Waiting

In the early days of my diagnosis with Multiple Sclerosis in 2011, everything about my neurology appointments in Beaumont Hospital caused me anxiety – from getting lost en-route and then kicking myself for driving through the city, instead of the motorway, out of fear of accidentally driving into the Dublin Port Tunnel and orientating myself within the hospital, to the cost of the car-parking.

Now, the MRI and follow up appointments are just another date in the diary.  Until the day arrives.  It’s here.  I’m early.  Without thought, I make my way to Clinic B.  Neurology and the Fracture Clinic share a registration desk.  It seems like an odd match, brains and broken bones.  Still, it’s a people-watchers dream.  The logistics of it all is like an awkward choreography, as patients hobble, or are wheeled about with various strappings and supports, making their way to somewhere else.   Despite the busyness of the place, there is a comforting sense of calm.  The linoleum on the floor is remarkably shiny and the space is bright and airy.

There is a lot to focus on, to distract myself about why I’m here.  I’m experiencing a period of really good health and the appointment almost seems unnecessary.  I don’t have time for this and I don’t have time to be sick.

I am called before my scheduled time.  I abandon the blog post that I had started to tap into my phone.  I am greeted by a neurologist whom I haven’t met previously.  No student doctors shadowing this time.  Like all of the neurology team that I have encountered to date, this woman is warm and friendly, compassionate.  She is thorough in her physical examination of me, testing my strength and reflexes.  It feels like I am as strong as I ever was.  She is concerned that I haven’t had any recent blood tests and I feel silly saying that I forgotten to organise these in advance of our meeting - it is in my best interest after all.  An award for ‘Patient Taking Charge’, I will not win.  The neurologist talks me tells through the results of my recent MRI scan.  No new significant lesions, but some minor ones.  ‘How minor is minor’?, I ask.  She excuses herself and says that she will speak with the senior neurologist.

The minutes seem long now.  My head spins.  ‘Is there something she doesn’t want to tell me? News that she would prefer her senior delivered'?  I think of My Lovely Friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer very recently.  She’s the same age as me, also with a young family and largely managing on her own.   She’s a stunner.  The type of girl who turned the heads of the handsome guys in college.  I recall our phone call when she tells me her news and the plans for the next few months.  Chemotherapy, surgery and radiation.  She tells me that she has bought a wig.  I can’t remember what I said to her, but I know that I cursed a lot.  I think about her children and I think of mine.  The uncomfortable 'what if'? questions they ask that I'd prefer not answer.  I worry about how we will cope if I could no longer work to financially support them.  I have thoughts of people I know with advanced MS and what an unforgiving disease this can be.  I wonder if I could still feel feminine if I looked, moved, or sounded differently.  I think about My Lovely Friend’s upcoming surgery and how invasive it will be on her womanliness.  A strong willed lady, she has a plan, will roll her sleeves up and get through this.  I wish I lived closer, so I could offer her more practical support.

The neurologist returns and the news is good.  Really good.  The minor lesions on my scan are old, in the sense that they were visible on last year’s scan.  There are no new lesions.  Those that are there have shrunk.  The drugs are doing what they are intended to do, although it's not the case for other people.  It's as good as it can be.   I can feel the relief in my body as she completes the paperwork and refers me to haematology for blood tests.  My needle aversion hasn’t lessened and I need to lie down.  The blood flows easily.  The sun shines.  Today is a good day.

Holding Hands in the Country Side: Mother's Day

I wake on Mother’s Day, in true Irish Mammy style – wrecked with guilt.  I am missing out on a family mass and gathering of my mother's clan.  I know that she would have liked me there, but the 9.30am service in Co Louth would require a 7am start, on the morning after the clocks had moved forward.  Besides, it is Mr Private’s birthday.  It would have been unfair to ask him to make the trek - This particular baptism of fire is a step too far for any Birthday Boy.  

It was also my first Mother’s Day without my children, as it wasn’t ‘my weekend’.   I was fine about it until the actual day and woke feeling a terrible a pang, missing the little critters terribly.  

In the build up to Mr Private’s birthday, I get myself in a heap about a gift for him.  He’s been very generous to me, so I want to get him something special.  Option A is to buy something expensive.  Option B, something thoughtful.  I decide on Option B, something I make, inspired by an earlier conversation we had.  I know that he will appreciate the effort.  Besides, Option A brings me out in a sweat – Let’s face it, men are hard to buy for at the best of times.  When you don’t know someone that well, it’s trickier.  I'm still in the process of finding out important stuff, like what kind of chocolate he likes (no nuts, but yes to rock salt).  I consider going through his wardrobe to get ideas for a gift of clothes, but I’m afraid of being caught in the act by him and appearing like a Bunny Boiler.  Yes, the handmade is easier in a sense, albeit 10 hours of work late at night.  Before I present it, the familiar feeling of self-doubt creeps in – there was no gift receipt with this one.

