Passing the time in Accident & Emergency

Given my haphazard approach to parenting, there are times when I can't help but be amazed, that each of my little treasures has made it all the way to grown-up-hood.

When they were small, it was a relatively common occurrence to find ourselves sitting for hours in the waiting area at A & E. There was the time that Charlie slipped up the stairs and put his teeth through his lip; the day when Ged climbed up and fell off a telephone junction box onto his head, the numerous occasions when Claire had a nose-bleed that simply wouldn't stop.
And there are a few incidents that stay with me more vividly. Like the afternoon when I went into the bedroom to find Charlie tipping back the contents of a Calpol bottle (liquid paracetamol for the uninitiated). My children loved Calpol, particularly in the days when it was still laced with sugar. I loved Calpol, it could reduce a temperature almost immediately. So Calpol was good, but a whole bottle of Calpol, and a potentially damaged liver was definitely not so good.
The nice doctors at A & E took Charlie's bloods and then gave him a hideous thick green liquid to make him sick. Nothing happened. For hours and hours.
'Perhaps you should take him home. Bring him back in another four hours and we'll test his blood again'
I took him home. I waited for him to be sick. Four hours later I took him back to A & E. As I stepped through the door, holding him tight against my shoulder, wondering what on earth I'd do if his blood tests showed something bad, he was gloriously, violently sick - all down my back, down my legs, as far as my shoes. His blood tests showed no worrying signs, his liver was fine, but my self-esteem was seriously damaged.
A few years before that, when Claire was only tiny, we'd been walking together along the road. As we started to cross, a car came careering round the corner. In my panic, I yanked on her hand and tugged her across the road. When we reached the other side, she stood there quietly, her arm hanging limply by her side.
'Oh my god, I've pulled her arm out of its socket'
I picked her up and jumped on a bus (no car in those days) to go to A & E. We waited to be seen. For hours and hours. When eventually it was time for us to see the doctor, my sweet little daughter waved at him. 'It's alright now' she smiled happily. And apparently it was.
The children are all adults now, so I'd assumed, you might think quite reasonably, that my waiting days at A & E were over.
Apparently not.
Last Friday, dearest Megan (that delightful, 21 year old daughter of whom I wrote with such loving pride not so long ago) went out to play with her friends. While out having fun, she decided it would be a good idea to take a piggy-back ride from one of her none-too-sober compatriots.
Philip's got a saying that we're all responsible for the predictable outcomes of our actions. I think it's probably fair to say that Megan could have predicted the outcome of an inebriated piggy-back ride. But even if she'd foreseen that she'd end up in a heap on the floor, I'm not sure she would have pictured the actual damage that  a hard pavement can cause to a soft arm and a gentle face.
A day later, with her face and arm continuing to swell, and her eye getting blacker by the minute, we inevitably found ourselves sitting in A & E. She trying to hide the worst of her injuries behind her hair, me hoping she wasn't about to feature on the front page of the Sunday papers in an article entitled 'Binge-drink Britons'. Several x-rays and some intravenous anti-biotics later, we were all glad to find out that nothing was broken and there'd be no long-term consequences, other than, perhaps some dents to her pride.
And me? Of course I'm glad that there's no lasting damage, and I'm very grateful to the kind, non-judgemental staff who checked her over so carefully at the hospital, but I can't say I've missed the trips to A & E in the last few years, and I can say with no hesitation that I hope it's a long, long time till I'm back there again.

