My mother in law's parting gift. And I'm disgusted.

My mother in law (who is actually lovely, by the way) has been here for the summer. 

It has overall been a fantastic trip and we loved having her here. We went camping, to the safari park, to Birmingham, to the beach, bike riding, walking... it has been a great summer. It has also been a healthy summer - loads of veggie stir fries, spiralised vegetable pasta, fresh fruit and all of the things that we typically have as a vegetarian family that avoids processed foods.

But then Grandma showed up, with her 'Grandma Ways' of giving the kids pretty much whatever they wanted, as Grandmas typically do. Chocolate, daily treats, ice cream, Yan-Yan's and juice. I had to step in and put my foot down once they bought the kids Apple Jacks and it came with an actual warning label above the ingredients stating that this cereal causes hyperactivity and slow brain development.

I'd more or less gotten used to Grandma going shopping and the house then being stocked with weird things, different brands than we are used to and stuff we wouldn't normally have around. But this was okay. I'm still on my Prisoner of War Steroid Diet and was more or less continuing to hold strong.

So at some point I just stopped paying attention, and used whatever she had bought as it was in the house. The cucumbers she picked, her brand of eggs, her type of brown bread, her brand of butter in the fridge... whatever. It had to be used up anyway.

The butter tasted funny and I didn't really like it, it also seemed very 'bright'. I wasn't using a lot, just a smidgeon here and there on my whole wheat toast, a bit with my scrambled eggs, a scoop melted onto popcorn one night, a little bit in making refried beans, a wee bit on a whole wheat cracker...

It was cold the day that my mother in law left to go home to Canada, and I threw on my jeans for the first time in weeks to go to the airport to meet my cousin... but there was something wrong. They didn't quite fit. They went on, but they didn't quite go up.

What the hell? How was this happening?! I was stood in front of the fridge staring at the grapes completely dumbfounded when Paul walked in to make his coffee, noticed the crumpled package of butter on the counter and burst out laughing. He turned to me, "Honey, have you been using this?!

"Yes, your mom bought that butter. I was trying to use it up."

"This isn't butter. It's shortening. For the cake icing."

What?!

CURSE YOU MOTHER IN LAW!!!!

Well that was unexpectedly violent!

Those of you that know me well know that I loathe Wednesdays. It’s ‘hump day’, getting us half-way through the week. It is usually a mild day at work and on Wednesdays my husband usually makes a really nice vegetable soup for dinner.

It’s also the day he stabs me in the stomach each week.

But with a needle.

Part of my massive drug regimen is a weekly injection of Methotrexate, a mild chemotherapy drug that comes in a pre-loaded needle of bright yellow poison and that was disturbingly easy to sneak into China that one time. Despite his own reservations and heebie-jeebies Paul dutifully prepares this needle each week at his computer desk, flicking it for air bubbles like a pro and swearing under his breath when a drop of it shoots out of the needle and lands on his hand as though it were sulfuric acid. That he’s about to inject me with.

He then beckons me over and I hold my breath standing in front of him with my belly button exposed and my eyes fixed on the giant spider web in the window while he says ‘sharp scratch’ and lovingly jabs it in. I usually let loose a few tears and whimpers, he wipes down the stab-site and it is over.

But not this Wednesday. Holy hell.

So he begins preparing my shot this morning, collecting the prescription bag of needle boxes from the fridge (right next to the cheese), opens up a box and stops.

“Uh, hun? You’d better come see this.”

Well that can’t be good, right? These were not my usual needles where you screw a stabby bit onto a glass plunger bit and gently push it in, releasing the bright yellow poisonous mixture slowly and gently.

These were epi-pens.

Spring loaded, God-only knows how long the needle is or how violent this was going to be freaking epi-pens. Just without the fun of an adrenaline rush immediately afterward.

Panic burst forth as I told him that I couldn’t do this. There was no way I could do this. He told me that it would be fine, they wouldn’t have given them to me if they didn’t think I could handle them. I assured him I couldn’t do it, and had visions of him chasing me around the house wielding the epi-pen like Conan The Barbarian until he could jab it into my leg like he was tranquilizing a rhino.

“I can’t do this.”

“What do you mean you can’t do this? I’m the one that has to stab you!”

Cue long and heated debate about whether or not it was worse to be the stabber or the stabbee in this situation. He also declined my suggestion of “stab one into an orange first to see if the orange explodes”. He thought the NHS would be upset with me for having wasted chemo on fruit.

