Kamikaze Shihtsu

Kamikaze Shihtsu

So my dog Huar Huar is a special sort of dog. First off, he's got a clear case of 'little man syndrome' in that despite his teeny tiny cutesy size he fully challenges larger dogs such as rottweilers and huskies with delusions of grandeur and determination for a fight he is not fated to win. Always.  He has gotten better, and will sometimes even completely ignore other dogs at the park. Unless they come my way, then they must be destroyed. 

Clearly.

Secondly, he's old. A grumpy kind of old. He is, we think, around 14 years old but still looks and has the agility of a limitless puppy - with the disposition of a grumpy old Chinese general. He may be cute, but he's got a dark side.

And that's the third thing - he's Chinese. Like, actually Chinese. We got him from a street market in China back in 2002 and the 6 month quarantine to bring him over to the UK six years ago gave him PTSD - this dog has issues. 

But we love him, our ridiculous Huar Huar. We couldn't leave him behind...

Plus, he seemed to like the basket.

So there we were, cycling away through the forest – the bikes and trailers finally worn in to the point that it no longer posed a significant maiming danger to our children. Huar Huar was running beside me, pausing here and there to dash gleefully into the woods like a miniature deer, bounding through the ferns to emerge again beside me on the path. We kept on, being relentlessly driven by my whip-cracking daughter Kaitie, determined that we were ‘winning the race’ despite my insistence that this was most certainly not a race and that mummy’s entire body would revolt if I were to keep pedaling at this ridiculous speed.

Huar Huar started to lag a bit, and was now running beside Kaitie. Still with a look of idiotic glee as he bounded about along the road, deftly dodging our bicycle wheels like a pro.

Then he started to run beside Paul, then Lochie, then Lochie nearly fell off her bike twisting around to look for Huar Huar, who had given up and sat in the middle of the road behind us, panting and valiantly insisting that we go on without him.

It was time for the basket.

We struggled. Getting Huar Huar into the bike basket was a two person job, one to hold the bike still and make soothing baby-babble noises (who’s got your basket? Who’s got your basket?) like a pack of senile old women and the other to grip all four of his paws and lower him in butt-first while avoiding his teeth.

The dog was in the basket – and he seemed to like it. Well, he wasn’t jumping out, so that was a good sign. He tried to sit up and we coaxed (pushed) him back down. The kids were yelling at us from behind – they wanted to go! There was a squirrel ahead that needed catching up to. We looked again at Huar Huar in the basket – he did seem happy. He also seemed very tired, which would probably work out well in our favor as hopefully the breeze and exhaustion would keep him in the basket. I gave the bike a bit of a turbulent shake. He didn’t seem to mind. A bit more of a violent shake, he was still in there. I gave the bike a really violent shake – he was fine but Kaitie was pissed, I’d shaken her right off her bike.

(that kid’s got quite the glare worked out)

It was now or never, we were ready to give this a try. Murmuring encouragement to both Huar Huar and Kaitie I took off, wondering to myself how my mountain bike had turned into a family vehicle that now sat three. It was working, this was not so bad! Granted, Huar Huar on the handlebars was quite a bit heavier than I had anticipated and the first turn I attempted grazed a tree, from a starting point of about three meters away. No matter, Kaitie is used to it and got her hand and leg out of the way in time, though we did blow off one of her training wheels (which Paul went fumbling through the woods to then recover). No matter. We’re good!

Another mile or so and I had really gotten the hang of this – we passed other families in awe now not only of our awesome toddler bike trailer contraptions but now the ‘sweet little puppy in the basket’. Little, yes. Sweet, not so much.

Twice Huar Huar saw another dog and sat up in the basket to get a better look. I pulled him back down by his collar each time with one hand while failing to steer straight with the other, nearly plowing down other families and trailblazing into the forest very much to Kaitie’s dismay and the entertainment of many strangers. But we were good – this was fun. Paul was keeping a close eye on us but there wasn’t much he could do other than shouts of encouragement and to ‘look out for that tree’.

We were good – cycling along for another mile or so alongside our friends – a 9 month pregnant woman on a mountain bike pulling her 4 year old son and all of our picnic gear in a trailer. We’d already arranged with the bike rental staff at the park that should she give birth on the trail that the baby would get free forest Segway adventure rides for life, so it was okay. Things were going great, Kaitie was so far enjoying her first bike ride that didn’t break any skin and Huar Huar was chilled out in my basket, my lungs were screaming and thighs burning – and then we came upon a family with a beautiful tall white Husky.