Three o'clock in the morning

She'd fallen from the warm enfolding arms of sleep to the cold empty vault of wakefulness.
Now she sat at the kitchen table, relishing the heat of the tea as it washed away the last vestiges of drowsiness.
Even at three in the morning there was no peace, no silence in the house. He'd lain there oblivious as she slipped out of bed, his slow, steady breath sounding like the white noise of an untuned tv. Downstairs now, the droning hum of the fridge replaced his snoring, accompanied by the rhythmical back beat of the clock on the mantelpiece.
She had a spot on her chin. She could feel it growing, pushing at her skin from inside, like a living creature, a mole seeking to break through the earth's crust. Pointlessly she tried to push it back. Her skin felt taut and stretched, smooth and shiny.
No-one had ever told her she'd still get spots at this age. Every month for more than thirty years, a sign of her body's monthly cycle. Almost the only thing that had stayed with her since her teenage years.
In front of her on the table lay a copy of The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekov. She'd been reading it earlier in the evening. Perhaps her love of words was another thing that had stayed.
Snippets from the play came back to her. Set in Russia, more than a hundred years ago, it was a different world, a different century.
Chekov had called it a comedy, it was certainly no Aristotleian tragedy, but the sadness showed through.
Moments of absurdity, of arm-waving clumsiness, only seemed to heighten the sense of hopelessness for the characters, passing through life, unable to take or make the decisions that would alter their fate. All they could do was live and love, love and lose, watching the passing years reflected in the ageing faces of those around them.
She shivered; the early morning air seeped around her bare legs, her tea had gone cold. She emptied the dregs down the sink, watched them swirl away.
"Live, love, and carry on" she told herself as she switched off the light and slowly, carefully, inched her way up the stairs and back to bed.

Spencer (or what a very mad world this is)

Just under a week ago, Spencer came into my life.
Of course, I didn't know his name then; that came later. And, to be honest, I didn't much like him at first.
It all began last Monday, and I captured the slightly inauspicious start on Twitter:
"And....I opened the front door and walked face first into a cobweb. Yeeuch."
The spider got me again the following day - sticky strands of web left trailing across my hair as I knocked him to the floor.
Surprisingly, my request on Twitter for ways to move him on, actually came up with a number of responses. I couldn't bring myself to squirt hairspray on the web, although apparently that would have done the trick. And naturally I quickly dismissed Philip's suggestion that we might clean the house.
By day three, I thought I'd got smart. I remembered the web booby trap, remembered to open my eyes, and ducked as I left home for work.
It was early. I hadn't reckoned on the neighbours being up and about. I'd missed a web hair-do, but my smugness was diminished when I realised the man across the road had been watching my very odd ducking behaviour.
By day four, the spider had worked out that living in the doorway was just too hazardous; he'd moved to the window frame. As I looked out before setting off to work, the early morning sun glinted on the diamante dewdrops caught on the web.
And a strange thing happened. Before I'd even thought of it, I'd received a Tweet asking me how the spider was. From someone I don't even know.
What the ???
Next day I was working at home. No need to rush out the door, no need to even think about the outside world for a while, but I found myself drawn to the front window to check if the spider was still there.
He was. That was when I decided to give him a name.
Spencer.
My Twitter friends seemed to like the name, they soon picked it up. He was no longer just a spider, he was Spencer the Spider.
And so, it went on until today. Saturday; the one day in the week I really, really want to lie in bed. I should have known better than to reach for my phone and check Twitter.
It was only just gone 8 o'clock and someone had already asked me for a Spencer update.
"I'm worried about Spencer. It was a cold night"
My relaxing lie-in was ruined, I felt compelled to go downstairs and check.
He was fine. In fact he'd had a busy night, spinning spider silk down from the window, across the bench and into the log pile. It looked beautiful. I began to wonder, if we left him alone for long enough, whether he might eventually cover the whole front of the house in webs, trapping me like a princess in my castle.
During the day, references to Spencer kept creeping into our conversation. Philip asked if I was planning to change the cat's name to Marks (so we'd have Marks & Spencer).
I suggested I could write a children's book, my beloved wanted to elaborate - he wanted a story from Spencer's perspective; telling just how the spider felt when the idiot woman walked through his web day after day.
So now it's Saturday evening. As I sit here typing this, I've no idea if there will be a spider outside tomorrow. I'm not sure how I'll feel if he's upped and disappeared.
And I can't help but wonder what sort of mad, mad world  it is, where I decide to make a pet of a spider, and where people I love, and people who I've never met, indulge and encourage my insanity.
Bonkers.

Nearly 22 years later......

