One small step for womankind

My mother was a very practical person, good at carpentry, decorating and sewing. When I was growing up, she occasionally made me lovely clothes. When she died, I inherited her old Singer electric sewing machine and sadly not her expertise. I used it for doing very simple stuff until I managed to get some thread stuck in it. I took it along to a specialist mechanic and he showed me what was broken. Between us we came to the conclusion it was beyond economic repair and I bought this beautiful refurbished machine in its place. That was in March - and it has sat in its box ever since. Today I was waiting in for a phone call and decided it was time to unpack it. It has a self-threading feature - very handy when your eyesight's maybe not as sharp as it was.

What a joy it is - you can set the speed really slow so that it stitches one stitch at a time rather than running away with you the instant you step on the pedal. So far I've only repaired a couple of pillowcases, but having discovered how easy it is to use, I'm encouraged to have a go at hemming a pair of walking trousers next.

It was a day of small triumphs. There were a couple of dead shrubs in the garden and I've now lifted those and put them ready to take down the dump tomorrow; I've cut the grass front and back, and changed the bulb in the light in the understairs cupboard. It's a bulkhead light with a protective metal cage held in place with a small screw, so once more I wielded that trusty Phillips-head screwdriver, and once more gained a sense of accomplishment.

Back in 2008 I had an operation to excise a small area of breast tissue affected by Ductal Carcinoma in Situ (DCIS). Yesterday I went back to the hospital for the annual mammogram to check there has been no recurrence, and found myself sitting next to one of the nurses from Wingfield Ward (there escorting a patient). It was nice catching up with each other's news, and being able to tell her I'm now back to work.

All's well

When I’d received the letter from the hospital with details of the appointment this morning, I’d merely glanced at the details, logged the appointment in Outlook and in my diary, then put it aside. Today I picked it up and realised there was a further sheet behind, giving another appointment at the same Outpatients’ clinic with a doctor whose name was unfamiliar to me. He turns out to be an Oncologist, which was a bit of a shock, but all is well. The first excision was successful in removing all the abnormal cells, and the sample removed in the second excision was clear, indicating no further treatment is necessary. However, the hospital is carrying out a study into whether Tamoxifen protects against the recurrence of DCIS in women who have had conservative surgery. I qualify to join the study if I want to. I agreed to receive details.

The other appointment was to inspect the wound, which is healing well. I’ll be called back in three months to produce my boobs for another inspection.

Later in the day I was checking out TV on Demand and discovered a Bollywood movie for free: [1]‘The Bluffmaster’. Being still deeply immersed in Shantaram, this appealed as a bit of fun escapism and to help support my visualisation of the world in which Roberts’ masterpiece is set. I’m told that one of the rules of Bollywood is that the characters never kiss – if you know whether this is true and if so, what’s behind it, please feel free to educate me via the comments box, see link below (or email).

[1]‘The Bluffmaster’ reminded me of another film, ‘The Game’ (Michael Douglas/Sean Penn). Anyone else seen these two films, noted the similarity?

Panty Pad

I’m wearing a panty pad in my bra. This is not, I hasten to assure you, a sign of advancing senility. No, indeed. I do know where panty pads are supposed to be applied (I understand the clue in the name), but this was an inspired improvisation. Where the wound and the bra strap have been coming into contact, it has left small bloodstains on the fabric. I was reluctant to apply an adhesive dressing, so I turned the problem around and applied the adhesive panty pad to the bra instead. It is, after all, hygienic and fit for purpose. Errr… apologies to anyone if this happens by chance to be the very first entry you read in this blog … this subject matter isn’t fully representative of the whole. At least, I don’t think so. Nor am I proposing to post a photo to support this entry. Moving swiftly on…

A friend once shared that lack of feedback was her reason for giving up blogging – she felt that had she received some evidence that her words were being read and appreciated by a wider audience than the two of us, she would have been encouraged to continue. Sometimes when I feel discouraged, her comment comes back to me. When I’m feeling insignificant, when I’m not receiving the affirmations I crave, when it feels like I’m giving and giving and not receiving, I question again my own motives in writing.

