Distraction through love

In five weeks, Alex and I leave to travel around the world. The days are getting shorter, my dreams consist of exotic landscapes and I look ahead with a bright spirit of adventure and only mild feelings of trepidation. 

Having lived in London for six years, it is with more than a slight curiosity by which people respond to the news that Alex and I are going away. It strikes a discord with the Londoner's Handbook which requires people slaving away hours in a job that only pays barely enough to cover rent and a social life. Some people even compromise the social life - I can name more than a few. Somehow this ingrained mentality has rebranded itself into a civic responsibility that we are required, that we owe the organisations we work for and the city we work in, our lives. And I for one am defying this principle.

Some think I have always defied this by my choice of careers, but they are wrong. I am like you too. 

Don't get me wrong - financial security is important for being able to provide for your family and your future and I don't disagree that this is a responsibility everybody should shoulder. But we only have one life and I want to be able to reflect on it as being full of colour and adventure; miracles and the lightness of being. Charged and vibrant memories. A year of seeing the world will provide me more of these than a lifetime of servitude in London. It will also, I hope, give me a breadth of perspective, a renewed sense of self, zest and appreciation of life's fragility and its vitality. But I will also go without expecting any of this to happen, releasing all sense of expectation and burdensome benchmarks - so this trip does not fall short in any way. 

Lately I have felt a little plagued by a sense of responsibility. Guilt. It is more one that I have placed on myself than impinged by other people but those can often be the hardest to bear. It is moral. Even worse.

My mum has cancer. 

It feels wrong. 

I know, mum, if you were reading this right now, you would say "don't be silly". And you're right. But nevertheless, it is a cross that I can't help but bear. I can't help but feel guilty, ashamed that whilst I am lounging on a beach, gazing at a sunset, gin and tonic in hand with a little wooden umbrella, that you might be lying in bed exhausted, throwing up into a bucket, or shedding hair. I am scared for you and it just feels wrong that I will not be there with you - tucking you up in a blanket, rubbing your back or squeezing your hand. I am laying my shame bare. 

You and I have been talking a lot about control. And in certain circumstances, the need to relinquish it. Neither of us are very good at this. And I need to accept that this is a situation where both you and I have to let go - you of your body and me of my sense of right and wrong. That in the adventures that Alex and I face ahead, we will experience a part of life that you have dreamed for me since I was born and, in spirit, you too will ride elephants, jump off cliffs, barter for silks, read a map upside down, order dog off a menu (by accident), fart loudly in a temple. And in regaling with you, I will offer the best home remedy possible - distraction through love. 

So I cannot promise that I will shake off this horrible feeling about leaving you before I get on the plane. This might have to be something I do a few thousand feet up in the sky with a hefty drink. And I might have my moments on the other side of the world where I stumble and need to call you for reassurance. I hope that's ok. Sometimes your example can be a little too hard to follow. 

The Hedgehog

Poor Winston’s idea of foreplay was “Brace yourself Effie”. Not that I am about to talk about my idea of foreplay. Don’t worry Mum. But in the wake of Robin William’s suicide and your first round of chemotherapy, there seems to be a tragicomedy theme tune harping in the background this week. Particularly with the story of the Hedgehog. More on this later.

Over the last couple of weeks, it is fair to say that distraction has finally succeeded with your holiday with the infamous singing, dancing doctors, Skip and Mrs Broccoli (even I have succumbed to calling them by their aliases) and my business trip to Mumbai - consisting of crocodiles, bobble-heads, transvestites and overdoing the Indian cuisine. Delhi Belly indeed. Having barely stepped a foot through the door of my London home, I blitzed up on the train north to be reunited with you, my mother - who it turns out was too busy being a marvellous and mildly-distracted MOB to Middle Sister at ‘Pemberley’, to even pick me up. Luckily, one of my new substitute mothers - Mrs O’Polo was able to include me in her entourage home from Knaresborough. 

It is fair to say, I was feeling a little trepidation about returning home for we had two big days ahead - A Level results on Thursday followed by the Hedgehog and 70’s Swimming Gala on Friday. That is, Round 1 of Chemo. Right now it feels safe to feel a little relieved. For it wasn’t all too bad. Both Little Sister and Single Brother succeeded in getting into their first choice universities, reacting to their results in entirely predictable fashion. Robbie casually glanced at his results, texted all of us and then headed off to coach tennis before realising that he had read his results wrong and done even better than he had thought. Sabrina threatened murder to anybody who came within a metre of the white envelope which contained her results. It is not surprising that I then promptly snatched this envelope out of her hand, and got chased around the school car park. It is my job as embarrassing big sister after all. There were no tears, hugs or champagne for this pair are just too cool. However, I did notice a lump in my throat that didn’t dissipate until I brushed my teeth before bed.