It was an early morning dash to the hospital. I'd left it to the last minute. This was my fourth child - so I reckoned I knew what to expect. A couple of hours and a fair amount of swearing later, there she was.
Megan Elizabeth, my Meggie Moo, a whopping 10lbs 1oz and far hairier than you might expect, but beautiful nonetheless. The last of my children, forever and a day, my baby girl.
So, why am I writing about her today? It's not her birthday, she's not about to leave home. She hasn't just announced her intention to get married / travel the world / take herself off to a nunnery. Nothing significant, nothing earth-shattering. And yet, something is changing.
A few weeks ago she passed her driving test. Tonight, when we both got in from work, she wanted me to look at AutoTrader with her, to help her buy a car.
Of course I'm pleased that she passed her test - not least because I'd given a promise, as a 21st birthday present, that I would pay for however many lessons  she needed to get her through.
And now that she's legally allowed to drive, of course I want her to be able to do so. I realise there might even be a chance, every now and then, that she will pick me up, or take me somewhere.
So all is good.  And things are moving on as I'd hoped and expected they might. Except...except....

I've always been the one who took her places.
....... the trips backwards and forwards, night after night, to her dancing lessons, singing along to the songs of the Beautiful South. With my choice of music making its way, indelibly, into her brain. I need a little time our inappropriate duet.
........the time I set out in a hideous snow storm to see her perform in Fiddler on the Roof at school, because I couldn't bear that she wouldn't have anyone there to watch her, and the hairy scary, slipping, sliding drive home again.
........the journey to Leeds University, where she sobbed every inch of the way
........the trip back home again, with me pretending I was cross that she'd given up university, when really I was just pleased to have her back.
........the countless lifts to the station, to her friends' houses, to visit family; all with a backdrop of overly loud singing to songs from musicals.
I know that there will be plenty of other trips. I'm sure I'll still be driving her around for years - particularly when she finds out just how much it costs to insure a car.
But today, I can't help but feel just a tiny bit sad.

 

A casual remark

'Everybody uses a lot of phrases without understanding what they really mean, me included'
This is the opening sentence of a recent post from one of my favourite bloggers - Mr London Street. And, as often happens with his writing, it set me thinking - not only about how we use sayings with little thought for their meaning, but also about the way that things we say are perceived and received by others. And how, in turn they come to define who we are and how others think about us and remember us.
A few months ago I was doing the 'concerned mother' bit with my gorgeous daughter, who had been overdoing it a bit and was feeling somewhat jaded. 
'Ok Mum, I know what you're going to say'
'Really?'
'You're going to tell me that I've been burning the candle at both ends. You always say that.'
Not only could I not remember ever having said it, I was dumbfounded to discover that it was something Megan expected me to say.
There are other phrases I know I use - 'you'll miss me when I'm gone' is one I'm least proud of - it usually earns the loving retort 'shall I help you pack' from one or other of my offspring.  
I remember, many years ago, getting stuck in a traffic queue one day, with them all sitting in the car. As we reached the head of the queue we saw a workman operating a 'Stop / Go' board. 

 

Without any thought, I commented - 'that's where you'll end up if you don't work hard at school'. Not exactly Ideal-Mother-Motivational-Speaking, but I didn't think much more about it, until I later heard it repeated by one of the kids. It's now become a standard 'family phrase' - one of those sayings that everyone in the family knows and expects.
At work, I've developed various coping mechanisms for when it all gets too much. My favourite has always been a shared team shake of the head and a loud shout of 'it's all bollocks' - never fails to bring some perspective.
When I stop to think about it - there are certain phrases, just a few words, in a particular order, that belong to people I know or have known and loved. Words that automatically bring with them a picture of that person. 
I don't have many memories of my Nan - she died when I was quite young, but to this day if anyone was to say to me 'if Ifs and Ands were pots and pans....' I would immediately be a little girl again, sitting in her flat on a Sunday morning, Two-way Family favourites on the radio, and me coveting her kitchen stool with the fold-up steps.

The Atlas

More than 20 years ago, my Dad bought a copy of the Reader's Digest Atlas of the World.
It's a huge book, not only because of its size, but for all the memories and possibilities it contains.
I have it still. 


The Atlas
Slowly, travelling through the well worn pages,

we gazed at all the cities never seen.

