I've been called many, many things in my reasonably short time on this earth but normal has never been one of them. I suppose it's a good job, all things considered because the wait between recovering from chemo and having surgery is like being teased with your old life- the tiredness and breathlessness have faded, once again I can do everything I used to- I feel 'normal' but out of the blue reminders/limits will pop up like mole hills. Take for example this weekend just gone when I set off for a couple of days away in Whitstable in one of the lovely Fisherman's Huts. It's a fantastic, thriving seaside town and i'm so glad I was feeling well enough to make the most of it. So much in fact my friend and I decided to go out in the evening to a pub. Historically i've always been a big fan of a night out. I love dressing up but when you're carrying extra weight from steroids (and eating too much because your appetite has come back after all this time), and you have to stick on eyelashes, studiously adjust a wig and draw on most of your face, I felt less girly and more Mr Potato Head and spent half the night concerned that one big gust off the North Sea would unmask me. Ho hum.
Still, I have a couple of things up my sleeve to stop me from sitting around and festering. Firstly, I have found that while I'm undergoing treatment i'm allowed to work up to 15 hours a week which is just the right level of commitment for me at the moment- so time to get the freelancing show on the road, and then there are the comedy geniuses I share my home with. Like every great comedy duo, my children have impeccable timing and each contribute differently. Child 1 is quieter and sensitive but very good at being mischievous under the radar, while Child 2 is just an out and out clown who is blatant in her shenanigans and makes no attempts to cover her tracks.
Aside from telling me recently 'Come on, get your act together, ' when I was too poorly to take her to nursery, my other favourite gem from Child 2 was her quizzically carrying her picnic tea at arms length back to me in the kitchen and in the same tone you would speak to a hotel receptionist about something amiss, she said: " Er Mummy, these are the wrong sandwiches. You need to do them again with corned beef. I'll be waiting through there, ok?' All the while squinting and animatedly pointing at the front room in case i'm confused by life in general and not just sandwich fillings.
Child 1 on the other hand will guffaw with laughter at her little sister's antics and has nicknamed me 'chick fluff' due to the soft, babylike hair i'm sprouting on my head.
She thinks its hilarious i've begun washing these first signs of life with something called FAST shampoo and quipped it sounds like something Roald Dahl would have written about.
Yet it was Child 2 who surprised me the most this week - who privately uses my bald head as a drum, will intersperse calling me beautiful and calling me a potato, when she corrected another child for laughing at me in all my baldness.
"You don't have any hair, you look silly," the child said loudly.
In a flash, Child 2 was there. "My mummy's poorly and her hair is growing back," she replied while giving a Paddington stare.
Seems like if I don't 'get my act together' she's going to do it for me!
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