Recently I’ve either read or heard it said that when we are at peace with ourselves, there is silence; it is when we lack peace within that we begin to emit sound. If I could find where I came across that, I’d like to check it out again, to hold my own thoughts on the subject up against it and see how they compare. I wonder how writing fits in – I have to admit that sometimes I prefer to write first drafts with a pen on paper, that intimate acquaintance with the words somehow creating the relationship that enables the writing to flow.

If the world exists to help us recognise who we are … as I try to finish that sentence, follow that train of thought, it pulls out of the station and chugs gently away from me leaving me to try and pull the threads together and create some kind of article that isn’t rags and tatters. What exactly am I trying to say, and to whom? Answers on a panty pad, if you like.

Getting back to my friend's comment, it would have been easy to feel discounted by her remark. I was reading and commenting on her blog entries – was that not enough? Were my words insufficient encouragement? Instead I recognised that she was unconsciously offering me an honest mirror in which I was able to check my own attitude and if I didn’t like what I saw, to find the greater truth that would be more beautiful to behold. I come back and re-read my own words from time to time. Perhaps it reassures me in some way, tells me like the L’Oreal advert, “You’re worth it!” Maybe that’s what this is about.

In ‘A Course in Miracles’ which I’ve been working my way through, I’ve reached Part II which begins with the sentence: ‘Words will mean little now.’ It goes on to explain that from now we will be looking for the periods of wordless deep experience that will follow our waiting in quiet expectation of encountering truth.

DCIS - update

Had an appointment with the Breast Surgeon this morning - he is pleased with the healing of the wound but has suggested a further operation in order to remove a bit more tissue, as the margins of the area removed showed precancerous cells. Ideally he would wish to operate again 4 - 6 weeks after the previous operation, ie two to four weeks from today.

Forgot all about it for a while in the evening when my friends from Cell group came round for a Bring and Share supper. Vic joined in, and altogether there were twelve of us sat around the table enjoying the occasion, with all manner of good food set before us.

Pancaked

Yesterday was Pancake Day, today I went for a routine mammogram. I hope the irony of the title is not lost. At least I didn't have to pay for the privilege of having my boobs manhandled indelicately into place and then squeezed flat between two cold metal plates whilst adopting an unnatural stance. Manhandled is a misnomer, actually. The mobile screening unit is staffed by two highly competent women. For years I was about as comfortable having a woman touch my breasts as a heterosexual man might be having another man touch his manhood. (That wasn't the word I typed first of all - there was quite an internal debate going on for a moment as I realised I don't want to fall foul of any web censors). Today I was fine about it - very matter-of-fact about the whole business. The mobile screening unit was parked in Teco's car park and the radiologist suggested I could go and reward myself with some retail therapy afterwards. I did go and wander round Tesco's for a while but I really wasn't in the mood for shopping (and anyone that knows me well is probably smiling and thinking, "When are you EVER?") Yes, true - as a child I always thought I'd been born into the wrong body, that I should have been a boy - but hey, I'm over that now, even if I STILL don't find shopping a special treat.

Instead I came home and purchased a portable digital radio over the internet.

In other news:

Glitter continues to sparkle in all sorts of unlikely places, despite the fact that the glittery top went away in the wardrobe after Christmas and hasn't come out again since. No amount of dusting and hoovering seems to put an end to it.

The Yoghurt making continues apace. Normally I make 'set' yoghurt, but I did try a batch of 'stirred'. The recipe book suggests that you mix in 2 or 3 tablespoons of milk powder with the regular milk, and then when you stir it, it won't break into curds and whey as set yoghurt does when you break the surface. It was interesting to see how it altered the molecules - I'm assuming the difference is at a molecular level, anyway. If you lift a spoonful of set yoghurt from the pot, it comes away fairly clean but adding the milk powder made the resulting yoghurt stringy. I can't think of another word for it. I don't mean tough - it's exactly the same experience in your mouth - I mean that it becomes a little like golden syrup or runny hunny, so that as you lift the spoon, a long trail of yoghurt follows it. Fascinating.

The herb garden is looking quite lush and I've had to give the chives a haircut as they were growing close to the lights. The instructions say not to raise the lights until all the herbs are more or less the same height.