Friday was the big ball game and the stress levels in the house was palpable. As one does, when one knows their mother is in a frightening mood, we all hid into small dark spaces until it was safe to come out. This was around noon. Now six weeks ago, or so, when you and I discussed me coming back home, I thought I had been invited to accompany you to this wonderful visit to the York Hospital Magnolia Centre. Typically, in deaf fashion, I had misinterpreted. Nevertheless, you were kind enough to allow me to escort you and Daddy in the car. A dubious decision you must have thought.

We have a great bravado, us Barrs. And it never manifests itself so strongly than when we are all terrified. I think if I had grasped your shaking hand before we started, I would have cracked. But there was a job to do. That visual of your courageous, fragile and determined face had to be stored to the back of my mind until bedtime, when I could cry freely. Why you, Mum? As we walked in to the Magnolia Centre, I was darting glances left and right at the other patients in there - they were all so much older. Dad took the first hour shift, and as you asked him to direct me to the Costa Coffee in the main hospital, he looked horrified to leave you for even a second. I think it was then I realised that I was there to do something else - because whilst only Dad could will you through the pain, only I could do justice in distracting you from it. 

Obviously not a surprise.

After Dad begrudgingly let me do the second shift, it was game on. You had an extraordinary pink and black swimming cap on, made out of the same material as a wet-suit, reminiscent of a 70’s flowery swimming cap. At the top of this very bemusing swimming cap was a long pink tail connected to a machine on the side. (The cap contained anti-freeze aimed to prevent all those nasty chemicals from attacking your hair). You did spout out some terribly rude words, mum, about how cold your head was. This is forgivable on a cancer ward but I hope you’re doing penance as we speak as this was not acceptable in front of your innocent number 1 child. Amazingly, my pink and blue wooly hat was a perfect accompaniment to your 70s swimming cap, and the two of us looked terribly stylish as we posed for selfies in the ward taken by the nurses Shelly and Jo. Astonished glances were on the faces of the other ward inhabitants - but they secretly loved it. 

The crossword was a rather unusual experience as you were both unable to put your reading glasses on and convinced that your brain cells had frozen. No mum, its just the clues were bloody difficult. 

Because you were behaving so well, I agreed to do a reading of the scene that I had performed for Channel 4 on Monday. This was the infamous cafe scene in ‘When Harry met Sally’. Due to your temporary blindness, I agreed to play both parts and did a beautiful rendition that was abruptly stopped right before the ending, by you, my wonderful mother. I am sure that the ward, and the entire hospital in fact, would have loved to hear my loud fake orgasm. I scored a 10/10 for it by the director on Monday. But it was not to be.

It was only in the car on the way home, when I was graced with an explanation of what the ‘Hedgehog’ was in reference to. It turns out, and yes I am going to say it here, that one of those nasty chemicals they put in you creates the sensation of a hedgehog trying to ram its spines up your vagina. My reaction to this bemusing definition was only exacerbated by my query as to whether the same sensation also happens to men. “Yes Genevieve, only much worse, they feel it in their testicles.” 

Sadly this week, one of the Barr family’s favourite actors - Robin Williams, died and we celebrated his death by watching one of our all time favourite treats - Mrs Doubtfire. This time around, we were graced with six hotdog impressions (Alex and Sam were too mature for this) and a heimlich manoeuvre performed by Dad on me having just swallowed my red wine. We were all casting watchful eyes on you, my beautiful mummy, ready to come to your aid with a bucket in case you were sick. 

So the verdict? It’s now started - the dreaded chemo, and only time will tell how your body responds to the treatment. We will all be patient, supportive and watchful - for you are so precious to us, but at the same time pretend that life is as normal as ever - because that is how you want it to be. A tricky balance, and one that we may never perfectly achieve but as you said - one day at a time. Meanwhile, I am storing up all the laughs for our second stand-up comedy gig in three weeks time. 

Carpe Dentum

The Waiting Game

Since we last spoke, you have been in hospital and had a lumpectomy and your lymph nodes removed. You jiggled a plastic cup of blood rather cheerfully on Skype last night which has a long tube attached to your armpit. You have been sleepy and dealing with the highs and lows that seem to strike you once the shock is over. I think. I have no idea.

