Clear skies

For the most part, I am a positive, excitable, idealist. Seeing the good in things, people, or situations comes naturally to me. Imagine then, how baffled I am to find myself privy to a web of negativity and upset. So fraught I am with worry and anxiety about this new-found approach to living that I am set to make a change.

Luckily for me I have been working on writing an article, for an academic journal, on the concept of 'risk magnification' in midwifery. Whilst reading an enthralling commentary By Dahlen (2010) on fear and trust in childbirth, I happened upon this most brilliant of timely found quotes:

'our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but only empties today of it's strength'

Not normally a sucker for this approach to bettering myself I have, for the sake of utilitarian happiness, relented and sucked it up. This will now resound as my mantra for the coming hours, days, weeks until I shake myself free from my negativity and rejoin the bubbly world of optimism and delight. I wish to see hazard only in those storm clouds where it exists and live life more fully in the clear skies between them.

For those cynics amongst you, repeat after me: "philosophical bullshit is good for you", Amen.

Motherhood reignited my passion for baking.

As Seamus slept in those first hazy weeks of his life, I, being riddled with post-birth lunacy, filled that precious time making luxurious patisseries. The frenzy of cake-making was such that I had to start giving them away to all welcoming, yet increasingly puzzled, neighbours (it was that or become victim to a cake-a-day habit). It has always baffled me when reflecting on those initial heady months how I managed to squeeze in so much home-making activity in amongst the frantic baby-club drop ins and almost constant breastfeeding activity. But I did. Why, I scream to myself now? Why did you not sleep, every moment Seamus sent? I certainly remember day dreaming of sleep during his wakeful moments but could never muster even a split second of shut eye when he finally shut his. So I filled the time baking cakes. I make excellent cakes, being the Granddaughter of a genuine home-baked bread and cakes Baker.

However, as Seamus has grown my time to perfect my cakes has shriveled. It was initially replaced by my sons incessant need to be carried, then by inordinate amounts of floor play, moving on to bike rides, scooter rides, days out and reading books (not to mention the move back in to part-time paid work and then full-time paid work). More recently Seamus has become the Baker and now my cakes look as above (neatly made by my boy tonight). So as you see gourmet chocolate ganache has been replaced by vile saccharine icing and hundreds and thousands of teeth rotters.

But witnessing the smile (that is left - post this over-sugared treat) is worth it.

Today has savaged me.
I have been:
rejected in love,
humiliated at work,
and stranded in the wilderness.

I wept in public today.

Today has been one of those insufferably mediocre days. The kind of day that promised great things: dazzling weather, family outings and work free loveliness, but fell victim to the reality of my negative emotions. Thick, energy sapping feelings that worked to pervade the wonder of the day and crush a little more of my heart's tenuous links to my life and happiness.

Unusually organised I had woken early to the sound of my alarm orchestrated by merry bird-song dancing through the open window. The impossible heat had evoked a restless night and left me clammy. I heaved my sticky body up and thudded into the bathroom. A brief glare in to the mirror offered a momentary glimpse of my puffy face. Disgusted I sat on the cooling rim of the toilet and relieved my bursting bladder.

Without time to ponder too long, I got up and on with the tasks of putting bins out, washing on, hanging washing to dry, morning ramble with kind neighbour, nettle stings from overgrown back street, washing hair, applying my face, de-hairing my body, feeding my child, and generally performing the dance all mothers know as the 'morning slog'.

Garry and Teddy arrived mid-child feeding/pot washing/hair drying. Their arrival gave flight to the first abrogating sensibility of the day - anxiety. Tense, teasing anxiety. Such a desperate character flaw. How could the arrival of my partner, and his boy, evoke such annulling feelings? A state that left me teetering on the cliff edge of disaster throughout the enitre day. The Christening service, the cycle-ride and outdoor picnic at Sheena's were destroyed by my inability to put a lid on it.

It was like an internal waltz with the recusancy of stress, worry, and self-loathing. The fevered chants of anxiety that whirred through my mind gave voice to my short-temper and terrible behaviour. The culmination of this most distatrous of days was in the moment I uttered words to Garry signalling the end of our electric affair.

So now, in the end, I am flooded with deep crushing sorrow and wretched despair at my stupidity. For hurting the man I love with every bit of me. A man I have lost through my lack of reason, sense and a neo-cortex. I am now flowing down the river of regret with no hope of land. Drowning in grief is an apporpriate end for an emotion swamped girl like me.

