192. The New Normal

This is going to be a waffle. Be warned, avoid if necessary:

I don’t remember when I first heard someone use the term 'the new normal.’ In fact, I probably read it rather than heard it, but it was after I’d scared myself witless by consulting the evil oracle called Google in order to understand my NPI score and discovered my prognosis was less than great. At the time, it took an intelligent and soothingly logical email from C, my breast care nurse, to help me regain some perspective and, apart from momentary surges of horror that last mere seconds, I have it sorted. Maybe it was C who used it?

Maybe it doesn't matter. What did matter was that everything clicked into place for me. I understood that I needed to find a place in my mind to store additional unpleasant things, this time more tangible thing like memories of the experiences I’ve had, my reactions to my diagnoses, the treatments - and that fact that, confident though I am that I am cancer-free, it may not remain like that for ever. Echoing someone’s wise words, once you’ve heard a cancer diagnosis, it cannot be unheard. Nor can all its implications.

I derived great comfort from this concept of a new normal. Everyone who has had cancer has to work towards it and most succeed in accepting that things can never go back to exactly how they were, no matter how much you may wish it so. Personally, I had no problem. Cancer has its place in my life and I'm pretty confident that, freed from maybe half of these bloody side effects, I'd now be as happy a bunny as I was before - happy but wiser. Life is a precious thing and not to be wasted on regrets and what ifs and if onlys. Just get on with life. Que sera sera.

And I will, as soon as my body allows it.

Why am I waffling? I believed this term was specific to Cancer World. It felt a very special revelation to me so it was a huge blow to hear the Prime Minister urging us all to follow his very precise guidance and accept a new normal. Then Matt used it (I have now accepted that he wishes to be on first name terms and not be known by his formal tile of Secretary of State or whatever). Then suddenly every other person in the newspapers and on the TV was bandying the term about. We mustn’t be complacent and assume everything will return to how it was before Covid-19. We must accept the new normal.

It’s only words but I can’t convey my indignation at having one simple term stolen from me. I feel like a child who doesn’t want to share her toys (in my case, her sweets) in a way. On a more serious note, I feel that something very meaningful which provided me with much solace has been stolen from me. I must share it with all those lucky buggers out there who haven’t had the horrors of living with cancer, have merely had the inconvenience of having to home school their kids, forego a couple of holidays in the sun and wonder how on earth they are ever going to eat all that rice and pasta, let alone use all that toilet paper they’ve stockpiled.

I know it sounds petulant. I’m happy to share it with all those who’ve been unlucky enough to be directly touched in any way by this dreadful virus (with the one exception, of course) but I really don’t want MY reassuring concept to be filched by people in general. Life will be a bit different for most - that‘s not comparable to a diagnosis of cancer, let alone surgical brutality, poisoning and radiation burning. I don’t call having to walk in swerves and wear a sweaty mask anything like comparable to the hovering knowledge that the next hospital visit may be the one that brings bad news and all that awfulness has to start again. There’s no comparison.

So there. I am a petulant, selfish pedant - it’s only a couple of words for god’s sake. But I’m serious when I say I feel something precious has been stolen from me. Let’s face it, I have resisted almost all the clichés of Cancer World. I’ve not talked about journeys and battles. I find the concepts abhorrent. But I did love my little ‘new normal.’   

On a more positive note, I have BEEN SWIMMING. After agonising over a new swimsuit (I settled for buying both a size 14 and a size 12 in the hope I shall burn off some of this ludicrously out of character weight), I went to Cookridge Hall with Joyce and Maureen for a swim. I was reluctant to go on my own as I had serious doubts about getting out of the pool without some assistance so I was delighted when they offered. We had the pool to ourselves so I could swim half a length here, a very slow length there - and I managed to haul myself out without too many problems. The only problem came when I foolishly tried the children’s pool which was too shallow to be useful for leg exercising - till I tried to get out. Not easy. A little embarrassing had I had an audience.  I’m hoping to go twice a week at least and, if it works smoothly, I might try the gym in a month or so. I have to get these leg and arm muscles working better. Dennis asked me today if I would always be walking “like that.” Say no more. Mr Tactful dug his grave by adding he only married me for my walk - and hastily added “and brain.”

192. Freedom beckons?

Today is a landmark. August 1 2020. Remember that. It’s the day the government’s shielding strategy is “paused” and we Shielded Ones are granted the same freedoms as everyone else. Actually, looking at ‘everyone else,’ I can’t say there’s been that much freedom enjoyed but, of course, stranded at the top of a cul-de-sac on the edge of the village (for now), there may be all sorts of Bacchanalia going on that I know nothing of. It might explain the cheery smiles I’ve encountered.