I think you will agree with me when I say, rather irritatedly, that people think all cancer sufferers are the same. It is a common disease, I agree, but if I hear about your close or distant relative one more time, you I fear will be off my Christmas list with a big black stripe across your name. It is not really your fault - rather an automated response mechanism that peculiarly ricochets out of one’s mouth when they hear the big “C” word. Almost like a “please leave a message after the tone” voicemail. You know it’s coming. Beep off. 

No it is not the same. Not when it is your flesh, living blood, the most precious and sacrosanct figure in your life (+ 4 other family members), this fragile, yet strong, beautiful thing - my mother - who requires me to hold all my dreams and hopes dear. The very pinnacle of everything you look up to. And this nasty tainted thing (for there is no synonym for the word cancer) has quite literally and viciously kicked the walls down. 

You call me the drama queen - you are probably right. Sorry mother.

I am at the stage now where cancer is no longer a word which is lodged in my mouth uncomfortably and uncouth. I can say it without a thick swallow. Just about. I can also be rational and logical for a sustained period of time (most importantly, at work) without needing to breathe fresh air, look up at the sky and say “Why God?” I can stop after two glasses of wine. I can talk quite companionably, laugh out loud, complete a gym session without telling my Personal Trainer to bugger off. Life has gone on. I have half-heartedly gone along with it.

We are now doing the waiting game. The waiting game consists only of a set of dices and it’s a few days before we see which numbers are up. We sit tight - patiently and impatiently - a perfect synchronicity of opposites in play. In the meantime, I revisit and revisit the past. 

Last week I was at home and I was stupendously proud of myself for not cracking every time I looked at you. On the last day, you and I went to Helperby to track down an old gravestone which belonged to the ancestor of my godfather’s mother in law - Granny Annie. We sat in the car quietly, clear blue skies and a breeze squeezing itself through the window. Country lanes and fields running past. Birds were probably singing. We did not talk of trivial things - only the important, but we gave them the air of normality. We talked of marriage, family, friendship, life after cancer (for yes, extraordinarily, you have planned that far ahead). The strangest thing which I am still dwelling on, is that you told me that finding out I was deaf was worse than being told you had cancer. It was such a incongruous statement to me. “Me - Deaf. You - Cancer” - it  has replayed itself in my head as broken English between two foreigners. 

I have no memory of when you were told, nor any understanding of what it is like to be a parent but I can tell you this. I would choose having a mother like you over being able to hear in a heartbeat. Being deaf has taught me the reward of hard work. Being deaf has taught me to be humble and to care about all human beings - the strong and the weak. Being deaf has given me an edge more than any disadvantage I face. Being deaf makes me cherish what I have rather than mourn what I don’t have. This attitude, zeal and sense of life did not come from being deaf but from your conviction that I could have the sun, the moon, the stars and more if I had the confidence, conviction and determination to go and get them. We all know the saying ‘life is a rich tapestry’ - another of those overused cliches - but I truly believe that my life is more enriched for living with broken ears. 

When we are little, we don’t know what words mean. After a while, we are told by our parents a ball is something you can bounce. A door becomes something you open. When you grow older, you learn that a ball is also a sphere. It can be made out of different materials. When we are even older, we question the validity of those definitions - is a ball always something you can bounce? Do you always open a door? When I was little, being deaf meant that I couldn’t hear. And that was ok. You told me I had these magical toys in my ears called “ear bugs” that made my ears better. When I was a little older, I realised that being deaf meant that I could do some things but some things I would find a little bit harder. And that was ok too. When I was even older, I questioned the validity in everything you had ever told me - mainly because I was a horrendous teenager - except for one thing; what being deaf meant. Because you had sold me on its meaning from Day 1. Being deaf didn’t mean that I was any less than anybody else. If anything, it made me all the more special. And I have clung, rather egocentrically perhaps, onto those magical words because they reward me with the confidence, conviction and determination to reach for the sun, the moon and the stars. As you want all your children to do. You did it.

So I suck at this waiting game and I don’t know which way the dice are going to fall. But I do take strength from the past. I hold certainty in the way you dealt with all your hurt and pain in other matters, because you did right. You came out strong and you came out on top. I know this because the rest of us have followed you.

Big C and Little C

There is nothing quite like the sudden jolt of reality when your mum tells you she has cancer. It was Wednesday afternoon in London, 25th June, 16.54pm and I was in the middle of delivering a four day programme for 100 students at BP on the subject of ‘Smart Cities’. The sun was shining and the energy in the group was high. 

Halfway through delivering a session with 20 senior leaders and 100 students, I got a text from my mum saying “I need to talk to you”. This was followed by a text from my dad saying “Call your mother now”. A feeling of dread over washed me. Plain and simple. 

