Moving on…

A photo of the square on the early morning walk, this is an image I have lived and loved, it has been a good time.  I came here five years after chemo and it has been literally my reconstruction.

Funny how things get compartmentalised, into context?

Moving on..

One week

And all of this

Will be the past.

We start again,

And all the things

That didn’t last,

Are staying;

In before we moved

From Twickenham.

They now remain

Eternal unimproved,

The memory

Used.

No longer

Just off Richmond Lock,

To Lambeth now.

The giddy heights

That will become,

New sleepless nights,

With people we have

Not yet met,

Lost, found,

Unacquainted,

Left behind,

And gone ahead?

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Exit right…

I wrote this moving poem, as we have taken receipt of boxes, that we will need to start filling if we are to be ready as hoped.

Exit right….

We’ve always been workers,
Simon and I,
Have never been
Coffee and cake;
We’ve done it ourselves,
In the by and large,
And rarely taken a break.
Embarking now on our
Ninth move in,
The packing skills,
Carton fills out;
I have to say,
At the end of the day,
As we should,
Making good throughout!
We’re planners
With manners,
And wonderfully clean,
I confess, I have stressed
The washing machine,
But we’re fixing the sofa we’re giving away,
And filling the holes
From our pictures’ display.
And all of this given
To people who,
Knocked down the asking price
We were due?
And are leaving us homeless
And put into store
For probably 16 days or more!
As we steam we dream,
Of our new, new build,
With all new appliances,
Wardrobes filled,
And say for the ninth time,
Which fixtures remain?
We’ll bleach down the bathrooms,
And never complain!
We’ve always been busy,
Simon and I,
We’ve not stopped for tea
And toast,
And although we consider,
We’ll finish some time,
It’s the doing we live for
The most!

Normal…

I have been thinking about what message my poems can give now, and I realise that time does bring acceptance.  In 2005 I was living in Switzerland and I had breast cancer.

Normal…

I’m on my second pet since chemo,

And the kids have now left home,

But I didn’t change my husband,

So the memory’s not alone.

I’m busy being marvellous,

In a world of cancer care,

And although not so successful,

I believe I’m valued there?

Things moved ahead, in spite,

Of all the little setbacks when,

We didn’t get it right,

And the surgery failed again!

We’re embarking on a downsize,

My third move with just one boob,

More important than the medics now,

A good stop on the tube?

The life I thought would never,

Ever, ever be the same,

Has turned to be everything,

A normal one can claim?

If you want to support the work of Macmillan Cancer Support, you can do so on my JustGiving page, https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/whims-wishes

Macmillan’s ambition is to reach and improve the lives of everyone living with cancer and to inspire millions of others to do the same.

Brave…

I am being told that all these ladies bearing their mastectomy chests are brave?  But I don’t get it?  For sure, inform people about the effects of surgery, but is that brave? Accepting life saving surgery is surely just sensible?  Living with it is inspirational, but being isn’t about courage, well not to me. Courage is laying down your life for another?

Where is the bravity,

In bearing it all?

I just see a cavity,

Into which we fall,

The brash of the victim,

Or physical kicked in?

Is honest exposure,

The lure of the maul?

I know that it is all interpretation, and people don’t mean to cause offence.  I am all for showing the reality of survivorship, just not brave!  Brave is for the glorious dead and we are very much alive!

Squashed…


It is that time of another year…

A tart in the mammogram changing room,

Finds her dignity hard to sustain,

For the hot rushing blush of the single boob hush,

Makes technician avert eyes for shame.

I’ve a PH and D, in destructible me,

And in time honour, graduate acceptance,

No cleavage, no grievage,

Manhandled, unsleeve-age,

We mush up the bits that remain….

Mass detect of me…

It is the shirt time of year, the season between the summer dress and the polo neck, the autumn of the fashion world. I am an accomplished recover-er, but I can’t lie…

It’s there in the mirror,

Quite plain to see,

A patchwork frontage,

That ravages me.

The flesh that the leeches.

Sucked back to life,

Piqued from the preaches.

Of keen midwife.

Accessorize, dress it up,

Starts the day,

But though out of sight,

It just won’t go away.

Innately repulsing,

The cancer we fear,

Yet the tumour removal,

Is why I am here?

From breast feeding to a thrombosis (the former acute pain and the latter had a better chance of killing me than the cancer) sometimes I need to get it off my chest? LOL, I remember those leeches so well and they saved my front -when will we celebrate?

Endure…

Continuing my thoughts about recurrence, I hear many heartfelt stories of fundraising, but am drawn to the success of our 100 marathons in 100 days runner, exceptional?  http://pages.contact.justgiving.com/awards/2017/voting/

This is what it seems like to me, getting up and doing it all again and again and again -I realise that surviving cancer once may not be enough any more?

Endure…

Already achieved,

Could you run it again?

The payback received,

Un-completing the chain,

And more that the physics,

It’s just nervous strain,

The heart of the matter

with Mary Jane…

Once should be enough?

But the now and then…

Is not what they sold us,

It is sadly when,

The lumpy rice pudding

hits the jugular vein;

Your dodging the odds

on an un-fair-grounds train…

I can’t trivialise the fear that must come with a second diagnosis, it is beyond what I expected people to have to go through, but seems to be becoming the new normal?

(With all respect to AA Milne and Rice Pudding)

Not again…

For the third time this year I am hearing about a peer with a second (third even) primary cancer…

when did they say
it had come back again?
knowing what to expect,
from this unwelcome friend,
would make event a Sainte,
face the news like a drain,
and the humour you found before,
hard to maintain?

there’s an aura of hope,
in the wishes we make,
and a bare faced control,
in the risks that we take,
and painting a smile
(though inside you shake)
and gluing on hair, once more,
just seems so fake?

getting out, getting up,
there’s a mountain to climb,
but one foot then another,
it’s an organised crime,
and don’t tell me the genes,
there’s not reason or rhyme?
there are boobs, there are bumps,
and a grand pantomime?

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/whims-wishes

 

Poisoned memories…

I think back on chemo like childbirth,

A sleep deprived, fogged, family time,

When the challenge of pegging out washing,

Seemed beyond a huge physical climb,

When the simplest needs of my children,

Being cuddled and face washed and fed,

Took over my entire ability,

and haunted my imploding head.

But now we’re all functioning adults,

And often off living apart,

Yet I find the recall of those awful times,

Has a very soft place in my heart.

So cherish the ill times together,

They’re the passion that keeps us alive,

And believe it will all turn out better,

As the tumour lets humour survive…

 

#LifeAfterCancer @macmillancancer

https://www.facebook.com/fundraisingpoems/

Salad days…

My taste in sunglasses has probably not improved, but one of the best bits of getting older is what I call, the in-between dawn.   Getting up on a sunny morning before the day begins, making a cup of tea and going back to bed with the laptop!

We’re totally sunshine,

Wall to wall,

The time of the dreadful,

Cleavage fall,

Tissue reconstruction,

No life guarantees,

It’s all now deflated,

A reinstall please?

#LifeWithCancer is still life, even when the air goes out of your boob job and you are left with something resembling a saggy sponge on your chest! To all of those of you who have tits, enjoy them!!

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/whims-wishes

© Ailsa Tims 2017