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Be The Change

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nhs

A few days ago I went to my GP surgery and on the wall was a sign saying ‘472 appointments missed last month.’   I think every surgery does this, every month, and occasionally the tally can run into the thousands.

With the election imminent here in England, the NHS is A Hot Topic.  In the past few weeks I’ve twice seen interviews with doctors saying what we expect of the NHS has changed considerably.  Twenty years ago we would have been content to wait a few days or more to see our GP but now people turn up at A&E Departments with minor ailments because their expectation is such that they should be immediately treated.

It’s heart-breaking to see such a beautiful idea as the NHS fail.   It is only 67 years since its inception when, for the first time anywhere in the world, free healthcare was available at point of delivery based on citizenship and need.   I fervently hope there will be adequate funding to ensure it’s survival for as long as we are here to need it.   But let’s not ignore the role we play.

The noble intention of our Social Care system was that the State take care of those unable to look after themselves.   That’s ‘unable to’, not ‘choose not to’.   We, the individuals living here, make up that State.   We talk as if the government is an alien entity and yet they are supposed to be our representatives.   Without our taxes the government has no funding for the likes of the NHS, and the only way the NHS will have limitless pockets is if we are prepared to pay for it.

There are many ills it is down to the government to address, but let’s not lose sight of the responsibility we all have, as part of this nation.   472 missed appointments.   If those appointments had been cancelled that would be 472 people in my tiny part of the world having a much shorter wait to see their GP.   That adds up to more than a full working week for a GP.   Multiply that by the almost 10,000 GP surgeries in England and that’s a whole lot of wasted time.   Be the change we want to see.   If we want our government to respect the NHS, then perhaps we should do the same.

photo found in the public domain

Shock and Awe

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plato quote

I had intended to write a ‘what I’ve learned’ type post to sum up my dedicated year of living authentically, but then something happened.   A few days before Christmas I found a lump.   Lying in bed, putting my hand to feel my heart beat, something was there that shouldn’t be.   I had sometimes wondered if I’d be able to distinguish a lump if it came to it, but I knew.   It felt like cold, congealing dread.   Desperately wanting to mistrust my fingers, I went to see my GP who confirmed she could feel the same as me.   She told me she was recommending me for tests as quickly as possible, with the kind caveat that this didn’t necessarily mean there was anything to worry about but it was best to be safe.   I cried a little.   I was surprised I wasn’t taking this well.   Or perhaps I was.   Perhaps the right reaction to potentially having a life threatening disease is to feel your world being thrown off-kilter, to be shaken to your very core.   Shock and awe.

I told no-one.   It was a few days before Christmas, after all.

For about 36 hours I moved in a haze, a strange fuzziness in which all my senses were on high alert.  It was a strangely physical reaction.   The ground felt a little shaky under foot, nothing had a sense of real permanence any more.   Then I started to get some perspective.   I hadn’t even had the diagnosis yet and even if it was the worst, half of people survive cancer these days.   I began to see it as a positive, a necessary wake-up call.   Suddenly 48 seemed like no age at all; the idea that I would waste any of my precious time feeling bored or bemoaning my cellulite laughable.   All I wanted now was the opportunity to love my body for being healthy.

Every so often the idea of my mortality would hit me like a slap across the face and for a few seconds I would feel genuine terror, but generally I went about my days with an air of normality.   Christmas felt just a touch more poignant.

Ten days after finding the lump I got the all clear.   I wanted to cry all the way home from the hospital, letting the relief pour out.   The ground still felt a little shaky.   It is taking time to get used to the idea that I am not living under that threat any more.    I feel changed by the experience and wonder how long that will last.

Today I had lunch with a friend who wanted to tell me about her week from hell.   It turns out that she has been going through the same thing.   Apart from her husband, she told no-one.   She also took it well:  she cried and shouted and swore.   A healthy reaction to facing one’s mortality, I now think.   She got the all clear two days ago.   I shared my experience and our eyes mirrored tears.   The shadow is still there but perhaps it will serve to illuminate the good stuff.