I took off my microphone, dropped my things, marched past security and went outside. The traffic was booming and there was chatter everywhere. I couldn’t hear and I couldn’t find a quiet spot. Eventually, I walked back inside to reception and rang the number. Mum picked up. “Can you hear me ok?” she said. “Yes” I said. “Listen carefully. I have bad news darling. I have breast cancer.” 

At that moment, there was this loaded silence and a repugnant cacophony of cliches came rolling in. The world stilled. Sounds became defined. A sharp intake of breath. My heart rate went through the roof. And the surroundings stayed exactly the same - I resented that. I remember. Focus, Gen. Focus. Do not break down. Focus on the matter at hand. “Are you ok?” I asked. “I’m fine. I have been in hospital all day and I wanted to tell you as soon as it was definite.” “Who knows?” “Robbie and Sabrina and I am waiting for Antonia to get back from work.” Simple facts. I told her I would call her later. Took a breath and went back into the auditorium and into the mayhem. 

My boss immediately knew something was up. I struggled to articulate the words but I did. “My mum has breast cancer.” It was a barely audible whisper - probably the best I have managed to do in my life, since most people will know whispering is not my forte. 

But the day went on - the only way I could function at that point was to get on with the job at hand. Mum had more information to tell me, the programme was due to finish in an hour and, more importantly, I had no battery on my phone. I could sit and be vacant or I could continue with the job. 

The day went on.

My mum’s mantra has always been “My body’s my temple” and it feels mockingly ironic that the healthiest person in our entire family has been diagnosed with Grade 3 cancer. But I know that life doesn’t shoot straight. I also know that breast cancer is incredibly common, that 90% of people are ok, that a lumpectomy is followed by radiotherapy and in bad cases by chemotherapy. My mum is terrified of having chemotherapy. I am terrified for her. She goes into hospital for the lumpectomy tomorrow and she is being brave and honest and organised as much as I would expect my mum to be. 

There is no rationale or logic to be had behind coping with these things. Emotions are rather haywire but I am trying not to predict or control how I feel at specific moments in the day.

There are a whole lot of precious moments and memories being savoured during this time. And part of me is doing this to process - in the only way I know how right now - by writing; but also because if I can make my mum smile through reading this, then I know I will have made her day that little bit better. And because of that, mine. 

So mum, as I know you are reading this right now, here are a few precious memories to share with you. Antonia and I have already regaled over these so already you know these are the real golden nuggets.

Songs: You, me and Antonia singing to Mamma Mia the musical in London. ‘Slipping through my fingers’ - our song. The Remix to Ignition, the coolest song ever. Robbie singing ‘Obviously’ - I’m sure you can emotionally blackmail him into doing this again…though he may never forgive you!

Clothes: Some hilarious fashion statements - Antonia’s sunflower hat. My orange anorak. The pashmina dress. So - my entire teenage years. The twins dressed as sheep for the Burton Leonard festival, bawling their eyes out. Antonia’s bat costume. My chinese costume. You were a genius at this. Your James Bond costume - squeezing into my wetsuit. I was mortified then but rather proud now.

Films: Mamma Mia…nuff said. Mrs Doubtfire “He was run over by a guinness truck”. Mighty Ducks - the flying V which I spent my life trying to recreate on the lacrosse pitch. 

Holidays - Salcombe - when Jon Newey wore your swimming costume. Bahamas - the black Father Christmas. Dublin - Eric Clapton and you flirting with some young stoners in a rather fashionable bin bag and heart shaped sunglasses. Ibiza - Auntie Jean, Jack the Crack and hair bobbles. Jumping off the cliff. Losing my tooth in the Spaghetti Bolognese. Portugal - the broom dance and Josh pulling down the curtains. 

Birthdays - An army stripper for a 16th, a black vicar for an 18th but only at the stroke of midnight, Sabrina’s sleepover - I had supposedly pooed behind the sofa very recently. Sleepwalking and trying to climb into Robbie’s bed naked. (Sorry Robbie). Epic birthday cakes - the Lion cake to name one.

Miscalleneous - When we had Guy Wright to babysit and we made him cocktails. (Antonia felt it was of import that we dredged this back up) Our obsession with Echo the Dolphin on the Mega Drive. Very important moments - listening to the Queen on Christmas Day. Me and Sam Storey painting an L on Antonia’s nappy. @TheLPlateNappy

This list could go on, but I’m only giving you a nibble. There will be many more to come and many more to create. 

So I will leave you with a favourite quote and a last message before the big brave day tomorrow:

“When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.” William Shakespeare

I love you, I am so proud of you and we are with you every step of the way.

First daughter

xxx