It’s been a long, lousy week. Partly because, well, illness wouldn’t be illness if it didn’t make you feel, well, ill…. but also because this bug has had the same effect as a rainstorm does on our kitchen ceiling. The kitchen ceiling looks just fine until the rain starts – and so do the drips.

Because this week has shown me just where all my leaks and weak spots are: and just how shallow my healing has been.

During the course of this week, my dodgy tooth has got dodgy again, throbbing gently through the night. The inside of my nose has gone back to constant, painful bleeding. My mouth hurts and has sprouted a couple of ulcers. I’ve had diarrhea and a stomach that’s as delicate as an Edwardian lace hanky. All of the places that were hit by cancer treatment have had the scabs knocked off, and my idea that I am properly well has taken a bit of a hit too.

Don’t get me wrong: most of the time I feel well, and most of the time I am glad and grateful that cancer hasn’t done more lasting harm. I can pass undetected in the world: the scars are hidden and the side-effects and knock-ons have become everday-unnoticed. But this week has reminded me of just how much damage cancer did to my body. Let’s hope it’s a while before there’s another rainstorm.

Well, I’m still spinning.

I did quite well at not being disheartened when I wasn’t instantly good at it – this is a big step forward for me – and persevered with my tight, overtwisted, cat-sick-on-a-string yarns. Even though they were never going to be any use, I spun them, plied them, washed them, wound them…. because the experience of spinning, the meditative nature of it, meant that the results didn’t matter that much. (I posted about this, and my early progress to knitable stuff,  here. I don’t see my Dad in the hat very often.)

As I’ve got better I’ve realised that spinning is an exact reflection of my state: the tensions in my body, mind and heart come out in what I spin. So if I sit down tense and tired, the fibre will snap, too tight as I try to feed it onto the bobbin. If I’m angry or upset, the fibre flies out of my hands.

But the act of spinning changes the state of my body and mind. The rhythm of my feet and hands calms and cools my breathing. The concentration on what my hands are doing means my mind gets quiet. Seeing a bunch of airy fibre twist itself into a single yarn, however bumpy, gives me the feeling of wonder I get from looking at the stars. My Mum arrived one day as I was spinning and said I looked serene. Which is good, because I feel serene.

So I’ve kept doing it, and slowly, slowly, I’m getting better at it.

I have managed to consistently produce Actual Usable Yarn.

It’s still what you might call ‘characterful’, but it’s OK. The question is…. what do I do with it? Knitters, any thoughts? (It’s all about an aran weight.)

I speak at events – everything from corporate keynotes to school assembles – about my dance with cancer. Have a look at this page for more information. I’m booking up to the end of 2012 at the moment.

And, if you’re feeling a bit stuck in a rut, if your New Year Resolutions didn’t pan out, if you feel as though you could do with a little help with your thinking, take a look at Bah! coaching. It might be just the ticket.

I’d love to work with you on either of these things, so please do get in touch, and we’ll see what we can make happen.

(Today, it looks as though I will mostly be making wet, throaty sneezes and hot ginger and lemon drinks. Tomorrow will be better.)

And yes, it is a virus. Yay. Rest, fluid, finish knitting my sweater and wait it out, basically. (The doctor didn’t say the bit about knitting but I know she meant to.)

Fair enough, I said, it’s just that, with the ongoing anti-cancer treatment and all, I feel a bit vulnerable. Remember, said my doctor, Tamoxifen aside, you are a young, fit adult.

OK, I said.

‘Young, fit adult?’ My mind was tying itself in knots trying to figure that out. My inner child was hooting and rolling around with laughter at the very thought.

It’s not that I feel old, exactly, but I am at an age where I’m aware of my body starting to creak, my skin to pucker, my hair to grey. And having a 15 year old daughter to point out all of my old lady ways means I have no way of pretending to myself I’m sill 29.

It’s not that I’m unfit, really, in that I can go about my life without needing special help and consideration, all of my bits work, and I mostly go to the doctor for repeat prescription of Tamoxifen. But I feel as though having cancer puts you permanently into the ‘not fit’ category.

And I know that I’m officially a grown-up – I’m married and have children and can drive and I get to choose my own shoes and everything – but there are still times when I feel no different to the way I felt most mornings walking into school. A bit overwhelmed, a bit scared, hoping to find my place. Glad to be praised, afraid to be singled out. Very, very small in a big, tumultuous world.

In the past I have, as you know, been ready to challenge the medical profession as I saw fit. But on reflection, I think the doctor was absolutely right. I am a young, fit adult. Oh yes. That’s me. It’s a wonder I haven’t noticed it before.

