The Right Questions

What are the right questions?

It's a well known fact that hindsight is 20/20.

Whilst growing up, we were never really taught how to question things, it just wasn’t done. We never questioned Teachers, Professionals, Doctors, Parents…if you did, you were "precocious". Or just a little shite in the eyes of authority.

Things just happened, and we just did what we had to do. No questions asked.

And it may sound silly but this way of life, deep down, continued into my young adulthood. You just didn’t ask questions! Or rather, the RIGHT questions; of course we questioned Human Rights, Wars, World Famine but never anything that directly involved one’s own self. You just trusted the Pros. And believe me, I trusted the Pros. Am I alone here?

Now, many years later I want to question the system. And maybe you should too.  I’ve always tried to write with honesty and candour but there are things that I realise I haven’t said.  Not because I didn’t want to, but maybe because my “hindsight” has become more in-tuned with my age (FUUUCCKKKKK) yep. Dare I say wisdom? No, but looking back, I could’ve/should’ve asked more, demanded more, dared more. This is/was MY body, my mind, my soul, why didn’t I ask more about it? Why didn’t anyone let me? Ahhhh… because they were “The Pros”. Well bugger that for a game of tennis.

The fact is, dear reader (and I hope you do more than I did) is that we don’t ask enough. Looking back on my blog, I realise that I have spoken about the actual MOMENT that I was sick, and not about the years leading up to it.  The MASSIVE alarm bells that were there. The utter CONFUSION, COSTS (mentally, physically and economically) the FEAR. The FEAR of not being taken seriously, of being the Drama Queen (that’s still there though, some things never change). Of losing control. I’ve spoken before about mental health in all this yet I’ve had to really force myself to examine those early years and it has hit me like a horse in full gallop.  I feel duped by my own non-awareness and now the veil has been lifted and I’m astounded that I was so naïve. Moi!

And looking back on it all, even after my treatment for Cancer, I didn’t ask enough.  Now don’t get me wrong, I love my doctors and I owe them the luxury of being able to write this today but damn it, damn it I didn’t ask enough and damn it they didn’t tell me. I wasn’t prepared for the AFTER. I wasn’t prepared for these feelings. But I thought I was. I wish that some little chap had taken me to one-side and whispered “ok, Rach, great news, treatment is over, now, I need to give you a heads-up on the total mind and body fuck that is going to happen over the next few years…”

The struggle is real but it can be helped.

And I’ll be back soon with the how, the why and the everything.

I just need to find that little chap……

The Battle of the Birds...

As many of you know, I live in Italy, in a small little town called Orvieto half-way between Rome and Florence.

I love the place. I love it’s nature and beauty and there are a few small things that make my heart leap every single year (that make me love it even more):

1)    Spotting the first lizard

2)    My bright green little fig leaves that bursting out like neon butterflies

3)    My cherry blossoms

4)    The first daffodils

5)    The first hum of bees around my wild plum tree

6)    Planting my tomatoes

To name a few…

But nothing, NOTHING, compares to sitting out in early April and spying with utter joy the first House Martin Swallows returning to nest.

This, for me, is the ultimate sign of Spring. The ultimate mystery that these little, but mighty birds, year after year fly thousands of miles back to their same nests. Without fail.

The amazing thing is that during the winter the other common Italian Birds use them too as their homes when it’s cold, clean them up, and clear out just before the swallows come back. It’s incredible how these little mud homes give so much to them all.

Sitting out on the bench with a cool beer in the evening watching the swallows dive is my favourite time of day. My moment to sit and be still. I love them very much and I’ve grown terribly attached to them.

And this is why I am writing.

This year it’s different.

This year it won’t happen.

Want to know why?

The nests. All 23 of them. Have been destroyed.

What what? By bad weather? By the terrible rain? Wind? No. By the hands of my terribly ignorant and selfish neighbours who took it upon themselves to ACTUALLY BUY AN INSTRUMENT to hack them all down.

Not only is this tragic and shows the very stupidity of humans but it is also AGAINST THE LAW.

Italian Law clearly states that no nests are to be destroyed FOR ANY REASON. Even if one has to do work on the roof and take away the nests one is then OBBLIGED BY LAW to replace them with artificial ones.

I am distraught and angry.