“Alright, come here.” said Paul, “give me your thigh.”

“MY THIGH?!?!?!?!”

“Well yeah”. He pointed to the 3ft long fold out instructions. “It says here to just put it on your thigh and push the button.”

WHAT?!?!?  What do you mean JUST PUSH THE BUTTON!?!?

Fine. It had to be done. I had to get to work and I needed this shot. There was no way around this. Fine. Just do it, fine.

We went upstairs and I sat on the bed in my underwear, exposing my bright white thighs to Paul and his violent epi pen. I remembered my high-school boyfriend that had a peanut allergy and his mom teaching me to use his epi-pen should he need it. That grapefruit was destroyed. She told me that you had to jab it really hard in the meaty part of his thigh because you only get one go and if it is too gentle the needle won’t go deep enough. You’ve got to really get some momentum behind it.

Oh my God. This was going to be horrible.

“Are you ready?”

“No! Wait! I need to put some music on first. To distract me.”

“Are you ready?”

“NO! Wait! I need to put a pillow under my head.”

“Are you ready?”

“NO! WAIT! I need to hold on to Huar Huar while you do this.”

“No you don’t. We’re just going to get it done and get it over with.”

He grabbed my thigh – “sharp scratch!”, pinched a big chunk of the muscle together, stabbed down the epi-pen contraption and pushed the button on the top down with his thumb.

It made a ‘chlunk’ sound like the dropping of gears as I felt it shoot into my leg – Paul held it steady until it was finished – and it was quick. The bright yellow liquid fired down the needle and into my leg like it was being pulled in. It was finished and he pulled it, out – though I couldn’t look at it to see how long the needle was. He advised me not to.

YEAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

As soon as it was out I let loose the scream I had been holding in.

It was over, and I immediately let out the pent up wail and sob as Paul darted to the bathroom, his bladder ready to burst, while I let loose crying into Huar Huar. Owwwwwww! It stung a little at the stab site and there was blood oozing out onto my leg.

And then the burning started – like I could feel the drug expanding through my thigh in all directions – across to my bum and down to my knee. I’d never felt this when we injected it near my belly-button. I was still sat there whimpering when Paul re-entered the room, bright and cheerful that this part of our day was finished.

“So,” he mused, “soup for dinner?”

Just try to deport me now, bitches!

Okay wait, please don’t. We’ve already dealt with that once and, despite it being immensely funny, it wasn’t actually fun.

Our family achieved something last week – something that meant much more to us than we had anticipated. Indefinite Leave to Remain – meaning that we can now stay permanently in the United Kingdom. We now have a ‘home’.

Yes, I know that sounds strange, but unless you have lived the way we do it’s a strange concept to understand. We left Canada when we were 21, nearly 13 years ago. Since then, aside from a single year back in Canada to get married, we have lived on visas. In China, Hong Kong and in England. These visas have a lot of meanings:

In China:

• ·       Get fired, get deported
• ·       Quit? Deported.
• ·       Change jobs? Have to leave the country and then come back. Or deported.
• ·       Misplace that red stampy thing? Deported.
• ·       Piss off an official by making fun of red stampy thing? Deported.
• ·       Forget where you live and go to the police for help? Put into a cell, fingerprinted and then almost deported (yep. That happened).
• ·       Accidentally commit a crime? Shot… And then deported.

In the UK

• ·       Get fired or quit my job? Deported.
• ·       During the recession get laid off or company goes bust? Deported.
• ·       Change companies but take more than 30 days to get a new job? Deported.
• ·       Don’t pay enough tax? Fined, imprisoned and then deported.
• ·       Take your kids out of school for a holiday in term time? Prosecuted, criminal record and deported. (I am absolutely serious here)
• ·       Get caught on the train having forgotten to top up your travel card? Deported.

As a family a lot can go wrong. So many people lost their jobs and their companies during the recession, which we are still all climbing out of. We never had the safety net that others have – not even the ability to ‘just find a new job’. Any change in my work would actually cause us to have to leave the country. Leave our house. Our friends. Our kids’ school. Our lives – to start over where? Back in Canada? A place we’ve barely lived in as adults?

So we do everything we can to play by the rules. We love the rules. We know the rules. We were doing everything by the rules.

And then we got deported.

Yes. Actually deported.  In 2012.

