Conversation, in a car, with a 4 year old

"Mummy remember when we played with the racing cars at Grannie Joan's?"
"Yes, Seamus"
"Do you remember that I went around and kept crashing off the track?"
"Yes, I do. You went so fast"
"Teddy was great, he always beat me through the narrow bit"
"He did."
"but then I just did it and went around about 500 times and you laughed, and then Garry laughed, and then Teddy laughed and then Grannie Joan laughed and Grandad Tom laughed, because you couldn't believe it!" "It was so funny"
"It was brilliant Seamus"

a little bit later.....

"Seamus there are christmas trees in Whalley"
"Can we see them?"
"Yes, but we're in Read now, we'll have to wait a bit"
"Oh, Luca from school lives in Read"
"Does he?"
"Yes, he lives with his Mummy, his Daddy and his brothers. There are five people in his house!"
"There is?"
"Yes, that's so many people isn't it?"
"It is"
"Mummy if Garry marries you, then we'll all live together and we'll have lots of people in our house"
"Maybe Seamus"
"You'll have to get a pretty dress with sparkles on it and a thing that goes over your head and face"
"You mean a veil?"
"Yes, a veil. But we might not be able to find a dress because shops that sell those are so far away in maybe, erm, London or something. You'll have to wear one of your black dresses. "

Oh Seamus you're so brilliant. I love our little chats.

£1 and more

Just had a most brilliant night.
Started at the Moorbrook Inn. Landlord Jim - a waistcoat wearing marvel pours the best spiced Rum in Preston. He also serves a grand pint of real ale, if that's your thing. The old-world-pub-environment is compelling. On Fridays you can even join the lads for a folk round. Just bring your herdy gerdy or a wee Irish ditty to share. It was the perfect place to sart our Saturday night out in Preston. It had nothing to do with the fact that I'd left my hat and gloves there the night before. Does two visits = regulars?

After acquring a mathmetics professor's email address and pledging to re-dress the landords windows we moved on to the 'Mad Ferret' to feast on a string of live band's muscial delights.

One band was good. The lead singer almost a lyrical genius. 'One British Pound' were definitely worth a quid, or two.
Another band (whose name escapes me) had the most excellent fiddler. The last band, the headline act - were lively, used harmonica well but were far too scouse to be really any good.

Anyway, all in all, the night was a bloody blast. G was at his most glorious best and I loved him, truly loved him.

Who ever said you couldn't have a good night out in Preston obviously didn't have enough spiced Rum.

This man

This man makes my breath quicken.
The blue of his eyes’ clear pools,
Open me up in a moment
Creating both learning and love.

Art attack

I love art. I love looking at it. I love practicing it.
Portraits of the human form are my favourite. I could spend hours in the many spectacular galleries we British have access too. Off to London in two weeks and can not wait to lose myself in the many galleries littered around the city. Some of my favourite paintings have been hung at the Saatchi Museum. You can always be sure to find the odd glorious naked body hung from the walls of this most exhibitionist of exhibitions. Large, brash, honest portraits - colourful yet grey, mobid yet enlightening.
I am also passionate about the old masters, portraits from the Tudor period enthrall me. The regal stares of the old monarchs leave me spell-bound. The genius of the artists' hand laid bare for all to see is entirely exhilarating. Milky skin almost impossibly translucent, rich indulgent clothing and garments painted with such precision. Distortions of size demonstrating the artists' spin. Regal PR at a time before Ab Fab.

Just in the last couple of weeks I have been attacked by a irrepressible desire to draw and paint again (it happens occasionally). I have managed some sketches with charcoal. Next I want to tackle a large naked print of my own. Watch this space!

What's up doc?

Just been to A&E, never a joyful experience but usually a necessary one. You wouldn't venture there for fun, would you? Yet today was not without amusement. Must mention here that I wasn't the patient. Had I been ill I am certain I wouldn't have seen the funny side of the porta-cabin blasting out hot air from those make-shift heaters, over crowded with a range of folk. Some of them visibly ill, some of them injured, some of them supporters, some of them complete time wasters.

Take the girl sat next to me, no more than 15yrs old. She was there, with her male mate, and I quote "cause I need to get it on record what he done to me - he won't knife me again" and "anyway I knocked out his bird, she won't mess we me again". Delightful. Poor girl. Poor staff.