Huar Huar wanted that Husky.

It was one of those moments in life when time seemed to slow down. The Husky came into view and Huar Huar’s ears perked up in attention. He sat up and I heard myself start to form the word ‘noooooo’. He wanted that Husky – his bum started ‘the wiggle’ in the basket and I reached for his collar, veering violently to the left as I did. The family walking the Husky looked up, hearing my cry and our bikes swerve against the gravel. Huar Huar lept, in a single fluid movement, out of the basket and toward the great Husky directly in front of my bicycle. In his mind, he thought he looked like this:

But reality was much more like this:

My kamikaze shihtsu burst out of the basket and hit the ground rolling with the speed at which we were already travelling. Screams erupted from all around – the family with the Husky, Kaitie, Paul, Lochie, other strangers along the path and me – as I ran over my own dog with my front tire. He rolled out, dazed but determined – he still wanted that Husky. With a jerking twist he was up and again on his feet before Kaitie and I had even come to a complete stop and we all watched, silent and speechless as he ran directly to shove his nose up the sphincter of the great white Husky who, having just witnessed the lengths to which Huar Huar had gone to procure such a sniff, just raised her tail and let him do it. Then, to everyone’s collective horror, my very small shihtsu let loose to have his way with the very large Husky.

I did the only thing that was socially appropriate to do in such a situation – I leapt off my bike leaving Kaitie to fend for herself trying to hold the whole thing up and ran for my dog, apologizing profusely to the Husky’s family for such a strange display of canine sexual harassment – explaining that my dog is really old, and Chinese. As though that would somehow justify his suicidal and rape-y behavior.

There is really no way to gracefully recover from something like that, other than to grab my dog, shove him back in the basket and ride on to Kaitie’s shouts of ‘mush’ and ‘go faster mummy’.

And Huar Huar? Content as can be, just chilling out in his basket for the rest of the afternoon. As Paul said, we’re fans of the school of natural consequences, and he’ll only do that once.

Well, hopefully.

Adrenal Shock is not as fun as it sounds

Well that was fairly unexpected.

I had honestly figured that with the Infliximab/Remicade infusions I am now on that my remaining medications are no longer as effective or important.

Not so much!

I missed my morning dose of steroids. Totally skipped my mind as I walked out the door and went to the hospital and then work.

11am (+2 hours)

Feeling fine. A little tired, but I had just walked 7 miles (to the hospital and then to my office)

12noon (+3 hours)

Totally fine, feeling focused and very productive. The long walks in the morning really pull me out of my 'brain fog'.

1pm (+4 hours)

Mega productive. Brain firing on all cylinders. Also starving, even though I ate lunch. Started to obsess over teriyaki tofu.

2pm (+5 hours)

ate Teriyaki Tofu at desk in shame.

4pm (+7 hours)

I started to get a bit aggressive. Nothing was angering me, I was just irrationally angry. I knew this, but couldn't stop it. Trying to separate myself from 'people' I went to a quiet room to calm down, and passed out on a table for half an hour.

5:30pm (+8.5 hours)

I left work early, just couldn't take it any more. I couldn't focus and was dead tired - assuming it was from my walk earlier in the day.

This is when things really went downhill fast. I called Paul to tell him I was on my way home and we chatted, I felt fine. Until I realized, while talking to him, that I had walked 10 minutes in the wrong direction like I was on auto-pilot. It was one of those times when you think back and wonder how in the world you crossed the street safely as you clearly weren't paying attention to anything you were doing. None the less, I got on the tube and pulled out my book, ready to settle in for the next 45 minute ride.

And then I started to cry.

See, I did not have anything to be crying about. I wasn't in pain. My feelings were just fine. It was like sudden, random, overwhelming depression. And then debilitating nausea. This didn't make any sense. I put my book down and stuck my head between my knees while sitting on the train bench, gripping a nearby pole for support. I ironically looked up to see the TFL Public Service Announcement sign about getting off the tube if you are feeling ill.

Gripping my head in my hands I acutely felt every sway, every bump of the train as it hurtled through the underbelly of London, feeling intense relief when we rushed out of the tunnel and into open air at White City - I debated crawling off the tube to lay on the platform out in the sun - but instead texted Paul to 'please, for the love of God and all that is holy come and get me at the station, something is wrong'.