Paul called me at work one day – saying that 4 letters had arrived for us by recorded delivery, we were being ‘removed’ from the United Kingdom for being ‘dirty immigrant overstayers’. The letter stated in bold YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO APPEAL THIS DECISION. That was it. Nobody to talk to. No ‘if you don’t think you should be deported please call…’. Nothing. Just get out or we will find you and remove you, you have 10 days.

Cue mass hysteria on our part, and about two weeks of frantic phone calls, letters and contact with the Home Office from my employer, only to find that they had actually deported us in error and assurance that our visas were still fine –your updated residence cards are in the post.

Their response to me over it?

“The decision to remove you had been made incorrectly.”

No ‘sorry about that’. No ‘whoops’. No ‘just kidding!’.

My heart resumed a normal beat pattern and we continued on with life, following the rules like they were some sort of cult religion.

And then a couple of months later, I got a text.

What the ever loving &%$%!!!! Why? Why God why were we being deported again!?!?! In yet another panic, and shortly after my STROKE, I called the number on the text only to find out, through eventually talking to a manager at the Home Office’s enforcement unit (?!) that the text was sent to me as a wrong number.

Are you kidding me?!?! My sarc-ridden heart cannot take much more of this. It just can’t. I get the whole ‘we hate immigrants’ thing, but this is a bit much, no?

So that was sorted out and we were left clinging to the immigration guidance like a book of faith. Two more years. One more year. Six more months. Three more months…

Last week we drove up to Birmingham to make our indefinite leave to remain applications in person. We handed over our £6,000 and a giant stack of documents proving who we are, what we have been doing here as well as evidence that not only were we married but that we still liked and lived with each other over the last 2 years, begging them to let us stay. They could have found a reason, any tiny reason, to refuse our application. Somebody may have smiled in their picture. A bank statement from the last two years could be smudged. My employer’s letter signature wasn’t in English. Maybe I don’t make enough money to support a family of four with the cost of London rents. Maybe we have cost the UK too much on my healthcare. Maybe maybe maybe.

It seems ridiculous, but I work in immigration. I’ve seen those refusals before and how they ruin lives.

We left the office, after having submitted our documents, money, fingerprints, photos, facial and retina scans, due to return in a few hours for a result. It was the longest three hours of our lives. We could barely speak to each other, both of us sick to our stomach’s with worry while our kids, oblivious to the concept of visas but alert to our stress quietly chased each other around a tree in the world’s strangest game of two player duck duck goose. We finally caved to the pressure and walked back to that office as though walking to the guillotine. If we were refused – we had 10 days to leave the country. We would lose our home, our assets would have to be quick-sold, I would lose my job, we would lose our income… everything.

We walked back through the mall, watching the other families – secure in their plans A, B and C like we have never experienced. I wanted to burst into tears at any given moment, the pressure and stress crushing me from above like the ceiling was pushing down. What would I do if they chose any of the plethora of reasons to refuse us? Where would we go? How would we start over now?

The kids pulled us to the mini-arcade, as all kids are drawn like a trap for the loose change of poor and unsuspecting parents. The claw machine had Disney characters. Ohhhh those cheeky bastards know that we can’t say no if the kids recognize the characters trapped inside in need of rescue and a loving home. “Alright” said Dad, “let’s have a go.”

And then he did it. He actually did it. On the very first try, on the very first pound he actually got a Minnie Mouse doll. None of us could believe it. He couldn’t believe it. There was only one problem.

We had twins.

He fished around for another coin in his pockets while I prepared the twins for a formal shared custody agreement of Minnie when I heard a “whoop!” – he had actually gotten another one! Another Minnie! TWO wins on two coins on a claw game?? This was unheard of! Unprecedented!

Our luck had changed!

Ten minutes later we burst out of the Birmingham PEO office, our letters of indefinite leave to remain and our two Minnie dolls in hand – our luck had changed. Everything had changed. The world was suddenly in that moment brighter and full of possibility. We could stay here – I could change jobs if I wanted to. We could move to a remote farmstead in Wales and grow broccoli. I could start my own business. I could go work at McDonald’s. Or something. Our kids could grow up here. We could really, truly have friends. We could build a life. The letters in our hands validated us as belonging here in every way we could feel – the pressure lifted from my shoulders and we were no longer so explicitly reliant on my job for our family’s entire… survival.

We were free, we have a future here.

And the future is bright.

Just try and deport me now, bitches.

These cookies taste like hatred

“You expect me to stir my coffee with a fork? A FORK?!?!? The gross incompetence of this hospital is staggering. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”

I think I need to go back to ward reception to thank them – I had asked them for some entertaining ward-mates this morning and wowsers did they ever deliver!

