a new toilet roll will appear within the vicinity of the toilet at some point, but rarely is it put on the holder. The boffins at Andrex call this “Rollaphobia” and I suspect it’s fairly widespread. To help ensure that this job doesn’t need to be carried out quite as often, Andrex has reinvigorated its Classic White product to make it stronger to last even longer. The theory being that you need to use less paper. Good plan Andrex!

To show off their new improved roll and show their appreciation for some of the hardworking Mums of the North, a merry gang of bloggers were invited to Mercure Bolton Last Drop Village Hotel and Spa on Saturday 30th November for a Spa day with a treatment thrown in. Rude not to I’d say, so off I went.

The Spa at the Mercure Bolton Last Drop Village Hotel is really quite lovely. I wasn’t sure what to expect as I’d only ever been to Spa days at Center Parcs before, but I was very presently surprised. We were given a tour of the facilities and straight away we all hopped into the hydro-pool which was divine, so warm, bubbly and therapeutic. It led outside to a lovely infinity pool (an infinity pool in Bolton, who knew) which had views over the countryside. It was really warm in the pool despite the fact we were teetering on the brink of December.

Infinity Pool.. don't mind if I do! — Infinity Pool.. don’t mind if I do!

There was a very nice 18ft swimming pool which I had to go in, I’m trying to get back into swimming again and I couldn’t resist the empty pool. I knocked out a few lengths and then explored the sauna and steam rooms.

It was soon time for my treatment. I’d opted for the Taste of Perfection facial which took 25 minutes. In the brochure it says “experience the world-renowned Decléor facials and enjoy the benefits of essential oils. This introductory facial is perfect when time is of the essence and the skin needs a radiant boost”. Sounds alright doesn’t it? In reality it was fantastic and I could very happily have let the lovely Leah (my beauty therapist), carry on for hours.

My skin looked and felt fantastic afterwards. Leah very kindly wrote down what she’d used so I could ask Father Christmas for some of my favourite things. To be honest, top of my list is another facial, it was so relaxing and I’ve not felt so pampered in years.

After my treatment I retired to the hydro-therapy and infinity pools and there I stayed until my boys turned up to drag me home, re-chain me to the kitchen sink and continue my days of domestic drudgery and cuddles.

Thank you Andrex for the pampering and the love and for working towards a cure for rollaphobia. Just need to stop them from peeing on the floor now.

I suffer from Public Toilet Dyslexia Syndrome

I have an embarrassing and sometimes traumatic syndrome. It can strike at any moment and I have suffered from it for years. To others it’s a source of hilarity; to me, just shame and bemusement.

I suffer from what I’m going to call “Public Toilet Dyslexia”. I suspect most have accidentally suffered from this on at least one occasion. Sadly for long-term sufferers like me the bouts of Public Toilet Dyslexia (PTD) are all too frequent.

What happens is I might be out at the cinema, restaurant, anywhere where there are ladies and gents toilets. I feel the urge to powder my nose. I walk up to the toilets, really fixate on going into the correct toilet, in my case the ladies, the one with the picture of the lady in the skirt on, then a switch goes off in my head and I stroll confidently into the gents.

My first real recollection of a PTD episode was at a small independent cinema about 18 years ago. I strode nonchalantly into the empty gents, wondered why there was only one cubicle, but settled myself in there; mid-stream a little voice in my head murmured “why are there urinals out there?” I finished, washed my hands, looked in the mirror and watched my cheeks getting redder by the second, then ran out with the howls of laughter from the cinema staff ringing in my ears.

Since that shameful incident, I regret to say that similar impromptu visits to the gentleman’s facilities have occurred on a depressingly regular basis. Just today I needed the loo and was followed up the corridor to the toilets by a mother and daughter. The mother helpfully, and rather too loudly for my liking, shouted after her daughter, “don’t follow that lady, she’s going into the boys toilets”. I promptly turned on my heels and headed for the hills.

I honestly don’t know why it happens, but it happens too often for anyone’s liking. As I approach the toilets I now really focus on going into the right one, you know, the one with the lady on it. Nine times out of ten it’s fine, but there’s always that one time when my brain goes rogue and sends me into the room where they stand up to pee.

Maybe it’s because I don’t own a skirt, maybe my brain is subconsciously rebelling against the sexist nature of public toilet signage. Maybe, just maybe I just don’t pay proper attention. Who knows? But if you are a gent enjoying the standing up facilities in a public toilet, please do not be alarmed if I or any of my fellow PTD sufferers stroll in, realise our mistake and dash out. We can’t help it, we’re the real victims here.