It is a good thing he did come to pick me up, as when he did I was looking and feeling something like this:

I didn't know if I was going to be sick or fall asleep. I was fighting off my sudden onset narcolepsy as I zombie-lurched home, ready for the sweet release of my couch and the potato pot to curl up with. It was awful. We ate dinner and I passed out at the table, chopsticks in hand. I was so weak that I could barely hold my chopsticks together, resorting to stabbing chunks of broccoli and laying my head down on the table to suck rice off my plate like a fish out of water. It was pathetic.

My family set me up on the couch with a heating pad, an ice pack, a dog to warm my freezing feet, the potato pot (just in case) and a blanket. I couldn't move. I was done. I was going downhill fast. Paul came over to check on me and my wrists were hot and flaring, as were my cheeks and shins. I was confused, talking to nobody and imagining conversations about Lego princess cat molting (to be fair, though, it is quite probable that the twins were actually talking about that). My right eye swelled shut and my face began to droop. He wanted to take me to the hospital but I refused - I didn't want to look like a hypochondriac. 

Things were getting worse and I slipped into a deep coma-like sleep on the couch, certain that I was just reacting to having a cold. Also thinking that maybe I was going to have my period soon? Or this could be a sinus infection? Or maybe I just over-did the walk earlier?

No, no. That wasn't it.

10:30pm (+13.5 hours)

Paul woke me up with a verbal bitch-slap - he was just looking at my med case for the week - I'd completely skipped my morning meds, I'd had no steroids for over 12 hours. 

"You muppet! You don't have the flu! You're in adrenal shock!"

Ohhhhhhhh. 

Well, I guess that made more sense. Another couple of hours and we would have needed an ambulance. I guess I'm more drug-dependent than I thought. 

It could always be worse though, it could have really been the flu.

Even My Bruises Have Bruises

Even My Bruises Have Bruises

Alright, at first I felt badly for poor Kaitie, given our last experience with these bikes where the poor kid went flying off into fences, bushes and trees like some sort of flying squirrel with delusions of grandeur. 

It was all a ruse!

This kid is a relentless dictator! A whip master! A raged-up sled driver - a tireless Viking drum master and a ruthless Catholic, harnessing the power of soul-crushing guilt to drive on her exhausted mother like a lathered horse ready to drop but eager to please.

It didn't help that the entire bike trip was an organisational failure of face-palm lore - given that we had invited Xiaona and Andy to come with us - and they brought Andy's dad along for the ride. Even though they only had two bikes. Alright, fair enough - I'm sure they will figure it out. 

We arrived at Blackforest Park and set up the bikes and bike trailers in the parking lot, the standard ooh's and aah's from passersby and a couple of people snapping photos. Andy and Xiaona unfolded their bicycles (yes, unfolded) and we were ready, walking out bikes through the parking lot and toward the bike trails. Kaitie was nervous, and more or less shouted at me the entire walk across the lot.

"Be careful this time mummy."

"Go slowly this time mummy."

"Don't make me get hurt this time mummy."

The guilt is strong in that one. I promised, over and over, that she would be just fine. She might even have fun. Maybe, just maybe, she might even like bike riding. Maybe. 

Have you ever had a three year old give you the side-eye? It's a bit disturbing, although nobody else saw it. 

We got to the busy cafe by the entrance of the park and Paul suggested that we all get on our bikes. I requested that we go a bit farther along so we'd have a bit less of an audience but they had already taken off - he and Lochie already off in the distance like smug, graceful swans. Again.

The crowd loved our bikes and watched Lochie and Paul pedaling away into the forest, then turning expectantly toward Kaitie and I - me looking determined and her looking dubious. 

As usual. 

We had a quick debate as to who should get on their bike first, which ended with me pretending to get on my bike while she got on slowly and yelled at me to get going but go slowly. I pleaded with her to lower her voice for the sake of the chuckling crowd - my pleas fell on deaf ears. She was on. I was kind of on, and almost ready to go. She became aggressive - "Go mummy!" she shouted, "But be careful this time!" - cue roars of laughter from the crowded cafe. "Hurry up mummy, we have to go get Daddy and Lochie!"

"I know, I know Kaitie! Okay, we're going to go now. Are you ready? One, Two..."

"Just go mummy! You're so slow!"

What the hell? I looked around to the laughter from the cafe. "Three?"

"JUST GO MUMMY!"