The way it works is that the elder swallows are the first ones to return. Their job is to make sure the nests are ready for the younger ones to come and lay their eggs. Now they have started to return and are circling confused over head. Most will die of exhaustion as they have no home left. There is already a 20% decline in the population thanks to these UTTER DICKS taking down their nests. Can you imagine? Flying miles and miles to get back "home" and finding nothing?

The reason? They are “dirty”. Well who is the one scrubbing the patio all summer??? ME!!! And that’s fine!! It’s a tiny price to pay for their beauty. A TINY price to pay for all the mosquitoes they happily gobble all day!

So this is war. I will not let this one go. I will NOT take this lying down. Everyone thinks I’m crazy. Everyone is saying “Mah che ti frega??” (what do you care in Italian) BUT I DO BLOODY WELL CARE.

I can’t save the world. I can’t guarantee a future for my son with the rate we are killing this planet. But I damn well can fight a small battle for my Birds.

Because you know what? If we can’t be arsed to fight a small battle, then God help us for the bigger picture.

I’ll keep you posted.

Holding my breath xx

Why I’ve been holding my breath…

A few days ago, one of my lovely old school friends sent me a message: How are you? Where have you been? I think about you all the time and wonder if you are OK! What's up?!

And THAT, dear reader, made me think.

Not only did it make me think but it made me realise that I've been holding my breath for the last few months. Why? I think (I know) that I’ve been mentally holding back on myself for several reasons but the main two are these: (the first is a bit of a self sob story, the second not so much!)

1)    I doubted that my blogs were making a difference. Any kind of difference at all. To anyone. I doubted the effect my words were having on any of the women I wanted to reach out to and I doubted that anything I said, or did, got the message across. I thought that nobody really noticed.

2)     I have been terribly worried about everything and everyone. Every message received and every post I read tore into my very soul.  It seemed that all of my friends were sad or confused or suffering for things that HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH CANCER.  So why am I adding to THEIR pain by writing about this? Am I making them think “Damn, I shoudn’t feel bad, she’s been through some shit!” I just couldn’t face loading “Guilt” on people I love. And I guess I didn’t mean to MAKE them feel guilty, I just put myself in their shoes. What would I do? if I was in the middle of some deep crisis would I think "Hold everything! I need to go and scrap my cervix you bastards!" errr, no. I wouldn't. The last thing I'd think about would be hoiking my legs over a cold stirrup thank you very much. Ugg!

And of course I KNOW this is not the case! I know that nobody wants to deal with the epic, the incomprehensible, the irreversible. Nobody wants to feel impotent and sometimes, well, quite frankly, if one has ones’ own crap to deal with the last thing they want to do is read about someone else’s crap. Am I wrong? Am I wrong to think that in the middle of utter hell the LAST thing you want to do is take time to drop your pants???

Maybe I am and maybe I’ve been wrong not to talk about Cancer for a while but the truth is, I haven’t been thinking about ME. I’ve been focusing on OTHERS. Regardless. The last few months have been horrific for many of my dear, dear friends and family and I have put my feelings (at least in words) on a back burner. I've chosen not to talk about cancer, or smears, or radio & chemo, or endless cancer cancer cancer cancer.. and gyno issues or blood tests or weird sexual issues. No. Nada. Niente..

Yet that message from Sarah reminded me that perhaps I should start again, or at least try to continue what I started because at the end of the day… I really love my friends (and readers) and I want you to be well. Like, really WELL.  I understand that COLOSSAL shit happens to everyone, so maybe I can help YOU avoid something (cancer!) that will make whatever situation you are in a whole lot trickier. trust me, it's a bugger...

Please, let’s make a pact. I will NOT stop writing and I will NOT stop talking, but will YOU please look after yourselves and book yourselves a smear test? Please? I don’t want to give this up. I don’t want to EVER feel that I could’ve/should’ve said more. That I could’ve saved/helped someone. It would truly break me and the many others that surround you.

I’m now into year 5… this is my final year (hopefully) of this cloud of doubt I’ve been living in. But it won’t be my final year of writing. I’m going to push as much as I can to get you ALL to go and get checked. I’m still holding my breath… but not my words x

So BREATHE dear reader, friend, sister, mother, aunt, cousin… breathe and go and get checked and be happy because I’ll bet anything you want: someone is holding their breath for you x