I cannot praise the NHS staff enough, who handled me with the perfect blend of care, humour and practicality.   How they cope with having to give such potentially heart-breaking news I don’t know, but I thank them for it.   Hundreds, possibly thousands of people go through this every day, many without such a positive outcome.   They leave doctor’s surgeries and go about their business, looking the same as you and me.   So please be kind, you never know what shadow someone is walking under.

Aging and Ass Shaking

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pj card

 

I mentioned before that dancing is one of my all-time favourite things to do, and yet I rarely actually do it.   Can you simply forget to do something you like?   It seems so as I don’t think I’m the only one to be suddenly surprised by the thought “I used to love doing that!”

But one of the reasons I don’t do it much is because clubs and parties are the natural habitat of dancers, neither of which I enjoy.   I used to dance more when I was living in the Maldives because, well, there wasn’t a great deal else to do in terms of a social life.   Except crab racing.   Dancing on sand doesn’t really get easier.

It’s taken me a long time to become okay with the fact that I don’t like to party:   what sort of person doesn’t, after all?   It has always felt a little shameful and as if there was something wrong with me, making me feel even more insecure and even less likely to party.   One of my favourite things about getting older is not feeling the need to pretend any more.   In my thirties I still felt like I should be enjoying these things; in my forties I’ve made peace with the fact that it’s more important to be honest about who I am.   Even if that’s a weirdo who doesn’t see the point of partying.   As it turns out, quite a few people feel like me, even Johnny Depp.

This year of living authentically has been about shedding layers of pretence, which has included learning to embrace my inner square-ness.   I’m the only one I need to impress and I no longer care how cool I am.   Ironically, on the rare occasions when I do venture out to party, this attitude means I enjoy it more.   And I do like an excuse to dress up.

In the meantime, I need to remember I really don’t need an excuse to dance, except for the love of it.   I can do it in my kitchen or even in a queue (a la Full Monty) if the mood takes me.   Who cares?   Any time, any place, anywhere, simply for the pleasure of shaking my ass!

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

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mirror

Talking with one of my close friends yesterday, she told me about a recent night out with a group of girlfriends.  What should have been a wonderful evening was, for her, marred by the main topic of conversation: body image.  Not a constructive debate about media pressure and the like, just ten women sitting around a table bemoaning what they see in the mirror and discussing how fat they are.  This went on and on, and from her point of view was made more frustrating by the fact that the woman driving the conversation was tall and slim.

Why do we do this to ourselves?  Why do we waste so much of our precious time and energy worrying about this shit  (my previous blog Underneath It All).   Even when we’re smart enough to know better, we still let these insecurities drive us, drain away our potential for enjoying life to the full.  It’s like a constant, annoying background hum – the accompanying soundtrack to our lives. As my friend pointed out that evening, we judge ourselves harshest of all:  when we look in the mirror we focus on what we don’t like, when we look at others we take in the whole picture.  And the list of potential defects to focus on grows longer as the social dictates of what constitutes beauty becomes ever more narrow and unattainable.

The support and bond of female friendship is something to be treasured, yet we fall prey to the demon Comparison.  Other women damage our self-esteem.  If we weren’t comparing ourselves to media images and to each other, would we feel too fat or too skinny or too saggy?  If we appreciated our bodies for the amazing instruments they are and shifted our focus to keeping them healthy, I’m sure we would be a much happier lot.

A male friend of mine summed it up well by saying “when a man walks into a bar, he scans the room looking at the women.  When a woman walks into a bar, she scans the room looking at the women.”  These days it’s rare for a woman to need a man to put a roof over her head or food on her table, so why do we feel the need to check out the competition in a way men don’t?  We compare, we judge, we let that eat away at our self-esteem and our sense of female solidarity.  Come on, ladies, we deserve better than this.