"Oh my God fine!" I yelled back as I stood up on the pedals and we shot forward to Kaitie's screams of "slow dowwwwwwwn mummy!" Roars of laughter behind us - I wasn't slowing down for anything, we needed to get the hell away from that cafe.

After a bit of initial screaming and shouting, Kaitie's sounds turned from terrified barks of "slow down" to squeals of glee and instructions to 'go faster'. Thrilled with the turnaround in her feelings toward bike riding and visions of our 'summer of camping and biking' making a triumphant comeback I obliged, whizzing her past trees and mud puddles, over streams and catching up to the group.

I even managed to take pictures with my phone without riding us both into a tree, so I was well impressed with my mad bike riding skills. We caught up to Paul and he reported that Kaitie was pedaling away behind me, having a great time and full of smiles. Until he tried to pass us - prompting the rage monkey behind me to screech in fury - she wanted to be the leader .Still feeling horribly guilty from our last bike riding debacle I obliged, pulling ahead to lead the pack through the forest. "Faster, faster!" she shouted - so pleased that she was having fun that I pushed harder and harder, despite the screaming protests from my legs and the fact that I had just had an infusion yesterday- pumping my heart this hard was probably not the best course of action.

Paul came up close, advising that I slow down and reminding me of my health - maybe we should take a break? 

"No breaks!" came the dictator from behind. "No stopping! Go mummy go!" I shot Paul an apologetic smile as we again pulled ahead, nearly running over a dog and plowing through a mud puddle. She was having fun - we had to keep going. I shouted back to see how everyone was doing - nobody needed a break so we just kept at it. 

My thighs were burning. Spasms shot through my bum cheeks as I pedaled away, so pleased that Kaitie was having a good time and that above all I was able to do this - taking it easy was for sissies. 

Kaitie laughed from behind, encouraging me to go faster and faster. We came to a hill and I tried to shift gears, but I'm not very good at that either. I also thought momentarily that perhaps I should have Paul do some work on my brakes as I plowed forward up the hill, legs screaming in protest. I shouted back for Kaitie to pedal harder, I needed all the help I could get. She shouted back, telling me that she was holding her brake.

What?!

She released the brake and we shot up the hill, me standing in my seat to leverage my pushes as much as I could. My legs hurt so badly - my lungs were tight and my right eye started to twitch. Maybe I should slow down after all...

"Go faster mummy!"

I pushed harder, determined to make it up the hill - I could hear the pants of the group behind me - I couldn't do it. I had to stop. Thankfully, Kaitie was distracted by some ducks and wanted to stop (whew!) so we pulled over to the side to let the group past. I needed a minute, and a moment of privacy to clear out my nose and throat in the most unladylike of fashions - "just keep going" I told them. But no, they all stopped. I had so much phlegm in my nose and mouth that I could barely speak, I needed to clear this out. I had no tissues with me. It was going to be gross and manly - I needed them to keep going.

But no. Andy and his father whipped out their professional grade cameras, taking pictures of us, and the surroundings. I was sick, they wall wanted me in the lead so they could keep an eye on me. Kaitie wanted to go. Despite my protests, without actually explaining to them what I needed to do they wouldn't leave. Nobody would leave. Off we went again, pushing as hard as I could to try to get a good lead so I could grossly clear my throat without anyone seeing but we were now going downhill -  I had minimal brakes and we were now really picking up speed. I risked a quick look behind me and saw that I had a little bit of distance between us and the rest of the group - it was now or never. 

I've never been able to spit. Given that it is a rather un-ladylike thing to do this inability has never much bothered me, but I was desperate and, as Paul had taught me, I built it up and spit it out away from me as discreetly as possible.

I had spit directly into the wind and to the side. I could see it fly out in slow motion, whipping out behind me and past my line of vision until I heard a scream from behind - Kaitie had something in her eye.

Oh God no.

I truly am the worst mother ever.

I've got my penance though - I woke up this morning with legs so sore I can barely move. Even my bruises have bruises.

I am an irritable sort of drug addict

I have come to develop an extreme appreciation for drug addiction. Like a stranger boldly and confidently standing up a midst a circle of cheap plastic chairs and bland coffee within a church basement declaring themselves a sex-addict or an alcoholic, I am a drug addict.

And my life couldn't be better for it.

My chemotherapy has now finished, after 13 rather grueling but rewarding months, and I have entered onto the maintenance stage of Infliximab infusions – now only every eight weeks. Coming up to the seventh week I was feeling alright, starting to sleep more and do less, while pain in my bones and joints again started to rear. My thoughts became again cloudy and unfocused. My dreams became again more vivid and by about the middle of the seventh week I was going downhill fast. At times I needed to lay down as it felt as though my heartbeat was shaking my body.