Disclaimer – Public Toilet Dyslexia probably isn’t a real thing, but it’s something I genuinely suffer from and I wanted to write a silly blog about.

Snow Joke – dealing with my weather based phobia!

A little while ago I wrote a post about facing my fears. One of my biggest fears is snow and ice. I cannot bear it. I’m watching the weather forecast now and they’ve said it might snow this week. I’m already starting to feel sick and my snow phobia is really kicking in.

I hate the snow and ice. I’ve got a real fear of slipping, falling and hurting myself. I used to slip and fall and bounce. Then when I fell I started breaking things (mainly myself) and since I’ve ruined my spine and had the operations, I’m terrified of falling and ending up in a wheelchair. It could happen.

Snow Joke - dealing with my weather based phobia!

For years I couldn’t leave the house when it snowed, I’d call in sick at work and just ride it out. Then I was given a pair of those ice grippers which genuinely changed my life and I could leave the house again. But I’m still frightened to go out, especially by myself. I know the chances of me falling are vastly reduced with the grippers, but if I’m out by myself there’s a real, genuine fear that I’ll topple over and really hurt myself.

If it doesn’t snow this week then it might happen next week. It’s pretty much guaranteed to happen at some point over the next few wintery months. The thought fills me with horror. No really. I know like half the nation I should dance with joy, get the sledge out and start building a snowman, but really that’s not for me.

You can keep your snow and you can keep your ice. I’ll stay inside and keep warm and safe if I can. I’m slowly getting my nerve up, it’s a vast improvement on where I used to be and how I used to panic at the very thought. I still feel sick though, horribly sick. It’s snow joke.

Do you have any phobias? Are you frightened of snow and ice too?

Snow Joke - dealing with my weather based phobia!

My Role Model

When you’re growing up, a lot of emphasis is put on having a role model. Someone you can look up to and aspire to be like; someone you can turn to with your troubles; someone who will praise you when it’s due.

For me, my role model (along with the rest of the school) was Mr Singh (RIP). He was my form tutor when I was 13. He was a chemistry teacher; he played in a band, went on Family Fortunes and was possibly the coolest, funniest man I’ve ever met. We all adored him. But he left at the end of the year, went on to bigger and better things, then sadly passed away at a depressingly young age.

Really your parents should be your role models and I think mine were for a while. Then I discovered their flaws and limitations. They also weren’t big on praise, problem solving or pushing yourself to achieve greatness. They tried, I’ll give them that.

After Mr Singh no one really stuck as a role model. People came into my life, nurtured me a little, then moved on. I had a couple of decent bosses who did what they could to push me forward, a few friends who encouraged me, but no one really slotting into that role model/mentor role that I craved and needed.

I know I’m constantly banging on about my brilliant husband. But he is well, brilliant. He’s not my role model though, but I hope very much that our son will look at him that way. He is wise, loving, patient, caring, hardworking and an all round ~~good~~ ~~great~~ amazing guy.

I’ve been massively lucky to stumble across some incredible people recently. Some top local bloggers have taken me under their wings, offering advice, guidance, contacts and some really fun plus one invitations. There are a couple of lads off Twitter who are refreshingly down to earth, and stop me being an idiot, whilst at the same time loving and caring for me as a brother would. I know I’m lucky, seriously amazing friends like that are hard to find.

I’m even luckier because I’ve found someone who’ll step into Mr Singh’s shoes. One of my recently acquired chums, (I will call him Dave because that’s his name) is a proper, stand up guy. He comes husband approved and is determined to make me stand on my own two feet and be the person he and everyone else knows I can be.

He’s currently trying to get me to write a novel. He believes in my writing and is determined to pull a book out of me. I’m not convinced, but he is, so I know it’ll happen one way or another. It’s great to have someone else apart from my husband, behind me who truly believes in me and helps me to clear any obstacles, real or imagined from my path. He’s no pushover and he challenges me if I try and make excuses.

He’s like a father, friend, editor, teacher and mentor rolled into one. He’s got a good job, isn’t a weirdo, he’s just a decent bloke who probably read Pygmalion at an early age and fancies himself as a bit of a Henry Higgins type.

I’ve floated aimlessly through life for years so it’s great to finally have a mentor, especially after the year I’ve had. I need someone not close to me to tell me my value, what my gifts are and to push me forward instead of me constantly taking a step back. I’m bored of hiding my light under a bushel, thanks to Dave and my wonderful husband and friends it’s my time to shine.

Definitely Not The 9 O’clock News!

We’ve stopped getting a newspaper. I think we phased it out around the time that Splodge was born nearly three years ago. Occasionally I’ll pick up a Metro and flick through it if I’m bored, but we’re not fussed anymore.