My son was with me when I buy a birthday card for Mr Private days previously.  I don’t think he notices me browsing, as I am also buying a Mother’s Day card for my Mam, but he does.  My children know about Mr Private, but haven’t met him.  My boy directs me to the cards intended for male ‘friends’ – you know the ones - insipid watercolour paintings of golfers, or a sail boat.  He says, ‘these would be good Mam, because he is JUST your friend’.   I agree.  I purchase the blandest blue checkered ‘On Your Birthday’ card in the shop and the child looks satisfied.

For Mr Private’s birthday, he wants to go to see Kerry V Cavan in Breffni Park, in Cavan Town.  He had flagged this before we discovered that the clash of dates.  I joke that there is nowhere else that a Meath woman want to be on Mother’s Day?  The only thing comfortable about this encounter is the green and gold strip of the Kerry team, mirroring the colours of the Royal County.  For the first time ever, I shout for Cavan, as the underdog and Mr Private, for his home county of Kerry.  Throughout the match, memories of GAA matches with my father run through my mind.  Hill 16, amid a sea of Dubs.  Brian Stafford, cool as anything stepping back to take a free.  David Beggy, running like lightening.  Big lumps of men like Joe Cassells and Liam Hayes.  Tanks of lads like Mick Lyons.  ‘The physical Meath team’, as Pat Spillane called them.  What would Da have thought of me standing here today?  'Be the hokey'.  I watch children now, in their county colours, too wee to be able to see the match properly, only interested in going to the tuck shop, and yet becoming alert every time the crowd cheers. 

Like the family wedding I attended with Mr Private, it probably seems ‘too soon’ to introduce him to my mother.  But I had a longing to see her on Mother’s Day, so we make a detour to home farm on our return journey.  He slags me about really being from Cavan, given the proximity to the border, but as everyone knows, borders are more important, the closer you get to them.  I tell him if I was a Cavan woman, that I wouldn't have splashed out on a e3 bet with him, on which team would win.

Mr Private changes his mind about not wanting birthday cake when he sees my mother’s rather impressive home baking, complete with an impromptu candle.  On our route back to Kildare, I point out house after house where my relations live, where I went to school and I tell stories about people who influenced my life, special teachers who helped shape the person that I have become. 

I pick my children up at 8pm.  They have Mother’s Day cards for me that they made at their child minders on Thursday and manage to keep a secret until then.  I’m impressed as much by the secret-keeping as I am with the hand crafted cards.  When I had dropped off my children’s weekend bags at their school the previous Friday afternoon, I had spotted another card in my daughter’s hand, but she hid it from me.  I remind her now, asking if she made me a card at school.  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, the penny drops.  The card isn’t for me at all, it’s for her father’s girlfriend.  I want to kick myself.  She over explains that she had already made one for me and I reassure her, telling her that she is a sweet girl and what a kind thought that was.  More pangs of guilt for things being as they are for my precious babies.

Their body clocks are confused with the change of time, but I let them stay up late for extra special Mother’s Day cuddles on the couch.  My Mam texts me later and gives Mr Private the seal of approval.  Feck, I may hold onto him so, for another while anyway. Oh, and he loved his birthday present, genuinely.  Good result all around (apart from the GAA match, which ended in a draw).

Holding Hands in the Countryside: The Wedding

Quite a number of individuals who could collectively be called CCWLLL (Citizens Concerned With Lucina’s Love Life) have made contact with me, asking how ‘the wedding went’. For those of you who didn’t read my blog-before-the-previous-one, I wrote about a family wedding reception that I attended with Mr Private, my first time to meet any of his family.  The jist of the blog was that I hoped my very un-me flowery dress would act as camouflage and that I would disappear into floral wallpaper that one would expect to find in a hotel.

My trip to the wedding involved 4, yes, 4, train changes.  There were no problems with missed connections and the traipsing between trains wasn’t as bad as it sounded.  I sat beside a lovely woman on the train destined for Cork.  She was stuck on a crossword clue in the Farmer’s Journal magazine.  She was surprised that I was familiar with the Journal.  I told her that my mother still bought it even after my father died.  Before long, we had exchanged stories about all things country, including road frontage, in-laws, marriage break-ups, grandchildren and wills.  I confined in her about how nervous I was about the wedding and she does her best to reassure me, like a surrogate Irish Mammy, before I left her to board my fourth train for the day. 