The irate, horrible old man is back – across the room but still very, very audible. I can hear him berating a doctor again from here, and so badly want to go ask him to “yell a little louder please, I need a good blog post for today”, just to watch him turn purple. He just spent 20 minutes yelling at a group of nurses at their desk who were only vaguely paying attention to him – something about the gall of the hospital to make him wait.

We are on the infusion ward. We’re ALL waiting – just chill out like the rest of us.

They finally got rid of him as he stormed back over to his chair, only to come flying back at them in a rage over the lack of plastic spoons available at the coffee cart. A firm Irish nurse urged him back to his spot like a lion tamer wielding a wooden chair and a whip (back you crazy bastard, back!) and he managed to sit still for a while, harrumphing loudly toward anyone that came within his sights.

I’d gone down to the Sarc clinic this morning, and it was decided that in addition to my regular Infliximab infusion today I would need another steroid infusion as well (fun), so I needed to wait for a doctor to arrive on the ward to check me out and give them the all clear before any infusions could start. Not a problem, I assured the nurses as they came to apologize for the wait, I’m here all day anyway.

My stomach just gave a loud rumble – it’s already noon and the noodle bar of satay awesomeness is open downstairs. I can’t go now and risk missing the doctor when they arrive, but I was in the clinic when the lunch orders went around. Come on doctor. Come on. The noodle bar closes in an hour, if I miss out on that the only vegetarian option left is mushy peas and unidentifiable quiche of some sort. Come on doctor! I assure the nurses again with a smile that I’m happy to wait – telling them so as my eyes slowly drag to the left, watching the other patients’ lunches arrive. The room is filled with the smell of warm potato, oil from fish and chips and the sweet aroma of warm custard. Spoons and forks are clinking against plates and I’m salivating so hard the back of my jaw is burning.

Ten minutes later and I was still waiting. The other patients had nearly finished their lunches. Hunger pains were stabbing my already aching chemo-tummy. I refusd to eat the apple I brought prematurely – that was for later and my stomach was expecting satay noodles – I wasn’t going to risk disappointing it. I know the type of stuff it pulls when angry with me. Where was that doctor! Let’s get a move on here!

20 minutes later and I was still waiting. I’m normally quite happy to do so, but this noodle situation was getting dire. It was closing in less than half an hour – didn’t people realize this? Another nurse came by, noticing that I didn’t have a lunch in front of me and encouraging me to order something before it was too late. So I did – mushy peas and some kind of quiche thing. It was the only vegetarian thing on the menu and I didn’t actually plan on eating it anyway. Hurry up doctor!

It had been 30 minutes, time was cutting it close and there was a flurry of movement across the room – The Doctor had arrived! Drugs and bodily fluid samples were now flowing like champagne at a wedding. Patients sat up a little straighter and the nurses leapt into action. The doctor was making her rounds through our ward. She made eye contact with me from across the room – she was coming to me next. Next! I was next! Two minutes with her and I can get on with my life – dropping off my prescriptions at the pharmacy, arranging my next session AND BOOKING IT TO THAT NOODLE BAR FOR LUNCH before the infusions started.

She finished with patient 0 over there and started walking toward me. I sat up a little straighter and smiled – a welcoming ‘get to me so I can go’ kind of smile. A ‘don’t worry, I’ll be an easy patient’ kind of smile. She was nearly on my side of the room when WHAMMO! That irate old man came out of NOWHERE and got her, pulling her over to his chair zone with an angry rant and threats of formal complaints.

WHAT?!? Interference!!! INTERFERENCE!!! Where’s the ref!?!?!

And then he lit into her about the nursing staff’s general incompetence. The food. His cannula site. His treatment. The temperature inside the hospital.  The lack of spoons for coffee.

I was screwed, and my luke-warm lunch of mushy peas and unidentifiable quiche tasted of hatred and retribution.

Well played you ornery, irate old bastard. Well played.

I guess sometimes the best revenge happens when we don’t even know we’ve gotten even. Perhaps this is what I get for heckling an old man, whether or not he deserved it at the time. Regardless, I have a new nemesis.

Candace 1                   Irate Old Man 1

Game on.

I don't hate my mother in law, but I did take her camping

My mother in law hath cometh for the summer Part III

I don’t hate my mother in law, but I did take her camping.

So she’s now convinced that I do.