The truth is I have always been deeply insecure about my looks.  And there is no doubt it has held me back.  But when I look at (rare) photos of me ten or twenty years ago I would love to have that version of me back now.  Yet I remember at the time hating what I saw in the mirror.  And I know the me of ten years hence will feel the same way about this current version.  So I’ve chosen to bow out, I’m not playing that game anymore.  Instead of waiting for the perfect vision of hindsight, I am making an effort to appreciate the me I am now.  And you know what it feels like?  Relief.

 

Image found in the public domain

Strictly: the good, the bad and the ugly

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SCD

Two of my favourite things to do are reading (of which I probably do too much) and dancing (of which I definitely don’t do enough).   I am particularly reminded of this at this time of year, when Strictly Come Dancing invades our lives.

When this series first started twelve years ago I was the biggest fan, Saturday evenings would find me lying on the floor as close to the television as possible and wailing into the carpet ‘it should be me!  It should be me!’  This is what my winning the lottery dream looks like;  I don’t need flashy cars or yachts, just give me a professional to dance with four hours a day.  Heaven.

I find it easier to resist the lure of the sequin these days.  Living abroad I missed the past three seasons, surviving on email updates from kind friends.  I’ve therefore been saved some of the frustration at what the BBC have done to ruin something I loved so much.  I fear SCD is a victim of its own success.  I can still be captivated by a beautiful frock and some divine moves – the American Smooth! The Quickstep! The Argentine Tango! – but I shan’t be committing the hours required of a dedicated fan any more.  Which is the first on my list of what bugs me about the show now:

  1. Sixteen couples – seriously?  Required Saturday and Sunday viewing for four months?  A third of a year.  For me it started to go wrong when there were so many couples they needed two nights just to do their first dance.  And it starts even early with the ‘meet your partner’ show.  I don’t blame the BBC for milking this phenomenon for all that it can, but this is too much.
  2. Props!  The props drive me crazy.  I wasn’t a fan when they introduced ‘Prop Week’ but they seem to be everywhere now.  Rarely is there a dance that doesn’t rely on some ridiculous distraction.  Very annoying, this isn’t Hollywood, people.
  3. That the money from calls no longer gets donated to Children In Need.  A few years ago Pudsey surreptitiously disappeared off the phone banner info.  I am glad we have the BBC and don’t have an issue with how it gets its funds, but this was so sneakily done it took a friend to point it out to me or I wouldn’t have noticed.  There should have been some acknowledgement of this from the BBC, shame.
  4. The judges:  the strategic voting undermines the show, and they have become caricatures of themselves.  Particularly Bruno, will someone please pin him to his seat?  So annoying and embarrassing these days.  Talking of which:  Bruce Forsyth.  It took far too long for Brucie to go, about five years too long in my opinion.  I don’t blame him for hanging on as long as possible with the exorbitant fee he was paid, but he was enough to make us record rather than watch in real-time, simply to skip his cringeworthy performance.

That does lead me on to the one good change:  Claudia Winkleman.  I just adore her.  Warm, intelligent, funny and gorgeous, she is as sparkly as the costumes and quite possibly enough to make me tune in twice weekly again.  Before Strictly Come Dancing eats itself.

Miss Square Eyes

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evil-edna

Evil Edna, a character from the wonderful Willo The Wisp cartoon series

I’ve just finished a week of TV deprivation.   My friend, Jennifer, suggested we do it (thanks, Jen!).   The idea didn’t make me incandescent with anger as the week of reading deprivation did during Julia Cameron’s ‘Artist’s Way’ course, but I confess I was anxious.   As is the general way of things, as soon as I’m not supposed to do something I want to do it more – what you focus on grows, and all that.

My twitchy fingers did reach for the remote more than I care to admit.  I currently divide my time between London and Devon and two very different lifestyles: when in London I work a minimum 12 hours every day in an office or similar, whereas in Devon I work a few hours a day from home.  So the TV hardly warms up in London, but Devon is another matter.  I put the TV on to ‘just catch the news’ first thing in the morning, and it stays on until ‘Lorraine’ irritates me enough to turn it off.  Then perhaps lunch is in front of ‘Loose Women’ or an Australian soap, neither of which enriches my soul or makes me proud to own up to watching.  Then on again early evening until bedtime, even if I’m not watching it.  The mindlessness of this has to stop.