I just had to make it to Friday. 

See, having spent over a year coming regularly to these infusion clinics, as well as the medical drama I've been through over the past 3 years I have an extreme appreciation for the NHS and the people that make up this incredible system - and I get irrationally upset when people knock it, or are disrespectful to the nurses and doctors that take such great care of us. I was doing pretty good, people would often just soften with a bit of kindness and understanding, until I met...

The grumpy old Irish man

Sat directly across from me at my last infusion was the nastiest, rudest, grumpiest old man I'd yet ever encountered. Everything was wrong. He was so angry that he paced the halls with his cane, berating anyone that would listen. The nurses were idiots. The doctors were hiding from him. The bathroom light was too dim. He didn't see any justification for giving them a urine sample so he wasn't going to.

Even better was that his conspiracy theorist tinfoil hat was positioned firmly atop his head - he wouldn't give them a nose-swab because then they would have his DNA. He wasn't going to blindly follow their instructions 'like a brainless amoeba'. He wanted his infusion and he wanted it NOW - they didn't need to take bloods first, he felt fine.

The other patients in the room and I shared 'looks' and shot nurses quiet expressions of support and solidarity against his rants. He was like the elephant in the room - nobody really had the guts to say anything directly to him for fear he would turn his rantings our way, so we did our best to ignore him - hoping that at least he would soon fall asleep or something.

My infusion was hooked up and, after the pain I had been in all week gearing up for this, I was feeling particularly euphoric and grateful ( I had, like a drug addict, practically run to the infusion clinic slapping the vein in my arm shouting 'fill 'er up!'). I was ready. I was happy. I was tied to a chair across from a ranting old man. It was going to be a good day.

This euphoria, however, produced a boldness I don't normally possess. 

The grumpy old man started to berate two poor nurses, there to take more bloods from him. The lab had requested a second sample. He wasn't having it. He demanded to know why, what were the results of the first test, why would he have to give it again, why do they need to stick him again, this is inhuman treatment, on and on and on. With uncharacteristic boldness I shouted to him from across the way "Oh my god just give them your arm, it's not their fault and I'm trying to read over here!"

That shocked him into a rare moment of silence, the nurse seized the opportunity and stabbed, getting the blood she needed and hurried out of the room while he spluttered and stifled his rage at not having been able to produce a coherent response.

All was quiet for awhile, whereas the other patients snuck me hurried thumbs up and smiles of support while the grumpy old man wasn't looking. All was quiet, until a junior doctor came to do a final once-over of the grumpy old man before starting his infusion - and the infusion was running late. The junior doctor pulled the curtain closed around the grumpy old man and this irate pensioner let loose a barrage of abuse and bizarre arguments. He demanded to know what happened to the first blood test - the doctor didn't know there had been two. Oh dear God, that really set off the old man. Ranting about how computer systems should work, the doctor explained to him that the first sample had possibly resulted in an error (at which point he then listed off a number of common reasons for needing to take a second sample - the grumpy old man accused him of 'making up words'.)

The grumpy old man was refusing to be checked over until he 'knew the results of his first blood test' - that the doctor didn't have. Because the doctor was an idiot, apparently. The doctor explained that he couldn't start his infusion until this examination was done - and him having to chase a phantom, meaningless blood test was just going to delay this further - but the old man still wasn't having it.

It was around this time, at the goading of the other patients also tied to their chairs, that I more or less heckled an old man.

It started mildly enough - with me calling across the room and through the curtain:

"Sir, he's not making it up. Problems with blood tests do happen, and it's not anyone's fault. The blood probably did hemolyze, which is just random."

Okay, that wasn't so bad. Shocked silence from both the doctor and grumpy old man from across the curtain, as the old man considered the input and the doctor waited with baited breath for his response. 

"Well, okay. I guess that can happen." came from the old man. He wasn't letting it go, though. He wanted a report showing that this had happened. BEFORE the doctor was going to touch him. The doctor explained that he could get a nurse to do this for him, after the examination. The old man exploded again - that doctor was 'good for nothing' and he wasn't going to rely on 'some idiot nurse' to find that out. How could this doctor come to him so unprepared that this information wasn't in his file?

I got a bit bolder.