Just love that gentle prod!

Actually, I confess I pre-empted this by popping to the hairdresser’s on Monday but I was more than satisfied (in fact a bit irritated) by the level of precaution being taken. It was difficult however to rave about a new haircut when I was wearing a mask that prevented me from having much idea of what I looked like till I got home. More than happy once I got a proper look in the mirror.

Back to today. I planned to celebrate by exposing myself to a normal but ever-so-slightly risky foray into the real world. I would collect my own prescriptions. I went online at 1am Wednesday morning to order repeat prescriptions to tie in with the one the pharmacist would receive in the post Wednesday. Thwarted. First the pharmacist personally delivered an embarrassingly large bag on Thursday but the ones I needed urgently (the postal ones) were not there. When I rang, the First Class delivery had taken 4 days to get from one part of Leeds to another. Why am I surprised? But at least it got there. So I said to the pharmacist not to deliver - I’d pick it up on Saturday to mark my liberation. She explained the system and that was sorted. Only Big Dave, who owns the pharmacy, delivered it himself yesterday, depriving me of somewhere to go. That sounds completely ungrateful. I’m not. I’ve either had a volunteer, Sarah (bottle of wine awaiting our next encounter) or the pharmacists deliver all my prescriptions and I am so very grateful because this is something we really struggled with last year, particularly at those scary times for Dennis when he really didn't want to leave me on my own. In fact, I’m proud to say that experience has helped extend the Bramhope Coronavirus Community Support Group (very catchy) so that the list of volunteers will be maintained indefinitely to help members of the community in need.

Back to Freedom. I don’t feel safe enough yet to venture into the supermarket, a garden centre or a pub. The first two would be impossible owing to the mobility problems and what is there in a pub when i) I don’t drink alcohol and ii) we can’t meet up with anyone?  Now... why don’t I feel safe enough? Common sense tells me I will have much-reduced immunity to the usual bugs around - colds and, perish the thought, tummy bugs - so I need to tread carefully, if tread I can. But the main reason is this:

Apologies for deletions but the blog is public access

I may have ranted already that the letter is signed Matt. I know of a Matt who works in Jumbo Records and is like an oracle in this household (Matt says... Matt put it aside for me...Matt didn’t give me my discount!). I think I worked briefly with a Matt who worked for one of the drugs agencies in Leeds. And a Matt did some work for us on the house, maybe the porch, early on. Otherwise I know no Matt. It may show my age but I really object to some jumped-up entitled Tory thinking I will look on his policies (if there are any - read on if you can bear to) more favourably because we’re on first name terms. Sorry Mr Hancock, the greater the distance you are from me, even in Covid-free times, the better. At least Robert Jenrick had the nous to sign his full name. Maybe ‘Matt’ was tired

I digress. The letter tells me that, from today, I may go to work; go outside to buy food, to places of worship and for exercise but I should maintain strict social distancing. I was already able to form a social bubble or meet up to six people outside. Elsewhere, it says I may wish to go to more places and to see more people. I guess there’s nothing contradictory there but it’s getting a bit imprecise. Then he includes the words “ The advice is to stay at home where possible.” Now doesn’t that inspire confidence!

So I’m in a position where, it seems, I can interpret the government’s advice in several ways - but which is the safest? Obviously to stay at home. But after over 4 months practically isolated from the real world, I’m antsy. I can’t walk anywhere and the prospect of driving to sit in some car park isn’t alluring but it would be great if there was something I could do. Dennis of course isn’t bothered. Lifting shielding doesn’t make a jot of difference. He’s got out of the habit of visiting record shops, doesn’t miss it thanks to the internet, and really is quite happy to remain as he is. 

The solution lies with Joyce and Maureen who visited my ‘patio’ on Thursday. Next Saturday we will be going to Cookridge Hall to go swimming (someone to hoist me out of the pool - yay!). The only problem is that things are changing rapidly again as another spike is appearing across West Yorkshire and Lancashire. Leeds is safe, with a low infection rate of 4.6 per 100,000 compared to 13.1 across Yorkshire & Humber, but we are a hair’s breadth (or hare’s breath) away from Bradford which is back in lockdown. Joyce, aren’t you glad you made your escape to the Lakes hours before it was announced! I guess it’s wait and see if the poor little starling flops to the ground or finds its wings and soars.