I’ve stopped watching the news too. That happened around the same time. A combination of it always clashing with a feed, or a nappy change or a lovely cuddle. I’ve tried watching it since and it just fills me with heartbreaking horrors. Dead children everywhere, young soldiers dying, natural disasters, heartbreaking, terrible things. I just can’t face it without getting upset. Hodge is the same. Since the day our son was born we just can’t hack it.

It’s not like we don’t keep abreast of current affairs. We’ve got news apps on our phones. I check mine several times a day. The beauty of it is you can get the gist of the story from the headline, if it strikes me as upsetting I scroll quickly past and move on to less traumatic things.

It’s not that I don’t care; it’s that I suddenly care too much. Every suffering person is someone’s child, mother, father, brother, sister. Every death is a heartbreaking hole in a family unit. Every abuse is a personal affront to my sense of humanity. Every story makes me draw my family closer to me and hold them tighter.

I do sometimes watch the news. I watched the news when the Boston Marathon bombing happened. I watched non-stop scrolling news, getting more and more upset and anxious. I have family in Boston. Were they safe? Were they well? I watched a lot of the earlier reports on Syria but I can’t bare to watch anymore. It makes me so angry and I feel so impotent.

Having a baby changes your perspective. It’s made us feel more. Empathise and sympathise more. It’s made us acutely feel the pain of distant families in war-torn countries. It’s made us better, more caring, more charitable people. You don’t need to watch the news to make that happen, I think the news hardens your heart to things, makes them seem more everyday, more normal, more ok. It’s not ok. It’s never ok.

To be honest I’m on Twitter a huge amount and you can pick up on a big news story a minute after it’s happened there. Often Twitter is quicker with the stories than the TV news, with more detail and gorier pictures.

Do I ever think I’ll watch the news again? Probably not regularly, I’ll pick and choose when I do and watch the big stories, coverage of events, that kind of thing. I don’t miss it and I don’t feel I miss out.

I’m not missing out am I?

Face Your Fears

Tomorrow (8th October) is National Face Your Fears Day. Go figure. It got me thinking about what I fear and how I’d face it. Eek!

Since young Master Splodge arrived, like any parent my fear is that he’ll come to harm in one sinister way or another. In the early days I clearly remember fretting about everything. But by and large kids are pretty resilient things and they tend to bounce when they fall off the bed, knees are scraped and heads bumped. They’ll get every bug going, so I’ve just learned to embrace that and carry tissues and calpol with me everywhere.

It’s the really evil stuff in the world that lurks in the back of my mind. And traffic, bloody traffic. Toddlers have this uncontrollable urge to run into the path of oncoming vehicles. At least tearing it down the road after him keeps me fit.

So pre-baby, in those heady days where lie-ins were mandatory, dancing into the early hours standard and the ability to just pick up your bag and run out of the house unfettered by changing bag checks and wrestling shoes onto a reluctant child easy. What were my fears?

Snow – yes I acknowledge this is a weird one. I always fall over when it snows and the streets are slippy. I fall, I pretty much always break something and then someone has to spend the next 6 weeks helping me put a bra on. I hate opening the curtains to find the streets are thickly lined with snow, it brings on a huge amount of anxiety. To combat this I never used to leave the house, but now I’ve got a few pairs of those ice grippers which make life so much easier. I think we can consider that a fear faced.

Singing in Public – I’m no Adele, I’m not even a Cheryl Baker. I know I can’t sing so I rarely do it (sober) in company. I do however love singing, belting out songs when I’m alone in the house. In my head I’m ace. In reality, awful. Then you have a baby and every bloody baby group has an obligatory sing along. Nightmare. I went with it on the grounds that it’s what you do; I sung quietly and hoped no one would hear. Cue my son’s 2nd birthday party. Let’s have a sing song at the end I say. Guess who ends up leading it? Only Tone-Deaf Tina here (my name isn’t Tina, but it doesn’t alliterate quite as well)! Stood in a silent room with the expectant faces of children and their parents turned towards me I’m forced into centre stage. Sleeping Bunnies (natch), Dingle Dangle Scarecrow, Baa Baa Black Sheep etc. I was rubbish, but I pulled it off. Won’t be doing it again though. Ever. Fear faced!

Wifi – I’m guessing you’re reading this online or on your phone. Most of you will be using your wifi. Now imagine a world with NO WIFI. The horror. The horror! This is a fear I will probably never conquer. Being unable to check Twitter fills me with terror; lack of email access brings on a panic attack and if I can’t blog then I might as well throw in the towel and give up on life. It’s a modern curse and my biggest fear. I know you feel it too. I know it.

Thanks for reading.