End of Cycle 3

Hello fellow bloggers. Sorry that I haven’t written for a while...no particular reason other than I only want to write when I’m inspired rather than bore you all silly.

Yesterday (Tuesday) was an awesome day. I had to coach 3 clients at a certain TV Channel and each one brought something new and exciting to the table. One of them said to me, “we’re having so much fun, do you actually get paid to do this?” It is great to be able to do something you love. Coaching is very similar to teaching in that it is about helping people to build on what is already there (although I must admit that with some students, there is nothing there to start off with), to think big, to think Grand Designs, to turn something average into something outstanding.
Many years ago, I decided to try my hand at property development. Most people who have no DIY skills would buy a flat that required a coat of paint and some new handles on the cupboard doors. Not I! I had to go out and buy the most run-down dump in North East London you could imagine. The Estate Agent plumped up her perky breasts and hiked up her skirt and while this helped make the sale go through, what really did it was the absolute decay and squatter-camp look and feel of the place. She was in shock and asked several times, are you sure about this? We’ve had it on the market for years and most people get as far as the entrance hall before walking out again. I was sure, and yes, I bought it. For ages, I kept it hidden from curious family and friends, including the one investor, Adam, whose trust in me must have been stretched to the limits on this occasion. Well, I bought all the DIY gadgets that could fit in the back of the mini and attacked the Thamesmead flat in frenzy every Saturday after school. There were highs, and there were lows but in the end, I produced a beautiful and show-room style flat which I sold some months later. As a teacher, I always gave extra help to those who were struggling...when most people had written off a pupil, I somehow became more determined help him or her to achieve more. This did not make me a saint by any means, but it is indicative of my desire to build, to create something new, to turn something ugly into something beautiful, but for ages, I only saw this potential beauty in others, not in myself.

Working with someone in life coaching, I started to tell this person why he should like himself more (then remembered to stop telling people what to do). When thinking about it, I remembered a certain person who spent most of his life not liking himself, no matter what people said to him...and yes, that person was me. It didn’t matter what I achieved or how much people loved or liked me, I always found fault and pushed myself harder. Now, thankfully, I have learnt to love and like myself and this has had a positive impact on my relationships with others. It is also what has given me the determination and courage to fight this cancer. Today, I spoke to someone whom I’d seen having her first chemo a few weeks ago, and it was so rewarding being able to encourage her, to tell her that she CAN do this. Sometimes, my best buddy shows tough love and he says things like, “you’ll get over it” or if you say “I can’t do this”, he will say “yes you can!” And you know what? You can and you do. The lady today was being brave, she had lost all her hair after her first treatment, but both she and her daughter were strong and it touched me just how many real and positive contacts I have made in that room full of people receiving the same treatment.

Today (Wednesday), I almost threw one of my hissy fits when I got to chemo to find that my blood count was too low again for them to give me treatment. What this means is that you have to go up to 3rd floor for re-testing and if the platelets count goes above 1 then they will treat you. If not, the answer is no. I begged the phlebotomist to put some of her own blood in there to up the count but she refused (unsurprisingly). Fortunately, I passed the test and went to order my chemo. Today’s babysitter was Jake, poor lad, thought he was in it for just over an hour, but only got to leave at 2pm! It was nice spending more time with him, getting to know him better (by the way, Jake is someone I know from Bishop’s Stortford College...I don’t just go out into the street and ask some random guy selling the Big Issue if he’d like to sit through chemo with me LOL), but we’d not really spoken much before so it was kind of him to come along and also a great opportunity to talk more. My nurse was Zimbabwean and after we’d exchanged the usual Shona/Ndebele insults (she’s Shona, I ‘m Ndebele), she chose her vein and got to work. I fell asleep once the chemo bag was attached and Jake assures me that I did NOT snore (mind you, Jake is so polite, he probably wouldn’t tell me if I did). I didn’t get my favourite salmon (which tastes like tuna) sandwich but I got some “just chicken chunks” sandwich instead. I wasn’t hungry so I just ate the chunky chicken bits (I was hoping that Jake would turn into a playground bully and grab my lunch away from me and eat it). That reminded me of when I was a very thin, very skinny kid and was declared undernourished by the ever-so-caring Rhodesian government. I weighed something like 20kg and although my parents were both teachers, it was decided that I came from a disadvantaged background and was undernourished. I admit that I used to only eat the filling of my sandwiches and nothing else (leaving the bread in my school bag for days on end) but then came these huge seeded brown buns filled with stale grated cheese that had to be eaten under supervision. On some occasions, we had to all take a foul-tasting tonic from a communal teaspoon (for the whole school) and a bottle of warm milk. Well, it became a daily challenge with me sometimes being locked in a classroom to drink the milk and eat the bun and almost always ended up with me being sick. What fun!

Got home around 3pm to find that we still did not have any water (they’ve been digging and drilling in our street for a couple of weeks now). Had a nap then went to Sainsbury’s to use their toilets (and no, I ‘m not going to say if it was no. 1 or no. 2...mind your own business!). I discovered that my house was the only house in the street without water. I rang Thameswater who put me in touch with a plumber who promptly insulted me by suggesting that my stopcock was too old to take the water pressure???? Um, hello, I’m only 42 and I can still pee in the toilet unassisted! He came over later and charmingly pointed out to me that “if you look ‘ere, mate, they ‘aint drilled you a man’ole. All them other flats have them a man’ole but you ‘aint got one!” When I asked if, when and how I could get a “man’ole”, he said “first fing in the morning, guv, they’ll be rand to drill a man’ole”. My compensation for not having water connected to my flat? 12 bottles of still water (I asked for sparkling and almost got slapped...he didn’t appreciate my comment about a bottle of sparkling water being better for a bubble bath). Can a litre of still water flush a loo? I’ve told my couchsurfers that they can have one bottle each to wash their bits and the rest is in case we don’t get our “man’ole” “first fing in the morning”.

So I guess that I shall sign off now, go to bed, and dream sweet dreams about the promised “man’ole” (does the song “Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream” come to mind?) and celebrate the fact that I don’t have hiccoughs. Yet! By the way, although it puts the end back by another week, I found out that I will have 2 weeks break from chemotherapy due to the forthcoming Easter holidays.

Thank you all for reading once again.

Always yours
Goose