"Sir, it's not THIS doctor's job to chase your paperwork. He's just here to listen to your lungs and give your infusion the green light."

More silence from across the curtain. 

The grumpy old man then ranted about how long it was taking to just get his infusion started,the longer it took to start the longer he would be stuck in this hell-hole. The doctor was well annoyed now, telling the man that the only barrier to him starting the infusion was, in fact, him and this ridiculously circular conversation. If he could just check him over they could get started. The man ranted some more at the doctor being an 'unprepared idiot of incredible proportions'.

I got much more bold.

"Hey! Grumpy! Just let him check you over so he can leave and help someone else!"

More shocked silence. Then the grumpy old man said "Fine, let's just get this farce over with." and we assumed from the sounds and descriptions that the exam had started - though the grumpy old man wasn't going to let this be easy either. The doctor asked him to take deep breaths, and the old man shouted "How?!" The doctor explained again, just breathe deeply. "HOW?!" came from the old man - he was determined to be ornery. The doctor asked him to clarify, what did he mean by 'how'? The old man shouted "How do you want me to breathe? In through my nose? Out through my mouth? How do you want me to breathe deeply?" The doctor told him to breathe deeply any way he wanted, it didn't matter - to which the old man lost it ranting about how the doctor is completely useless and probably isn't even a real doctor.

Even the rest of the peanut gallery was ready to jump in there as I shouted:

"Oh my God! Just stop talking and breathe deeply! In and out, in and out! You've been doing it for years!"

Silence again from across the curtain, save the sound of deep, angry breaths. 

The examination was finished and the doctor declared him healthy enough to start the infusion. The old man exploded at him again, he could have told the doctor this, he didn't need blood tests and an exam to tell him that he felt fine.

"Dude! If any of us were 'fine' then none of us would be here!"

We heard the doctor finally break into a stifled chuckle as he pulled the curtain back around, freeing himself and revealing a very angry looking old man, white knuckling his cane like he wanted to hit the doctor. Or us. Before I could open my mouth to apologize for the heckling the until then silent patient next to me looked straight at the doctor, smiled and shouted 'RUN!"

The funniest part? Seeing that poor junior doctor take that cue and bolt out of there.

The old man glared at each of us in turn, a seething troll sat in his lounger, red in the face from unspent rage.

"Oh relax" said another patient a few seats down "we're all miserable. Stop making it worse."

All was again right with the world as I sat back to enjoy my book. And my wonderful, wonderful drugs.

An Unholy English Breakfast

Never, Ever Again

Oh man. There's nothing like breaking a bathroom and nearly soiling yourself in a church.

So after toddler Kung Fu (as you do) yesterday, we went to a nearby diner for Saturday brunch before the girls' ballet class - held at a local church. I had the 'sensible' vegetarian breakfast- scrambled eggs, toast, hash browns and a veggie burger patty while the girls had an omelette and pancakes, rather harmless. Paul had the 'meat feast' of veritable 'death on a plate' - eggs, sausages, bacon, hash browns, mushrooms, tomatoes and some other kind of meat. His was so large and so over the top that he hung his head in shame as he handed the waitress back his plate with a full, untouched sausage still remaining explaining that although he tried, he just couldn't do it.

I looked at him, wide eyed with concern for both his stomach and his heart. He said he was fine, but suggested a brisk walk before ballet to burn some of it off, as we still had 45 minutes to kill. Fine - that sounded good and off we went.

We wandered down the high street and followed the signs to a local flea market on that day - only to find the saddest flea market of all time hidden in a run-down community center just off the high street parking lot. It was one of those moments where you realize how badly you don't want to be there the very moment you walk in.

An elderly man looked eagerly at us from his haggard table with a small box of change. It would cost us a pound to enter the market. It was too late to back out, that would have been rude - so we fished around in our pockets to produce a rare pound (who carries change around now?), paid the man and stepped inside. 

Inside was the saddest flea market of despair. A total of eight tables and we were the only customers. They looked at us with eager anticipation, proudly displaying their wares. We gathered the kids close and put on awkward smiles, shuffling in a nervous quad formation down the first 'aisle', politely feigning interest at homemade knitting (was that a pashmina with one sleeve or trousers for a war-vet?) and snarling at the girls not to touch anything. We passed a table full of toys not even our children wanted. 1/2 price puzzles with only 1/2 pieces. Children's cassette tapes of Christian nursery songs. Books with human bite-marks on the edges. We passed that table with wide smiles and forced 'ooh's' - as we moved on the woman looked ready to burst into tears. At the next table the man stood up to greet us - oh God no. The awkward level had reached an penultimate high. 

