A Good Week Part 2: A Safe Haven

Where the trains used to run

Everyone should have a special place they can go back to, a place that offers stability and security in the midst of a world where so much is uncertain. For the last 21 years, Station House in Stixwould has been such a place for us. Back in the early '90s, Graham and Val Byers converted their beautiful home into a Guest / Retreat House, where they practise their special gift of hospitality. Our first visit there with a newborn Jono helped us to reorientate ourselves to the adventure of parenthood, and we've being going there ever since. I've been there pregnant, bereaved, joyful, depressed, feeling well and feeling exhausted. I've watched my children love it and its human and animal owners more and more each time they've visited. I've seen Mike relax and leave refreshed every time we go. So a week together there, with the newest Mrs Peatman too, just at this particular point, couldn't have been better.

For a couple of days, while everyone else went out and about, I did very little except sit at the window of our room (on the side of the main house in the picture) writing, dozing and thinking. And one of the things I found myself thinking about was the many people I've met over the years while I've known this view who have helped to prepare me for what this last few months has been all about. As a priest, you get to spend time with a lot of people who are having to get to grips with the reality of illness and the imminent possibility of death, so I'm in quite a privileged position. As I was thinking about those people, and thanking God for them, and remembering their warmth and depth and humour, the empty room was filled and flooded with life. Whatever I am on this journey, it's certainly not alone.

Of the many friends I found myself remembering, there are five women I feel particularly close to whose companionship at this point is crucial Though their deaths range from 2001 to 2015, they were all of a similar age to the age I am now when I knew them; they all died as a result of cancer - some after only months but others after long years of living with it; they all suffered the indignities it brings with strength and humour; they were all able to be bewildered and scared as well as heroic; they all cared far more about what the people who loved them and needed them were going through than about themselves. They all desperately wanted to live. But faith in the creative, loving power of Goodness - the Eternal One to whom Jesus draws us -  gave each of them a context in which to live where death is not the worst thing that can happen. Or the end of the story.

And here, at the window of a disused station house loved into a new and transformed life, they live on.

A Good Week Part 1: A Close Shave

Before and after

What a good week it's been! A sponsored haircut, a glorious little holiday and some random deep thoughts as a result. At least 3 blog posts worth I think. Let's start with the haircut . . . or in fact, let's start just before the haircut, on the morning of 13th August,  with Ellie picking up her AS results. 6 A grades - with everything else that's been going on, that's not just good, it's insane. Definitely worth a celebratory coffee

Off to Atkinson's . . .

 Then to Jo and Cass's salon, which had generously offered to shear the locks for free. They were also kind enough to supply bottles of champagne, and tolerate a whole crowd of us cluttering up the salon to cheer. The money's still coming in, but with on line and cash donations and gift aid the fund is well over £5,000 now. Amazing! And she looks fantastic into the bargain.

It's  probably not surprising that I don't relish the thought of being photographed at the moment. I've never much liked it, to be honest; and I'm not exactly looking my best these days - even the hat can't cover the effects of the steroids. But if my girl is brave enough to do this. how could I not be proud to pose with her in all my puffed up and balding glory?

This morning, as chance would have it, I had my first glimpse of a book that I'm looking forward to reading when it comes out next month. Accidental Saints by Nadia Bolz Weber  has on its cover an extraordinary woman known as Bertie, who looks rather like I feel just at the moment.

Thanks Nadia, for finding God in all the wrong people, and helping them feel beautiful when you do.

Keeping on keeping on

Well, the news from the other side of the assault course is looking pretty positive. The tumours in the brain have not grown in the 3 months since radio surgery. They haven't shrunk either, and it may be in due course that we'll give them another blatting when my system's had time to recover from the first one. But they are stable. There's still some swelling around the larger one, which means I have to be back on the steroids for a bit, but so be it. The really good news, though, is from the lung, where the tumour has shrunk by about 50 % . If there's anything else lurking around thinking of growing in other parts of my body, the Iressa (biological therapy) will be working on it too. So - encouragement to keep taking those tablets. We scan everything again in 3 months' time, and see how the picture's developing.