Well, my mother in law is here for the summer, and I’m disappointed that we’ve not had many adventures while she has been here. We have to renew our visas, so we can’t actually take her outside of the UK this time. Home adventures it is, with the odd road-stop toilet mayhem thrown in here and there (let’s just say that Paul is an amazing father and goes WELL ABOVE AND BEYOND for his kids. Shudder.) So, in an effort to at least have a little bit of fun this summer, we took her camping.

We first drove her around Stratford Upon Avon to see the home of Anne something. I don’t know, all of these thatched cottages surrounded by colorful wildflowers tend to look the same after a couple of years. Boleyn maybe. Of possibly ‘of Green Gables’. Whatever – she loved it.

We picnicked in the parking lot of a small airfield at random in the country, watching planes come and go and encountering the largest, creepiest and quite possibly deadliest Australian refugee spider any of us had ever seen, that my mother in law had discovered on her car door handle. And Spiderzilla had moves.

Satisfied and terrified we packed up and headed further into the country to our campsite – none of us saying it but all of us hoping to hell that the spider had not stowed away within the confines of our camping gear and pillows.

The campsite was perfect and so typically British. A wide open field out the back of a country pub and surrounded by stinging nettle – which got Lochie within the first hour and mum within the next. Paul warned Kaitie not to go behind the car, as she would surely trip over the tent guidelines and fall into the stinging nettles as well –

Kaitie:             “I won’t Daddy.”

Paul:                “Yes you will. Just don’t go back there.”

Kaitie:              “I won’t fall daddy.”

Paul:                “Yes you will. You can’t help it. It’s genetic.”

Me:                   Nods in agreement.

Poor Sylvia hadn’t been camping in… well… a couple of years, so she more or less hung out directly in whatever spot that Paul needed to be at the time while reigning back Huar Huar / Cujo / Shaky McFrostyNuts from tearing after the much larger, much meaner looking dogs across the field and by the pub while we set up first our family tent, and then hers – nearly getting clocked in the head by a rounders ball from the family that had laid claim to the whole of the field before we had arrived in the process.

Now, taking mother in law camping with us was a rather last minute ‘let’s go camping tomorrow!’ kind of decision – the kind of decisions I’m best known for. So Paul looked online, found a fantastic deal on a 2-man tent for only £10 at Argos, hit ‘BUY NOW’ and sat back, pleased with his purchase AND the incredible cost savings. We even had an extra sleeping bag and a single air mattress in the shed – she would be completely comfortable!

With our tent nicely set up and finished I went to the communal area to give our dishes from lunch a quick wash – thinking that Paul could get started on her tent and that I would help him to finish it up when I got back. I forgot the dish soap, however, and upon my return was surprised to find them standing around her tent, staring down at it in silence. “Do you need help?!” I called over – nope. He was done.

That was most definitely not a 2-man tent. Not even by Chinese circus midget standards. Well, it was too late to turn back now and she said she was fine with it – it would only be one night, right? The single air mattress fit in there quite comfortably and didn’t quite stick out the end – she would be fiiiiiiine.

The rest of the evening was lovely – coloring with the kids, chatting in our camping chairs and eating burgers with an array of British cheese and crackers – with cold beer from the pub, of course. Tired from the day we called it a night early, got the kids ready for bed and crawled into our tent – first making sure that Sylvia was going to be alright before I climbed in.

Me:                        “Are you going to be comfortable in there?”

Sylvia:                   “Oh yes.”

Me:                        “Are you going to be warm enough? Would you like an extra blanket?”

Sylvia:                   “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Me:                        “Do you have all of your stuff from the car? Water? Everything?”

Sylvia:                   “Oh yes. Don’t worry about me.”

Me:                        “Okay then – let us know if you need anything! Night!”

She didn’t. She suffered in silence throughout the night, only to hold it against me for the rest of my life.

It started right when she went to bed – crawling into her tent like a bear trying to put on Spanx. Thrashing around against the sides and bouncing along the single air mattress like a tiny bouncy castle of violence and constricting wrath.

“Is that thunder Daddy?”

“No Lochie, that’s just Grandma getting into her tent. YOU OKAY MUM?”

“I’M FINE!”

But apparently, she couldn't sleep.

We didn’t hear anything else from Grandma that night, except for the terrifying snoring coming from either her or my husband. Or a warthog that had snuck up and camped out beside us – it was hard to tell. It also might have been me, my narcolepsy does weird things.