We continued around the flea market of despair when I was accosted by what seemed to be the market manager - an elderly woman looking for a chat. Oh no. Oh no no no no no. Were we from around here? Did we live nearby? Did we like anything we saw? She then went on to tell me that the woman who sells honey and chocolate isn't here today, she usually draws in a pretty big crowd. We should definitely come again next week.

Definitely.

We finally escaped, cheeks sore from humored grinning and eyes wide from the awkward ordeal. Even the kids were speechless. Until we got outside and saw an old woman on a red mobility scooter, speeding down the parking lot toward the market with fierce determination. 

Oh, she was ready. We could hear her engine maxed out from the other end of the parking lot. neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Recovering from the flea-market fiasco, we took a short detour through the woodlands to circle back around to the high street, our car and the church hosting ballet class. I commented to Paul that my stomach wasn't feeling particularly well. The girls picked daisies and dandelions. I commented to Paul that I was having a bit of chest pain. He didn't seem overly concerned as I'm not generally the healthiest of people and my body tends to do random things just to make life interesting. We continued to walk as a charming family, hand in hand down the woodland.

My left arm started to ache and I felt an overwhelming need to use the washroom. I told Paul that we needed to hurry back to the Church as I had to use the bathroom. He picked up the pace a bit. I started to speed-walk, dragging the twins behind me as I clenched my bum cheeks, shouting back to Paul that we needed to move, I was about to have 'an incident'. He saw the desperation on my face and told me to leave the twins and run - they would meet me at the church. 

And so I did.

I couldn't run though, the bouncing pressure was making things worse. I had to maintain level pressure on my bowels so I speed walked with the grace of a drunk giraffe, keeping my hips steady but my legs flailing about in front of me like loose noodles trying to get myself there as quickly as possible whilst not working my tensed stomach muscles. A bout of debilitating pain stabbed me in the stomach and I doubled over, gripping a street sign for support. I had to keep going - I had to get to that bathroom. 

I'd by then broken out into a cold sweat, tears of pain and desperation pouring down my face as I lurched with extreme vigor around the corner and down the street. I could see the church. I was only minutes away. Another stab of pain and I nearly doubled over, forcing myself to keep walking. Oh God, it was happening now. There would be no stopping this freight train of horror bubbling within my lower intestine. Oh God no - I wasn't going to make it. I considered making a break for our car so I could squat down behind it in the bushes and die.

No. No. I could make it. It was just a little bit farther. I clenched harder, growing an inch in height as I speed-waddled like a penguin with my legs pressed together with blind desperation to get to the church bathroom. There was some kind of Caribbean congregation function going on inside - the lone crying white woman bursting in through the doors and shouting 'where's the bathroom!?' turned a lot of heads. They pointed me upstairs, my having brought their singing to a sudden halt. I couldn't do stairs in this state so i turned and ran back out the doors - determined to make it next door to the church hall where ballet was held instead.

Oh God, I wasn't going to make it. I considered the large rubbish bin in the corner of the courtyard as something to climb into and let loose. The community hall glass doors were in sight - I could see the disabled bathroom door from where I stood panicking. It was happening. I couldn't stop it. I made a final waddled rush of desperation, bursting through the doors and pushing a man out of the way to get to the washroom. I was so close... sweet, sweet relief was nearly upon me. My knees were pressed together and I was hyperventilating from the effort and stress. I slammed the door closed, turned the lock and the entire handle exploded in my hand - I was stood holding the remnants of the door handle in utter shock, I just couldn't deal with this. 

I threw the door handle bits on the floor with my backpack and made for the toilet, frantically pawing at the toilet dispenser and not quite believing that it could possibly be empty in a situation such as this, but it was. There was nothing to wipe down the seat of this disgusting public toilet - I had no choice. This was happening and it was happening now. In a final act of desperation I sat down, trying not to think of the hepatitis surely coating the toilet seat as I did. 

And so I sat there - sweating profusely from the mere effort of getting here, wondering what I was going to do about the lack of toilet paper and how I was going to get out of the bathroom now that I had essentially locked myself in - but resigning myself to just deal with it later. 

Until I heard the twins and Paul knocking on the door. They all needed to pee quite badly, could I please hurry?

Um... Mummy's going to need a minute.