I guess the task for now will be continuing to establish a new pattern of what this next part of my life is for, and how best to spend the energy I have. It's highly unlikely that I'm ever going to have the strength to work again at anything very physically demanding, so I'm learning to let go of feeling guilty about that, and to work out when my body is telling me I need to stop (usually nausea is my best indicator.) I can still write though, even if it's a lot slower, and I'm trying to keep on with that most days, even if only for a few minutes.  Decoupaging in my impulsive and random way makes me happy, and I'll be attempting to make most of my presents for Christmas this year. Popping in to the children's activities I used to help to lead - like our Holiday Club which started this morning - keeps me feeling in touch without getting over exhausted. Quiet times during these holiday days, just being with the family and the dear friends who drop in so faithfully and make us know we are not alone, are precious.Walking the dog most days makes me feel I've achieved something and saved Mike a job! And the sea is fantastic therapy. I am so thankful to live in such a beautiful place.

Highlight of this coming week will be Thursday, when my brave daughter goes straight from picking up her AS results to have her head shaved for Macmillan's Brave the Shave campaign. watch out for the pictures soon!

So - a bit more keeping on keeping on. And a determination to remember that life is good.

Reflections of a long distance runner

It's been a really good few weeks.

After what had felt like an assault course of scans, biopsies, stereotactic radio surgery, starting biological therapy, and changing steroid doses up and down, I have been able to relax into a bit of 'marathon running.' My pace has been slow, but steady. Side effects (mainly fatigue, neuropathy and Cushing's syndrome as a result of the steroids) have been irritating, but not nearly as bad as they could have been. I've had a number of treats - a birthday meal out; a few days away in Manchester to see the fabulous Fleetwood Mac; visits from dear friends; time with my lovely Aussie cousin Joanne and her family which was really precious; the annual treat of the Duke's Promenade Play in Lancaster's Williamson Park;  and most recently an evening at the theatre in Carlisle. Apart from checking in to the clinic for a quick chat and to pick up my tablets, there has been no new news for ages. Most of the time, the idea that I have anything seriously wrong has seemed quite unreal; known as a fact, but not something that seems very believable.

But as I jog on through this week, I'm aware that the terrain up ahead is about to change again. The next couple of weeks will feature scans of both lungs and brain, and then consultations regarding each to hear what the treatment has achieved so far. If the tumours have shrunk, that will be very good news. If they have stayed the same, that will be OK news. If they have grown, that will not be good news at all. I have absolutely no idea how to call it. How I'm feeling is no guide to anything, because the treatments create as many - in fact more - symptoms than the tumours themselves. So I can't even guess at whether the news is going to be bad or good.

Whichever way it goes, though, next week marks the end of the slow jog through pleasant countryside, and the start of another section of the assault course. The body in and out of scanners, the mind and emotions in and out of waiting rooms, listening for my name to be called, steeling myself to receive whatever news is waiting. In a few days time, I expect the fact that I have something seriously wrong with my body will become all too believably real once again.

But for now, for these next few days, I'll do my best to make the most of the last section of the marathon course. I'll focus on the trees along the roadside, the flowers along the verge, the sunshine warm on my back. I'll try to live each step as it comes, not fret about trying to pack everything I still want to achieve into each day while I still can.

And when Monday arrives and the assault course begins again . . .  I will do my very best to embrace whatever comes.

Taking solidarity to new lengths

now where did I put those scissors . . .?

My daughter Ellie is planning a haircut. I still remember her first one vividly. She was aged about two, and had no intention of allowing anyone in the salon to get a pair of scissors within a yard of her head. Those blond curls were going nowhere, as I remember all too clearly from the subsequent years of wrestling with them, usually as the clock for playgroup / school / dancing lessons was ticking.