It was amusing to consider my journey, from the 7am commuter train to Dublin, packed with The Suits, doing an hour’s work before they hit the city, to the increasingly gradual slow-down of pace, over a number of hours, the  closer I came to Kerry.   It seemed like everyone was in holiday spirit, but it was mid-term after all.  I felt a pang of guilt that I wasn’t with my own children on their mid-term.  I put my ‘selfish bitch’ thoughts on the shelf for future perusal. 

My pre-booked taxi driver knew my work counterpart in Kerry and I was happy to speak to him about Kildare’s 1916 programme – a grasp at something familiar.  The unfamiliar view of misty mountains from the hotel was calming and beautiful all the same.  The guna felt deas when I put it on and the make-do hair and make-up was decent enough.   Meanwhile, Mr Private sent some photos that confirmed that the bride had indeed said ‘I do’ and was on his way.  

The saxophone player’s tunes wafted across the hotel reception and loud enough to drown any inner scream of ‘what the hell am I doing here’, while I sipped a cup of coffee that I couldn’t taste. Mr Private arrives and I’m aware that I’ve never seen him in a suit before.  He is looking dapper and as radiant as the beautiful bride.  He’s smiling at me and the trip seems worthwhile now.

Time is short and the bell rings to call us for the meal.  I feel a cold sweat develop as I realise that I have yet to meet the bride and groom and that I have no idea who I will sit with for dinner, while Mr Private sits at the top table.  He has it all sorted and it’s all good.  After the meal, I meet various relations and Mr Private introduces me as his ‘girlfriend’.  They smile and nod, but otherwise don’t bat an eyelid.  I expect an interrogation, but it doesn’t come.  Maybe it’s a down-South thing, or perhaps they just aren’t as nosey as my family (myself included), who would put any new suitor through a Quick Fire Round of questions on first sight.  The younger relations though, belie this, with the teenagers blushing, without making eye contact, mortified that Mr Private is holding my hand while the younger ones look at me, their eyes on sticks, the unknown creature in the flowery dress with the thick Meath accent.  I’m introduced to Mr Private’s male friends, with warm, soft handshakes.  It’s my turn to blush now, wondering what, if anything, he has told them about me.

Mr Private brings me out to dance and he’s beaming.  Is he as mindful as I am that we have never danced together before?  Thankfully, he doesn’t copy my dance moves, as that is a sack able offence. He sits down to chat to his friends, while one of the cousins pulls me back out on the dance floor, to the circle of girls.

I feel like I belong.

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Our First Tiff

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Myself and Mr Private had our first tiff, although it was far from a door-slamming/raised voices/finger pointing affair.

I, and eleven others were invited to speak at 'Strictly Speaking', a fund-raising event by Athy Toastmasters, where we were each given two random topics to speak about for 2-3 minutes.  The contestants were to be scored in 'Strictly Come Dancing' style, by a panel of four judges.  As the event got closer, I got more and more nervous.  I really wanted a bit of support, especially after one of the event organisers, Maggie, sends an email encouraging us to bring friends and family.  None of my family live locally and most of my friends in Athy have young children, with all of the logistics of childcare, so I didn't ask any of them to come along. Of course, I would know lots of people there, but it's not the same as having someone special, clapping that bit louder for you.

I thought that Mr Private was elsewhere that weekend, but when I found out that he would be 'around' after all, I sent him a text message the night before and asked him to come along.  He sent back a vague text not committing to anything.

The following morning, the 'Day Of', I text him again.  His reply was a firm 'no', with an excuse, equivalent to 'I'm washing my hair'.  My text in return said 'fine', but of course I wasn't fine.  If I was standing in front of him, he would have gathered that I was raging and disappointed, in equal measures.  Maybe if I had put a string of emojis with angry and sad faces in the message, he would have better understood. That's the thing about text messages though, it can be difficult to read 'tone'.

I recalled how out of place I felt at Mr Private's family wedding a few weeks previously, hoping my flowery dress would camouflage me into the background. 'You fecker', I thought to myself, 'I did that for you'.  Aside from that, I thought that he would been curious to see a whole other side of me, the Public Lucina.  I was out of sorts all afternoon, upset, with the nerves building in my belly, but busying myself with children and Saturday chores.