At about 1am she woke up, regretting that she hadn’t changed into pajamas for fear of having to walk across the public green less than fully dressed, rolling around on the coins flowing out of her pockets.

At about 2am her air mattress, despite its valiant effort, finally died a withering, sad and deflating death. Our choice of rocky field as a campsite was cursed loudly.

At about 3am, she awoke again, sore and cramped from the hard ground and freezing. Her coat was in the car, as was her sweater and the extra blanket I had offered her earlier – but she didn’t want to wake us up.

At 4am the pigeons living in the bushes behind us started their day building a nest directly behind her tent – loudly.

I, however, slept wonderfully curled up with Kaitie on our soft double air mattress and warm sleeping bag. I was awoken by birdsong at around 7am with the sunshine coming through the side of the tent. Groggy with sleep I stumbled out to get my shoes, emerging from the tent to the sight of Paparazzi Grandma with her massive camera lens pointed right at me, sat in a broken camping chair and wrapped up in a sleeping bag – looking miserable and cold, but stroking her camera like Golem and his ring.

She claims that her camera positioning wasn’t revenge related, but we don’t quite believe her.

The day went uphill from there, for the most part, until we got home. The stench of camping was too much for my ‘chemo-nose’ and I attacked the house with scent-destroying chemical warfare, essentially Febreezing my mother in law into a coma to cement her experience of camping hell.

The poor woman actually passed out.

Paul gently knocked on her door, then backed away slowly with a “Ummm… she’ll be fine. But I don’t know if she is going to want to come camping again.”

Touche mother in law, touche.

 

My Mother in Law Hath Cometh for the Summer - Part II. The sobbing airplane incident

The Sobbing Airplane Incident

My mother in law is here for the summer, and in her honor I am recalling the times that I have completely humiliated her - which is quite often if I'm honest. This is one of our family favourites - the sobbing plane incident in China.

We were flying (Paul, Sylvia and I) on an internal flight in China, I think we were going from Guilin to Hainan or something, but it was a relatively short flight of only about 4 hours or so. We were, of course, the only non-Chinese people on the entire plane and were placed in the exact middle of the plane - possibly for greater viewing access for the other passengers as back then in 2003 foreigners in some parts of China still made a pretty big scene. 

Paul and I were sat together and my mother in law was just across the aisle. The plane was dark and we had all settled in, watching our little headrest movie screens - I was watching Big Fish, for the first time.

Oh holy hell have you guys seen that movie? Oh my freaking God. The ending!

So we're on this quiet flight full of Chinese people and were the only foreigners on the entire flight. No biggie. But I'm watching this movie and it nears the end and I start to tear up. Just a little at first, but then the ending builds and builds and I start to sniffle.

Then the ending gets even more emotionally traumatic and I let out a stifled sob. Paul hasn't yet noticed anything, he's engrossed in Police Story - some Jackie Chan kicks the world's ass movie. I'm breathing hard and starting to really cry when a flight attendant, who spoke no English whatsoever, came over to see if I was okay. I waved her off politely, smiling to indicate that I was okay - but still engrossed in the movie. 

The ending got worse and I let out a loud sob. My shoulders were trembling and I was gripping my blanket to my running nose and the tears dripping down my face. I had headphones on, so didn't realize quite how loud I was being. I started to hiccup, tears pouring down my face and emitting little sobs. 

The flight attendant approached me again, this time with a friend. Neither spoke any English, but I assured them that I was fine. They left, reluctantly.

The ending then built even more and I was positively whimpering at this stage. People on the plane were starting to turn around and look at me (I always cause a scene there) but with looks of concern more than curiosity. Sylvia was starting to notice but I couldn't pay attention - I was engrossed in the movie. 

The movie hit its climax and I let loose a howling wail and then descended into inconsolable, loud weeping. 

My husband was startled out of his movie and was trying to get me to calm down but I was beyond any point of consolation. I was sobbing loudly, head thrown back and making a proper scene with 'waahaaaaa' type noises.

The flight attendants had rushed over and everyone around me was standing up in their seat staring and trying to make sense of what was happening to the sobbing foreigner - the flight attendants demanded to know what was going on and my poor mother in law was just covered in spectators - 

I managed to shout out (between sobs) the only coherent sentence in Chinese I could think to string together:

The DVD is so happy!!!! (zhege DVD hao gaoxin le!)

Have you ever heard an entire plane of people burst into laughter? It's quite an experience, let me tell you. And it's not like Paul and Sylvia could pretend not to know me, either. CLEARLY we were related.