Sixteen or so years later, she has still never cut her hair to less than shoulder length, and it has usually been nearer to her waist. So seeing it shaved to a buzz cut will take a bit of getting used to. I have no doubt, however, that it will look fantastic. All the more so given the reasons why she's doing it.

Her hair itself will be sent to The Little Princess Trust, a charity which makes wigs for children who suffer hair loss through cancer treatment. And she's being sponsored to raise money for MacMillan Cancer Support, a charity we have found to be enormously helpful and supportive since my diagnosis earlier this year. 

There are lots of ways she could have chosen to fund raise, but she's chosen this one as a way of keeping me company. The combination of radio-surgery on the brain tumours and biological therapy for the lung tumour have left me looking a little threadbare on top. It's wonderful to have a daughter who thinks that's nothing to be ashamed of. 

Please join me in cheering her on - or even better, visit her Just Giving page and sponsor her for August 15th. She only set the page up last night, and we are overwhelmed by the support so far. £500, which seemed an ambitious initial target to set, was exceeded within a couple of hours. Amazing! Thank you all so, so much.

https://www.justgiving.com/ElliePeatman/?utm_id=35

Once you are Real, you can't be ugly . . .

'The Velveteen Rabbit' or 'How Toys Become Real'

Nothing cheers you up quite like a funky new haircut. Especially when your hair has begun to drop out.

It could be a lot worse, I hasten to add. My wonder drug is much kinder than conventional chemo, so the loss is patchy rather than all over - plenty left for my Guardian Angel, the lovely Linda, to work with. Short layers have given it a bit of body, and made a nice base for my quirky new hat to sit on. So I feel altogether more confident about leaving the house. More than that, too, just the feel and touch of having it sorted was a therapy in itself.

As I've been watching my body collapse into disrepair over the last few weeks, I've found myself remembering one of my all time favourite children's stories - 'The Velveteen Rabbit' by Margery Williams. If you don't know it, it's available free on-line, along with all the beautiful original illustrations:

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/williams/rabbit/rabbit.html

It's the story of a toy rabbit who arrives at a little boy's home for  Christmas. As he settles into life in the nursery, he asks his new friend, the old skin horse, what it means for a toy to become "real". This is how their conversation goes:

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

So today, this is for everyone whose body feels as though it is failing and falling into disrepair, everyone who is becoming bald or loose in the joints or shabby. Once you are real, you can't be ugly. Except to people who don't understand.

Holman Hunt and a Dog called Matisse

Today, I have to begin with a confession. I watch Britain's Got Talent. You might despise me for it, you might turn up your nose, you might call it a guilty pleasure but there it is. I watch it. And while I frequently wince at it, for a reasonable proportion of the minutes it occupies the screen, I thoroughly enjoy it, too.

But you would be right to say it's a guilty pleasure. I'm all too aware that from the minute the opening credits roll, what I'm watching is basically a cleverly constructed con trick, where the contestants who flock for their two minutes of fame are puppets in the hands of the editors and producers whose smoke and mirrors can distort anything and everything into fodder for the ratings war. Non - existent scandals are created; audience reactions are manipulated; tear - jerking back - stories are exploited. I can no longer tolerate it on the X factor. Nor could I find anything to enjoy in watching the Jeremy Kyle Show - where in fact the smoke and mirrors trapping vulnerable and exploitable people is not just a presentational strategy, but the whole point of the experience.

But, up until now, the balance with Britain's Got Talent has been such that it has tipped me into wanting to watch. Because between the smoke and mirrors, between the  uncomfortable moments of delusional people being allowed to expose themselves, come the two minute bursts of the most extraordinary and joyful feats of talent, courage and dedication, many of them from the most unlikely people. Like little gems of reality in a paste and paper crown, these moments have made it worth it.