Mr Private sent me another message, asking how I was.  I text back saying that I was still 'fine', but that 'I am tired of going to events on my own'.  He asked me to call him, but I said I was busy, and I was. Truth is, though, there would have been tears, and I felt a bit silly about that.

In the meantime, a fellow contestant in the Strictly Speaking, the lovely Trish, called me to see if I wanted a lift to the event, she being as nervous as I, bless her wee socks.

As I got ready for the evening, I called Mr Private.  He told me that he was just out of the shower, getting ready to come with me.  Words tumbled out of his mouth, saying how sorry he was, that he didn't realise that the night was such a big deal to me.  I explained that I was now going with someone and I didn't want to let her down.  Mr Private stayed home and watched rubbish TV. The nerves eased after I did my first speech and we had a great night.  Throughout the night, Mr Private sent me lovely messages encouraging me along.

The following week, we meet for lunch and Mr Private listens to what I have to say, I mean, actually listens. He gets it.  I like him all the more now.   We are officially doing 'fine'.

Holding Hands in the Countryside : A Wisteria Wedding

It may seen a little 'soon', but Mr Private likes me enough to invite me to a family wedding, an important one that requires him to be on duty all day and sit at the top table, while I'll arrive, mid proceedings and wing it amid a sea of guests who already know each other. I haven't met any of his family yet, but sure, there's nothing like getting stuck in, right?

It seems like a great idea a week ago, but as the day drew close, a sick feeling that started in my belly has crept up my throat, the fear of being exposed, a la, The Emperor's New Clothes.

I'm on my way there now, via a complicated train route, that involves no less than 3 changeovers. That in inself is enough to stress me out.

Then there was the matter of the guna. As is typical of other shopping expeditions for clothes, I gave myself an hour to find something, in my old reliable, Buy Design ,still a relatively hidden gem in Crookstown, Co Kildare. Almost everything I admired on the hangers, I didn't like on myself. As Larry Gogan might say on the 2FM Just A Minute Quiz, 'they didn't suit ya'.

Then I broke the rules for the gal who 'doesn't do floral' and tried on a dress weighed down with a wisteria pattern. I smiled. 'Wisteria Drive' was the address for the "Desperate House wives' TV show. Scientific evidence that this was the frock for me.

I brought my mother shopping yesterday and made the fatal error of looking in the wedding worthy ensemble rails. The floral option seemed less and less of a good idea. But given that all of the acqutraments were already in place, I thought best to stick with Plan A.

I'm hoping that the hotel is one of those decorated with layers if textured pattern, so my guna will camouflage me into the background. Right now, 'wallflower' is sounding like an attractive option, provided at Mr Private can find me.

Wish me luck peeps

MineVention

Being a bigger child than my children, I couldn’t wait to tell them that I had tickets for MineVention in the RDS last weekend. Although they didn’t really know what they were going to, there was salty tears of joys, especially when they found out that they would also get to hang out with their niece Sienna.

According to their Facebook page, the event was 'An afternoon of Minecrafters and Gaming Fans to come together and show off their game skills while meeting and greeting their favourite Youtubers.'
A disclaimer stated that 'This is not an official Minecraft Event and is not approved or associated with Mojang.' Neither myself nor my children cared about its’ lack of official ness. This was where it was at.

To explain to you non-gaming people out there, at this event, you get the opportunity to meet people who are well-known (not sure I would go as far as say that they are actually famous) for making videos of themselves playing games online. I know, it sounds as bizarre as a Fine Gael WhatsApp group.

Thanks to lovely step-daughter, Zara Kelly who more festival-fit when it comes to events like this than I, we had VIP tickets. This allowed us an earlier entry time, before The Great Unwashed arrived. The children boasted to themselves about being VIP's although they had no clue what this meant. In adult terms, the golden ticket provided that glorious ideal of 'less queueing'.

The thing-to-do at these events is to meet the Youtubers, who sign their names beside their avatar photos, mounted on a canvas we purchased and to get photos taken. In reality, my children didn't know who all of the Youtubers were, but they were star struck anyway. It was lovely to watch these usually shy little people walk up to strangers and ask for autographs and to receive such a warm reception.

It was one of those coming-of-age days when I had a pain in my heart watching them, getting braver as the day went on. They collected 17 signatures in the end, including some from 'FutureTubers', up and coming whipper snappers. I resisted making a total show of my children and being a total-auld-wan by asking the Youtubers 'do you make any money out of this'. I'm just so fascinated by this other world and by people who get off their bums (or in this case, sit on their bums) and make something out of nothing. Fair bloody play to them.