Then there were the doctors. A tale of two extremes. Two male doctors. One old, one young. Well I am sure their polemic demeanors have much to do with their generational differences but it was so marked that they need remarking upon.

Young Doc strutted around in his fitted, tight shirt and clippy, shiny shoes with a look of disdain and apathy. Old Doc, welcomed us with a warm smile, apologies, and a refreshingly humble and gentle approach. He listened, he informed and generally began to reinstate my faith in doctors. Well done Dr Bhat. As for the young lad perhaps he hadn't bargained for contact with patients, perhaps he isn't really into his placement in A&E (can't wait to get out to a GP practice where the hours are less and the money rolls in) or perhaps he was just having a bad day.

Oh well, we were in and out within an hour. Who says there's terrible waiting times. Or was it another case of being Sheena Byrom's daughter? We'll never know I suppose.

A White Room

Bleak white room,
dark red heart.
Sat alone,
Surrounded by noise

Fluid pours out
And probes stick up
Fear sets in
And tears fall down

Clean white room,
Three red hearts.
Rush, wish, kiss
Surrounded by silence

Man looks on
And beds wheel round
Needles push through
And lids fall down.

Sparse white room
One still heart
Holding, breathing, hurting.
Surrounded by relief.

In a white room
I contemplate our loss.
The joy of wellness,
Tempered by bitter grief.

A little life gone.
In a breath, it is over.

Thoughts for 30

Last month I turned 30, or as my son likes to say: "Mummy you are Three and Zero years old." My thirtieth year has to have been one of the highlights of my life so far. It has certainly been the most life changing. New house, new job, new man, new life.

Change. It is all about change. This includes the new lines on my face, the extra inches around my waist, the grey hairs that appear amongst my brown curls. Brilliant. Simply brilliant. If life gets better with each new decade I say bring it on. But bring it on slowly, I want to devour each exciting morsel bit by bit. 

1 in 100

One in 100 developing embryos fail to make the seemingly arduous journey down the fallopian tube to the safety of the wombs soft, nourishing lining. One in 100 pregnant women face losing their growing baby, fallopian tube, and part of their fertility. One of these women was me.

Last month, crippled with pain, I was told I was pregnant. I’ve been pregnant before – early pregnancy had felt different then – a little sickness and sore breasts. This time I felt ill, really ill. I guessed ectopic before the scan showed an empty uterus confirming a pregnancy of unknown location.

The week that followed was a nightmare of waiting and worry. Everything seemed on hold including the static HCG levels in my blood. I was frightened. Fearful of surgery of loss, of further pain and even the fleeting thoughts of death. 13 women died in the last triennial report into maternal deaths in the UK.

Three year-long days went by until the pain returned and I returned to hospital, in the back of Garry’s car, doubled up in pain. Two days and one transfer later the baby was found lodging close to my right ovary and close to rupturing my fallopian tube under the pressure of it’s pear-sized mass.

Within 2 hours I had been taken to surgery. So much was gained and lost whilst I slept an artificial sleep – under the kind supervision of my anaesthetist.  The baby had gone, along with my tube and part of my fertility. The surgeon left, in their place, three little scars. As a permanent reminder of the loss.

The sense of relief felt at achieving physical health is tempered by very real feelings of grief for a life lost. Yet I know I am lucky. Lucky to have survived, lucky to have been cared for by a wonderful team at the hospital and lucky to have the love of my wonderful man and family.

My baby was the unlucky one. Poor, little one.

profiterole perfection

When I was a girl my mother would always make such wonderful food, as every mother does and should, I'd say.

At birthdays she would always pull some culinary treats out of the bag (or the oven as the case may be). We always got to choose a cake. I'd always ask for a profiterole cake. Profiterole cake perfection.

Now when you picture this you must put out of your mind the image of some supermarket profiterole effort. This doesn't get you close to the sticky, rich delights of my mothers dark and indulgent cake. It was a winner, year after year.

I can make choux pastry now. Not thanks to Sheena, oh no. I learnt this one from an old neighbour. An old fifteen year old, 6ft 2inch, 15 year old boy neighbour who shared with me his home economics recipe. Thank god for that boy. Profiteroles are back in my life. 

