Moving a Mountain

Two years ago, I posted on this blog that my big sis and I were trying to persuade my elderly mother to move out of her house, which is now far too big for her to manage.

She doesn’t want to. It is the place that she moved as a young wartime bride to live  her new husband and in-laws. It is where she had her family and we grew up us children. It is where she has laughed, loved and cried. It is the keeper of her memories. It is more than just a house.

In spite of two lengthy spells in hospital and the fact that it is becoming increasingly difficult for her to cope on her own, she refuses to leave her home.

I understand, really I do.

Mum is 90, or thereabouts (she keeps changing her date of birth so we are not sure of her exact age). The next fall could well see her having to go into a home. Unfortunately, there is no room for her at either of our houses (as you know, mine is full of teenagers). As a compromise, we have suggested sheltered accommodation. Mum won’t hear of it.

“They’re trying to put me away you know,” I heard her say to a family friend recently.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

When I was little my mum protected me. She kept me safe and warm and fed. She looked after me and now, I would like to do the same for her.

“Why don’t we just look at some places?” I suggested.

“No! This is my home.”

“If you lived a bit nearer to me, we could all pop in more often and you’ll have company.”

The look she gave me was warning enough to back off.

The strength that I have always admired in her has, in old age, turned into inflexibility and an unwillingness to consider change. You cannot move a mountain. Are we right even to try?

My mother-in-law lives in a self-contained flat in a very well organised, warden controlled senior living complex. There is a canteen where she (and any visitors) can get a low cost hot meal and there is always someone around for a chat when she feels like it. She has her own front door and can close it when she doesn’t. There are trips and quiz nights aplenty. 

Mum-in-law is safe and warm and happy. I want the same for my mum.

So, are we wrong in asking her to move?

Maybe, I really don’t know anymore.The truth is that the matter may soon be taken out of our hands and that will be a sad day for us all.

Peer (or should that be ‘beer’?) Pressure

I have always told my children that they should never give in to peer pressure.

“Don’t be a sheep, think for yourselves, do what you know is right for you,” I say, the platitudes tumbling from my lips.

“Never be drawn into doing something you don’t want to just to appear cool or because other people ask you to.”

You know how it goes…

So, it was with great delight that my daughter, Beth, recently had occasion to recite it all back to me.

If you read my previous post, you will be aware that my family are now following a FODMAP diet (Fermentable, Oligo-, Di-, Mono-saccharides And Polyols – it never gets any easier to explain!), so alcohol is broadly off limits although I do still enjoy the occasional(!) glass of red wine.

This makes social evenings a bit of a challenge, particularly, as some of my friends really like a drink (you know who you are!). Faced with the possibility of a girls’ night out recently, I pondered my options; don’t go, go and deal with the consequences or maybe limit myself to one or two (glasses, not bottles).

“Go out, have a good night… but stay off the booze,” says Beth.

“But… the girls… they won’t… I can’t…”

“You can! It’s simple, no wine.”

“They’re my friends…”

“The they will understand. It’s one night.”

It was hard.

“Come on, one drink won’t hurt… are you sick?… lemonade and what? Ice, no vodka!”

I survived. In fact, it was rather funny being the only one sober (but that’s a whole other story).

I woke up the next day without a headache, no hangover, no bloating, no sick feeling, no upset stomach…

“I’m proud of you mum,” said Beth, as if she were suddenly the parent.

But, here’s the thing; I am well aware that I can say ‘no’. However, when it comes to having a few drinks with my friends, I’m not sure that I always want to. I am capable of making my own choices.

Hopefully, as they get older, so are my children.

Maybe, the time has come to stop lecturing them about what they should and shouldn’t do and trust them more to make their own informed decisions. After all, my husband and I have brought them up to make their choices wisely.

Now where did I put that corkscrew?  

Fodmap - Lilly's Story

Over the years, my family has been blighted with stomach problems. 

In the interest of helping others, over the next few weeks, I will share with you our journey back to health.

This is Lilly’s story:

My eldest daughter, Lilly, started having severe stomach pains and blood in her stools at the age of 10. After a lengthy period of diagnosis and several prescriptions for laxatives to cure her ‘constipation’, she had an endoscopy at Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH). I received an emergency telephone call one evening after dinner to say that Lilly needed to start taking steroids immediately. She was diagnosed with auto-immune atrophic gastritis. 