I brought my boy to the toilets, where it seemed that he needed to spill more than he needed to take a leak. In fact, he had himself in a heap. ‘Mam, how come I have only 8 subscribers on Youtube when Solly the Kid has LOADS? He’s sooo young (said the child who was born in 2007).

I had watched Solly on stage earlier that day - he is a beautiful kid, around 8 years old, who MC'd a stage and totally rocked the mic. 'A future in TV', I thought.

It was then, in the cubicle, that myself and my boy had a moment – I confided in him that I knew how he felt. I told him how I thought my blog would never reach the lovely rounded figure of 20,000 views. I lamented to the 9 year old that I can't capture statistics from Facebook to capture my readership. My boy, who can often be hard on me, looked into my eyes, with, what I can only describe as empathy.

Later that night I showed him the stats of my readership in Google Analytics. 'That many people in Russia read your blog Mam?' 'Yes', I said, and didn't bother to mention that they may be clicking onto my page by accident.

Online gaming will never be my thing, but the MineVention event was a total eyeopener for me. I noticed that a lot of children there were those that might be described elsewhere as geeks or nerds. There were a large proportion of young ones with sensory issues and disabilities. They all fitted in here, all connected.

I can see that I have passed on the I Just Want People To Like Me Gene to my son. It's a burden that he will carry throughout his life. If you would like to boost both my ever diminishing street cred and a little boy's ego, you can check out and subscribe to Leon's YouTube channel (and all 3 videos- get the finger out there son) 

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=acgH7wGdQMI

Thanks a thousand

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Valentine's Day

All these years later, I still have, in almost perfect condition, my first Valentine's Day card, received it in my first year in secondary school at the ripe old age of twelve, from First Kiss. I met him the previous summer on the 'swimming bus'.  There was a teenaged middle-man involved - my neighbour and First Kiss's cousin, dodging between the rows of seats, excitedly passing on information like a spy.

'He likes ya. Do you like him?'

There I am, slightly stunned and feeling totally out of my depth, but also very giddy with excitement, that a boy, any boy, this boy, would look at me that way.  I was speechless and responded with a series of shy nods of scarlet cheeks.

The middle-man negotiated that I sat beside First Kiss.  At some stage, he earned his pseudonym and kissed me. It was as harmless as a peck that you might administer on a newborn baby cousin, but it was electric all the same.

Meanwhile, one of the chaperones on the bus complained about the song wafting out of the bus radio, 'You're My Favourite Waste of Time', by mullet haired Owen Paul. He wore tight jeans, boot runners and a white off cut t-shirt.  I thought he was 100% gorgeous.  The chaperone ranted and raved about what she would do if her husband called her a 'waste of time', an angle I hadn't considered til then.  Maybe you'd call it my first introduction to feminism.

The promising start with First Kiss didn't go very far.  He lived two towns away from me and attended boarding school. It was 'in the olden days', pre mobile phone.  His out-of-the-blue Valentine's Day card months later made my cheeks burned when my mother handed it to me.  It was lovely, after all these years, that First Kiss sent me a birthday wishes this year. He seems to have made a full recovery from our short lived encounter.  It's probably fair to say that verrucas from the swimming pool would have lasted longer than our romance.

Until fairly recently, I wasn't holding out much hope of a Valentine's Day card this year.  I was preparing to mothball my Love Boots when Mr Private came along.  Given the chaotic time that I have had of late, there is a certain irony in the fact that I am seeing a therapist - I kid you not.  I tell him that I'll looking for a companion, not a counsellor.  He smiles at me and reassures me in his gentle lilting tones that I couldn't afford him anyway.  

There's the delicate matter of Valentine's Day.  It's all VERY SOON for laying all our aspirational cards on the table, with the actual cards that we chose. Mindful of my lectures from friends telling me to slow down and not wanting to sound too keen/desperate, I opt for humour, a card with a photograph of a husband and wife taken in 1930's Ireland, looking less than happy, entitled 'Happy Couple'.  Having embraced feminism (while to this day defending Owen Paul's 1986 tune), I also present him with a bunch of flowers.

There is no such faffing around with Mr Private's card to me though.  It declares, in red glitter, 'For my girlfriend'.  All that's missing is sound effects.

'Is that what I am then', I ask, 'your GIRLFRIEND ?'.  

He's saying nothing, but he's smiling again.  I think he wants to keep me.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGDuOw64R9M