Through villages and hamlets, habitations

in unimagined towns in distant lands,

Browsing through those unexplored ambitions,

our fingers trailed a line from port to port,

passed through settlements, portrayed as blotches,
communities as specks on mottled leaves.

Before our eyes, the swarm of dots on paper

rose up. A swirling, thrumming storm,

A buzzing lilting whirl of foreign accents.
A flowing haze of wishes unfulfilled.
Vola con me.

Travelling to Manchester

My beloved and I went to Manchester at the weekend. He did all the planning; booked our hotel, purchased the wedding gift, sorted the social arrangements. He helped me to decide which shoes to take, confirmed that my necklace matched my dress and reassured me that my hair was fine. He did all this while suffering from a horrible dose of a cold, which had sent him home early from work.
Eventually I thought I should make some small contribution to the outcome of the weekend.

Me: "do you want to take the train, or shall we go by car?"
Him: "car would be easiest, if that's ok?"
Me (while silently thinking mean, uncharitable thoughts along the lines of - "well of course it's easier for you - you can't drive") : "Yep, that's fine."
Him: "shall I sort out some CDs for the journey?"
Me (while silently thinking mean uncharitable thoughts along the lines of - "what's the worst possible thing I can inflict on him for a journey of 250 miles?") : "I thought we might listen to my new Jack Johnson CD"
Him: (total silence)

The following morning, we packed our bags and set off, hoping we'd timed it right to miss the early morning joys of the M25.
After about half an hour..
Me: "do you want to put some music on?"
Him: "I thought you were bringing Jack Johnson"
Me (trying to pretend my evil meanness of the previous day had never really existed): "But that was only a joke, you know I wouldn't really have made you listen to Jack Johnson all the way to Manchester"
Him: (total silence)

After another half an hour...
Me: "what about the radio?"
Him (suddenly springing to life and with a slightly disturbing gleam in his eye) : "do you mind if I flick?"
Me (while thinking the exact opposite) " No,of course not, see what you can find".

So, for the next five hours, while we struggled past broken down lorries, crawled through the contra-flows of endless roadworks and generally cursed the decision to travel by car, my beloved 'flicked'.
And what gems of airwave magic did he find?
His first discovery, after all the London programmes had crackled away to a whisper, was Jack FM; a station that appeared to have no presenters, just some decidedly odd pre-recorded soundbites between the tracks. Luckily, it did not specialise in Mr Johnson's music, but we never got to find out why it was called Jack.
As we drove on and Jack FM faded out of range, Philip fast-forwarded; past the mind-numbing horrors of Heart, Magic, and Smooth. He kept flicking as we reached Warwickshire where he landed at Touch Radio, a station specialising in 'songs to sing along to'. 
I was in my element. Although, strangely, my beloved seemed less than delighted that our car had become a mobile karaoke booth. He became even less amused, as in due course we drove on and out of the local radio's limited range...
Me (sniggering) : "Oh, I think we're losing Touch"
Him (silently shaking his head)
Me: "Don't you think we should keep in Touch"
Him (quietly sighing)
Me (admittedly scraping the barrel now) "Ohhh, I really wanted to stay in Touch"
And so it went on, him flicking, me shouting with glee or disdain as the miles and the radio stations slipped by.
I should have known better than to insist that we listen to the whole of Black Eyed Peas' 'I gotta feeling' . After that, it could only end badly.
And eventually, just as we got to Manchester, and as I peered wearily at the Motorway signs looking for our exit, he tuned in to 106.1 FM - Rock Radio.
The Home of Classic Rock Favourites.
In no time at all, Led Zeppelin was blasting from the radio, succeeded by the dulcet tones of ACDC then Jimi Hendrix. He had finally found his revenge.
I won't try to describe the joy with which I spotted our final destination.

But was that vengeance enough for my mean uncharitable thoughts? Apparently not.
I'm sitting in bed as I type this and I'm feeling rubbish - it's nothing major, I'm just struggling to overcome the germs that my dearly beloved shared with me so generously in the car, all the way to Manchester.
And as they say - that really will teach me