Compared to what we ate at breakfast I have no idea how this happened to me instead of Paul. I just cannot comprehend my luck. English breakfast?

Never. Ever. Again.

Cable Zombies No More

Cable Zombies no more!

Television has hit such an incredible low in the United Kingdom that there is now a popular television show about people watching television shows. Cameras are placed throughout a family’s home and their reactions while watching television are recorded, for us to watch on television. I came across this one evening while ‘channel surfing’ like a slack-jawed cable monkey, staring blankly at the screen having completely lowered my expectations of what satisfactory entertainment might be. After watching other families on their couches stare at the screen like zombies I turned to look at my own family – also staring at the screen like zombies. 

Not a coherent thought running through their heads.

We would go to a friend’s home, nearly anyone’s home, for a visit or a meal and the television remained on the entire time, like there had to be a constant distraction or background noise. It was hard to pull away from that screen – even though we were there to enjoy each other’s company, not watch whatever was on the TV at the time. I would find myself talking to a friend, my head slowly and involuntarily turning toward the television. My eyes would dart toward the screen and then back to my friend as though trying to hide an insulting yawn. The conversation would become difficult to follow as there was too much pull toward the screen – fascinating and engaging conversation would quickly descend into guttural grunts of acknowledgement until all was silent, everyone staring at the screen without thought watching weird and useless shows about cake decorating with melodramatic family feuds.

When did this happen? And how was this okay?

Over the next few days I observed more. The shows that my three year olds were watching seemed alright – I like a bit of Scooby Doo and Spiderman myself. But the commercials? I feared they would give my kids epilepsy or perhaps ADHD. The commercials would suddenly come on louder, brighter, faster and in-your-face. My kids started asking me for sugar coated chocolate funball puffs at the supermarket, not because of the taste or superior nutritional value but because they liked the kangaroo on the box. Commercials would come on during chidlren’s shows about betting agencies, online bingo and personal injury lawyers. They wanted me to spend my hard earned money on cheap plastic toys that would be played with once and forgotten about. Then came the kicker – they wanted me to buy them a game where you take a wiener dog for a walk, squeeze its leash and it craps on your coffee table.

Girls, we have a 14 year old shih-tsu. Just show him the leash and he’ll get so excited he’ll crap all over our coffee table. Play with that instead.

That was it. We were cutting the cable.

I put my husband in charge of this, which I probably shouldn’t have. Where we should have saved a small fortune by cutting out cable we only saved a fraction as he’d instead been sold an upgrade on our internet speed.

Head-desk.

We kept Netflix, but now had no cable at all – and it has been this way since mid-February. It honestly has been a wonderful experience.

At first we emerged, blurry eyed and hapless, wandering about the house looking for things to do. In the evenings after dinner we would sit on the couch and just silently look at each other, unsure of what to do or say. We honestly didn’t know what to do with ourselves, and for the first week or so found ourselves all going to bed around 9:30pm, having found nothing else to do.

We wondered aloud at what might be on the news, what shows we were missing and what might be happening. But then we started to realize that we didn’t, and shouldn’t, care. Why would I waste hours of my life that I can never get back watching other people live their lives? Why would I waste my time watching the news when I had read it all online throughout the day previously? What could I instead do with the hours I would have dedicated to starting blankly at a television screen?

Well.

I finished writing my Masters Dissertation. I read many books and wrote one. I called friends and family on the phone. Learned to play the piano. I played board games with my husband, we made a puzzle. Sounds dull, but we drank wine together with the radio on, sat around the kitchen table with our puzzle – chatting and laughing. We connected. We read books with the kids. We played ponies. Organized things. Cleaned things. Baked things. Planned things. But most of all we talked, and not about TV shows.

All of us. We chatted about our days, our thoughts, our feelings, the news. We were no longer having our opinions and experiences fed to us through television, we were talking and our evenings became worthwhile, something to look forward to instead of just coming home to crash on the couch, turn on the TV and accept whatever was available.

We still have Netflix, but with this we actively choose what we want to watch, and when, together. We currently have one series that my husband and I watch together every couple of evenings and the kids have free reign of kids’ shows without epilepsy inducing commercials. I recently read a note that said:

Live your life so that you don’t need a vacation from it

And we have. I look forward to my evenings while coming home from work because it will be engaging. It will be stimulating and it will be productive. It will be intentional. My evenings are no longer an escape from life – it’s what I work so hard for.

We are slack-jawed cable zombies no more.