Well that is, their recipe is enjoying a happy shelf life with my cookery books for the moment. Can't burn the calories like I used to. Not enough musical bumps, I suppose.

James Byrom Pianist extraordinaire. James Byrom husband to one, son to two, father to two, brother to three. Brother to me. James Byrom- addict.

I have just got back from from visiting my closest sibling, James Byrom. I went to Den Haag, Netherlands, where he lives with his family, to help out a person in crisis.

I love my brother James but like most sibling relationships, ours has been fraught with friction from the beginning. He was born 13 months after me and so he has always known me. I made myself known, it has to be said.

I did everything for my little brother. Helped bath him, helped him out the front door and down the front step to the bus station (I was 3 he was 2) much to mother's despair, helped him to paint his first picture at school - infact did everything for him at school to the point the teacher felt concern for James' development, helped him to his first cigarette and to sneak out of the family home to go to a party when we were teenage youths.

I have always been there for him.

He left home when he was 16 years old to pursue his piano career and live with his girlfriend Sam. He has never returned home. He should never return home. So home had to go to him.

My brother is an addict. Perhaps it started with that first cigarette or perhaps he's a dependent and it started with my impossibly overbearing need to do everything for him as a child? Either way, I feel certain I have played my part in forging his current character. Don't worry, I am not into self-loathing or blame but can appreciate the almost teratorgenic affect siblings have on each other.

I flew to Schipol to attempt a rescue mission. To un-do the un-doable. So did I succeed. Well only time will tell. But if i speak honestly then I would have to say that this is one thing James needs to do on his own. it's going to be hard for him. he's never really done anything alone. but if he doesn't start sorting himself out fast then he'll be doing most things alone for the rest of his life.

There were 8724 alcohol related deaths in 2007 in the UK alone. we know alcohol is more of a problem for men than it is for women. it's certainly a problem for James.he risks losing everything for the sake of 'one too many'.

Intensive care

I've just put my son to bed. 

He said "Mummy, you're the most beautiful girl in the universe." Then continued to tell me that he likes daddy the best. I taste wonder and concern all in a breath.

This is how it has been for me, motherhood. A strange mixture of delight and anguish muddied by an exaggerated oxytocin-style attachment to my first born.

Ours was a tricky beginning. He was 19 days past his estimated due date. I was huge, excited and under pressure, in the end, to give birth. I was induced at home and had a wonderful labour. Seamus got stuck after 24hrs of riding the waves of pain gracefully. My womb was cut and he escaped from my body on the 15th of October 2005 at 10.13hrs. The event proved a little too much for him and he spent the first week of his life in intensive care.

I spent the first week of his life in despair. Separation, pain, war, loss, expressing, support, love and bleak despair were how we spent our first few family days. This set a tone for life to come. 

Seamus never cried as baby. Much because he was with me (after his time away on NICU) for every moment of his life until I went back to work when he was 10 months old 2 days a week. For the first few weeks of his life I carried him around on a pillow, like a Prince. From then on I carried him in a sling. He never left my side. I fed him on demand and gave all of myself to him. Breast feeding healed all our wounds we'd received from the initial separation. Our hearts entwined and we grew in love for each other.  

Seamus' daddy left us last year in October 2008. We were thrown together, Seamus and I back into separation, pain, war, loss, expressing, support and bleak despair. It's not always there on the surface. But it's moments like this when I can see my boy struggles with it all. So I am left with the guilt that I know all mothers feel and that taste in my mouth of wonder and concern. All I have for my son is my love for him - deep, calm, yet intense.

So I stroke his head and say "you know Seamus Daddy and I love you the best and always will, you're a brilliant boy.  

Then I bend forward, kiss his soft cheek and whisper, "I love you Seamus" as slumber engulfs him. Sleep well.

I go to my bed and cry into the pillow. Separation, pain, loss, expressing, support, love, intensive care.

Brimham rocks

So this weekend has been fun. Seamus and Mummy days. So much fun. Yesterday we went to a childhood haunt of mine: Brimham Rocks. It is a fabulous place. The rock formations make for fun adventures with a 3 year old boy but add a foot of snow and you're in heaven. 

We had two hours of pure bliss until all the rolling in the snow made us wet and cold. How lovely it is to get into dry warm clothes and sing to Damien Rice as you drive home, happy.