Did my TV-free week make me more productive?  Well, I tidied out a few cupboards, and I read.  Reading is possibly my favourite thing and I do a lot of it anyway, but I took this as an opportunity to re-visit a few favourites.  So I indulged with David Niven’s ‘The Moon’s A Balloon’, the eternally witty Douglas Adams and am currently devouring one of the brilliant Barefoot Doctor’s books, in which I found this passage:

       “The ability to be alone with yourself, to acknowledge, accept and have the courage to face your feelings and be sufficiently nurtured and fascinated by just your own company is, according to certain Oriental medical beliefs facilitated by having strong heart energy.  It is this energy that supports your sense of self, governs your tone of mind, and therefore colours your entire internal experience of life.”

I must have strong heart energy because I am very happy with my own company (or perhaps it’s because I’m a big reader).  I can’t remember a time when this wasn’t the case, the cliché being that I’ve only felt lonely in an unhappy marriage.  I’m bewildered that it isn’t the same for everyone, but know plenty of people find being by themselves uncomfortable.  Whereas the idea of not having alone time makes me shudder.  If I were to be in a long-term relationship again I suspect it would follow the Tim Burton/Helena Bonham-Carter model and involve houses next door to each other.

I’m with Audrey Hepburn when she said, “I have to be alone very often. I’d be quite happy if I spent from Saturday night until Monday morning alone in my apartment. That’s how I refuel.”   I need quiet and thinking time by myself to re-charge, which is what makes turning the TV on for no good reason even more ridiculous.  From now on I shall endeavour to actually only put it on when there’s something I want to pay attention to.

Underneath It All

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“All the time wasted, caring about this shit.”   Jacky O’Shaughnessy

Yesterday I watched Jacky O’Shaughnessy’s contribution to the Style Like U “What’s Underneath” project (link below), a series in which people are asked to tell their story as they undress.  All of the interviewees reveal poignant experiences, and this one really made me stop and think.

Jacky is in her sixties and new to modelling, having recently been discovered by American Apparel.  Some of her words deeply resonated with me, particularly as she described asking of herself:

“When are you going to be okay?  You’ve been spending nearly fifty years trying to get thin enough, trying not to have cellulite, or ankles that swell … when are you going to be okay?  And I finally said:  Today, you’re going to be okay today.”

So I asked myself, how authentic can you be if you don’t accept yourself totally?  Can you have one without the other?  As I sit here and think about it – again – I don’t think you can.  I do believe that you can be authentic and feel insecure, but only if you accept those insecurities as part of yourself.  You don’t have to be super-confident, but you do have to have the courage to be accept all of you, including the messy parts.  This must be a truth I’m struggling with because I keep having to remind myself, stumbling across this thought again as if it’s new.

Acceptance doesn’t mean you can’t change, and it doesn’t mean you have to love all of you.  Sometimes love can be too big a place to start, liking is a good start.  Authenticity isn’t a static thing, it’s fluid and what being true to yourself is in this moment may be different in an hour, a day, a month.  Whatever it may be, you know it when you feel it inside, it feels like peace.

Am I there yet?  Only in brief flashes.  It does easier with practice and consciousness, which is what this year of trying to live more authentically has brought me, an awareness.  It’s somewhat sad to me that I find it easier to accept the messy parts of my personality than to make peace with the way I look.  There’s something a little screwy in the power we give that mirror.  I value my personality more than I value the way I look, so why is it so much harder to embrace those physical flaws?  And why have I wasted all this time, caring about this shit?

As Jacky said, “Learning to love myself was very hard; it took intention and practice.”  Thank you for the inspiration.  I know I’m on the right path, I’m practicing.  And I hope that some day soon I will be telling myself “Today, you are going to be okay today.”  That is what is underneath for me.

 

Link to the Style Like U interview  http://stylelikeu.com/themes-2/body-image/jacky-o-shaughnessy/