Now, if someone could just make me another cup of tea, as I can’t quite face getting off the sofa…?

So. I am going to try to be a good girl today. I’m going to see the doctor in a bit, then I might well do some writing (on the basis that I can write when I’m sick – this blog is testament to that – and it might take my mind off things a bit), then I expect there will be knitting and a few episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, to which I have come late but with great enthusiasm. (I’m up to Season 5.)

And I will be drinking my favourite health-giving drink, the recipe for which I share with you here. I wish I’d had it during chemotherapy – I think it would have been great for a dodgy stomach.

The Bah! Betterness Drink

Take a tall glass and half-fill it with pomegranate juice. (Actual juice, not ‘pomegranate drink’, which is largely water and sugar. Pomegreat is good.) Then add some ginger cordial – Belvoir is fab – about 4 tablespoons to start with. Now top up the glass with your dilutant of choice: I use fizzy water or diet lemonade, depending on what’s to hand. Still water also works: tonic water probably would though I haven’t tried it. Give your drink a stir and taste it, adding more ginger if necessary. Voila!

For extra wellbeing, drink through a straw, preferably one in a cheerful colour.

This is also good in a mug, topped up with boiling water.

And, when better, celebrate with a Bah! Ginger Sling: replace the pomegranate with a double measure of decent gin, replace the ginger cordial and dilutant with alcoholic ginger beer (like Crabbie’s), add lots of ice (crush it if you can be bothered), a dash of angustora bitters, and the juice of half a lemon.

Cheers! Here’s to feeling better. Soon.

Yesterday, I met Emma Sutton of Light The Spark, who sent me a link to this rather wonderful animation. If you’re here, you’ve probably already got the message, but you might want to share it.

wedgewood sky make me

anything but blue.

I thought, it being Friday and all, you might fancy a chocolate brownie. As the internet is not yet sophisticated enough to let you help yourself, here’s the next best thing: the recipe. I promise you, they are the easiest thing in the world to make.

Bah! Brownies

You need:

Preheat the oven to 170C/325F/Gas 3.

In a pan, melt the chopped butter and broken-up chocolate over the lowest possible heat. It will take ages, and that’s fine, because you don’t want any burning. (I usually put this on to melt then measure everything else out and get the tin ready while it does its thing.)

When the butter and chocolate have melted, take the pan off the heat. Stir in the sugar, then the flour, then the eggs: you should end up with a thick, shiny mixture.

Pour the mixture into the tin. (You’ll notice I have a fancy tin that goes into sections – a leftover from my cake business days – but you really don’t need one. Anything roughly the right size will do. Lazy cook’s tip: to line the tin, tear off a piece of greaseproof paper bigger than the tin, and scrumple it into a tight ball in your hands. Unscrumple, and spread it into the tin – it should be nice and flexible and go into all the corners and up the sides without fighting back. If you have a bit of overhang, all the better for getting the brownies out later.)

Now pop it in to the oven, have a coffee, and 25 minutes later, go take a look. You want a flaky top, and if you have that, take the brownies out of the oven. If not, give them another 5 minutes, but don’t overdo it. (Oh, and don’t try sticking a skewer in and seeing if it comes out clean – it should never come clean out of a brownie.)

When the brownies are cool, cut them into squares, and enjoy.

Oh, and if any break coming out of the tin, like a couple of my last batch did, you could try this:  put them aside until dinner time, then warm them up – 30 seconds in the microwave will do it – and serve with ice cream and toffee sauce. (For toffee sauce, melt 100g butter and 100g dark brown sugar together in a pan. When they have both melted, add 200ml double cream, stir, and let the sauce bubble away for 5 minutes or so.)

You can also experiment: sprinkle over white chocolate chunks, add dried cherries (not glace) to the mixture, substitute coconut for half of the flour, try milk chocolate, add nuts…. go wild.

Happy baking!

You know I posted last week about the Mysteriously Tender Breasts? Well, not so mysterious, as it happens…. PMT. (I know. D’oh. In fairness to me, this is my second period since March 2009, and I’m not supposed to be having periods anyway, because I am simultaneously having a medical sodding menopause. I know. You couldn’t make it up.)

Anyway, I was searching PMT on the blog, and I found this post from September 2009, which reminded me that It Could Be Worse. (I’d completely forgotten about being cold all the time. And the sinus thing.)

*

Herceptin isn’t cheap, as you probably know – in fact, as I’ve mentioned before, it comes in at around £3000 per dose. It’s made up for specific patients (calibrated to body weight) and has a short, short shelf life.