 A week ago today, the show was won by a woman called Jules and her dog Matisse. She had openly employed other dogs too - we had met them in both the semi and final performances - but the bulk of the act focussed around her prize collie. Hardly surprising, given that not only was he trained brilliantly to do extraordinarily cute things, he was a dog so full of affection, good nature and evident enjoyment of life that the whole nation, it seemed, had fallen in love with him. I certainly had. And while humans' words and actions can be endlessly misrepresented, that is a lot harder to do with a dog.

But how are the mighty fallen! From the feel good of Sunday night's final, the plunge to disgrace was swift and merciless. By Friday, the Hosanna singing crowds were yelling crucify from every rooftop. Facebook was full of it; the newspapers were full of it; even Sandi Toksvig and Graham Norton were regarding the Britain's Got Talent stunt dog scandal as fair game for mockery. The revelation that had caused such outrage - that one of the sequences involved the second dog we had already met earlier in the week, but the illusion that he was, in fact Matisse - didn't even seem to me to be a problem. No CGI, no dog that hadn't been trained by Jules herself, no hiding of the fact that other dogs appeared alongside Matisse in her acts. But - for whatever reason - a decision had been made somewhere that a scandal was to be declared, and suddenly everyone was playing. The pair had been plunged from national treasures to the most hated cheats in Britain.

What's going on behind this story? Who knows. My best guess is that Jules herself has suddenly been made a victim in a very dangerous game. In retribution for the folly of being lured into reality TV land and simply doing exactly what her producers told her, she has become the victim of some pretty unpleasant bullying on a nationwide scale (when satire attacks the powerless, Sandi and Graham, it's not satire, it's bullying. Let's be clear.) Of course, I may be quite wrong about this. Jules herself may be an agent working for the BBC in a cunningly devised plot to bring Cowell's Empire down.  Or she may be an agent working for Cowell to give his Empire more publicity. Or she may be a double agent working for both.  The skulduggery that goes on in the media and entertainment industries is hardly confined to FIFA, after all, and none of us ever know what the vested interests are in how anything we receive through the media is presented to us. But as I say, my best guess is that Jules is not a hardened collaborator in a cunning plot who can take whatever is doled out to her. My best guess is that, like any victim of sudden vicious bullying, her world has collapsed. To blame that on her own stupidity for getting involved in Cowell's media circus would be acute hypocrisy from those like me who sustain that world for their own Saturday night entertainment.

But you know what? It's the dog that really gets to me. Or to be precise, it's the way we as desperate participants in an instantly connected, social media driven, got - to - have - an - opinion - on - and - someone - to - blame - for - everything - world, have corporately turned on and kicked the dog. Even when we don't even really know what the story's about. Because he is indisputably innocent, he is the perfect mirror to show us what we have become - well, what we have always been, to be fair, but which modern technological advances reveal us to be more swiftly and terribly than ever before. A community of bullies. A community which needs a scapegoat to carry its own fear and insecurity. A community where violence is projected on to the defenceless through the smoke and mirrors of comedy and cleverness. A community that has failed to move very far from the sacrifice of innocent sheep and goats in a desperate attempt to rid ourselves of our own sin and sickness.

Debbie, lighten up! I hear you say. It's only a dog on a talent show! But it isn't, actually, the dog on the talent show I'm worried about. It's what he shows us about ourselves.

Britain' Got not just Talent, but a Winter Wind of Austerity closing in ever closer. And everyone knows that means that at some point, the peasants will start revolting again the powerful. Unless they can be found a scapegoat to vent all that fear and insecurity on instead. A  nation that can turn on a dog in less than a week seems to me a nation ready to turn on . . . well, who might we turn on to blame for our current economic crisis? Who lies ready to hand for us, as the Jewish community lay ready to hand for the desperate, starving nation of post World War I Germany? Who will be promoted to us by the powerful who govern us as the real threat to our national security and prosperity? Who thinks a holocaust of the stranger, the refugee and the 'alien' faith community could never happen here? Who's failed to notice that it's already beginning?

Lamb of God, have mercy on us.