Stalin vs Hitler

AB = Stalin*
GC = Hitler*

(perhaps we better shake off our respective Communist and Fascist views and put an end to our World War 3?)

*this blog is not in support of these dictators

Parental correction

So here's the deal. Dad read my heart-wrenching blog about him and put in a few, minor requests.

No. 1 - he asked me to correct his birth year from 1957 to 1956. Embarrassment felt at not knowing this fact and disappointment at losing the claim that my dad was born the year 12 Angry Men was released, are dwarfed by respect for Dads honesty at labeling himself an older man.

So, for clarification, the year dad was born saw Elvis make his first TV appearance, Yul Brynner win an oscar for his performance in the 'King and I', and the Soviets invaded Hungary to squash an anti-communist revolution. Lovely. It's all about Rock & Roll and Russia.

No. 2 - my dad was only 9 when his father passed away

No. 3 - Nana would bridge the holes in my dad's school shoes with Weetabix box cardboard.

It took my father at least 30 minutes to read the original blog. Mostly because he has a degenerative eye disorder that renders him virtually blind but partly because his tears blurred his view.

God Bless PB.

My Fella - the right wing liberalist

Politics is becoming a popular topic of heated debate between my boyfriend and I. It is not alarming that we have debates about politics, or that they are hot and infuriating. What fills me with increasing despair is how frighteningly right-wing he is. In an attempt to apply a salutogenic approach to the situation, I want to indulge in battle and attempt a political transplant mission. It is thrilling to imagine a reformed man. It is a little like the hushed hope for National political reform. Yet I am hoping for more than a Con-Dem-ing liberal-right wing reformation. He already proclaims to be just that - a liberal right-winger (with a somewhat huge tongue in his cheek).

It'll be worth mentioning here that I am not after much from G. I don't expect him to start some voluntary organisation to care for the infirm, though that'd be lovely. I would just like to urge him to see how fantastically lucky we have been to live in a country with such a wonderfully whopping social state. I am also fairly keen for him place some of his negative experiences with the NHS into context. How many people around the world get access to free health care? How many get sick and get seen? How many die from lack of good care? In our country, our NHS provides a sterling service. Yes, warranted, to get seen for chronic conditions may involve a wait. However this is often so we can be seen immediately if we're about to die.

I am not denying that, like every other service, the NHS can't get better or is immune from piss-poor performance but what I am arguing is that the NHS, as a philosophical concept and practical reality, is bloody brilliant. To consider an alternative we only have to breeze across the Atlantic Ocean. American health care can be explored here, via the somewhat polemic, but refreshingly illuminating Michael Moore Docu SICKO:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7pCaK0aASE

I suppose my polarity stems from my personal experience of the NHS both as an employee and a patient. I have worked and been cared for in ten different NHS Trusts across the United Kingdom and have built up vast understanding of how the NHS functions and cares for people. Without doubt, on the whole, the care provision and service has been excellent (with only small splatterings of difficulty and frustration).

My love of our NHS took flight following my working trip to Ludhiana, The Punjab, India. There I worked in a University City Hospital and witnessed first-hand the trauma of inequalities in healthcare. I actually saw a man with 80% burns being turned away from accident and emergency because he couldn't pay for treatment. I saw the harsh reality of slum life and the effects of no-health-care.

When I think of the cost-benefit analysis related to the NHS. What we put in and what we take out. It is easy to see it's value. In my life time alone, I have had:

c/section - cost - £12,000
salpingectomy - cost - £8,000

Plus a whole array of free vitamins, pregnancy care, scans, GP appointments, hospital appointments and blood tests.

Considering that one blood test costs the NHS £26, I feel I have had my values worth. Garry on the other hand has had way more:

knee op, ear op, nose op, throat op, and a c/section (well his ex, to meet his son). Garry is the most ill person I have ever met and, since I have known him, he has had more GP/Hospital/clinic visits than I have had in my life time. Yet he is one of the biggest moaners around. His complaints are as follows:

1. waiting times are terrible
2. staff can be rude (e.g. the reception staff at the physio clinic)
3. The physio's haven't helped his knee problem

Garry considers himself lucky to be alive!!!!
Well G if you lived in another country, without an NHS then perhaps you wouldn't be. If you lived in America you'd certainly be very poor.

So do I think Gaz can start to love my beloved NHS. No, not really. This battle is likely to rage for a life-time.