I remember sitting in front of my doctor the next day in tears as he told me there was no other option if I didn’t want my daughter to face the possibility of having a colostomy bag, live failure, cancer… you name it… in later life.

“What about diet?” I asked. “Could she be reacting to certain foods?”

“It’s possible, but she still needs the drugs.”

Lilly started the steroids and over a very short period of time gained two stone in weight. Her beautiful face was disfigured and she became withdrawn and unhappy.

There followed an extremely difficult time during which Lilly was put on a drug called azathioprine and once this kicked in she was allowed to come off the steroids. It took a year for her to lose weight and even longer to regain her confidence.  

I took matters into my own hands, over the next few months, we tried gluten free, diary free, preservative free and every other diet I could find. Some things helped for a while but, by now, her symptoms were being masked by the azathioprine so it was difficult to know what worked and what didn’t.

Several trips to GOSH and many more tests later, Lilly remained on the azathioprine. Six years later, I found a sympathetic consultant who agreed to try and wean Lilly, who was by now a young woman, off the drug. It took another year for that to happen.

She was well for a while but two years later, some of her symptoms returned and we found ourselves back in casualty.

“Do you think she might be constipated?” a nurse asked, as Lilly rolled around in agony.

Here we go again, I thought,

The medical profession shrugged their shoulders and prescribed paracetamol, which was as much use for her condition as it is for childbirth.

Lilly was referred back to the hospital and the round of tests began all over again.

“No, steroids mum,” Lilly insisted, “I’d rather die.”

“No steroids, not this time,” I promised.

Then on a bleak January morning, as I sat opposite yet another consultant with my daughter ready, as always, to fight her corner, he said the word that would change the lives of not only Lilly, but the whole family; Fodmap.

“Fod what?” we asked in unison.

“Fodmap (Fermentable, Oligo-, Di-, Mono-saccharides and Polyols). It’s a very specific diet and it has helped a lot of people like Lilly with persistent stomach problems. Rather than prescribe any more drugs, I’d like her to try it.’

And that’s exactly what we did…

Mum in the Middle is Back

Not that I have actually been anywhere these past weeks and months.

No, I have been right here busily getting on with all the things that we mums do, it’s just that somewhere along the way, I stopped writing about it all.

However, recent events have drawn me back to the keyboard to share my experiences, so here I am again. To give you a quick update on my life over the past year:

I turned 50

My eldest daughter failed her exams and dropped out of college

Lots and lots and lots of serious conversations about life choices

I found my first grey hair

My mother had a fall and broke her hip

Lots and lots and lots of hospital visits

Consumed lots and lots and lots of wine

I started a writing group at the WI

My eldest daughter dropped back in to college on a different course

Several more grey hairs appeared – finally reached for the dye

My mother went home but can’t cope on her own

Lots and lots and lots of tears

Both of my daughters had stomach problems

Lots and lots and lots more hospital visits

Consumed lots and lots and lots of cake

My writing group published a book in aid of charity

Lots and lots and lots of hard work

The family changed to a FODmap diet

Wine and cake had to stop!

So, as you can see, there is a lot to write about.

Join me as I try to keep all the balls in the air and strive for a saner life!

George Michael (and other guilty pleasures)

I am a big fan of George Michael (huge!).

It started way back in the days of Wham! (oh yes) when I would sing along to ‘Club Tropicana’ and admire the awesome duo’s toned abs. And yes, ok, it should have been obvious that Mr Michael wasn’t into girls but no-one had realised that back then – not even George!

Setting aside the cheesiness of Wham! (it was the ‘80s after all), it was obvious that the boy could sing and it was no surprise that over the years he developed into a well-respected international star.

I have always admired the fact that George has met any criticism over his the much-publicised misdemeanours with wit and wisdom. He is the first to admit his mistakes with a ‘this is me, deal with it’ kind of approach. Go George!

In spite of a lifetime spent listening to his music, I have never managed to see George perform live. And then last year, as a surprise, my husband bought two tickets for the Symphonica Tour in London. I was finally going to see my idol…

Along with thousands of other fans, I was devastated to hear that George was so ill and wished him a speedy recovery. It was while I was waiting to find out if he would be well enough to reschedule the tour, that I began researching The George Michael Quiz Book.

It was fabulous to have an excuse to immerse myself in the world of George Michael and to relive all the magical moments of his long career. The book is my personal tribute to the ‘other’ man who has always been in my life and who has accompanied me on my journey through college, marriage, motherhood and beyond, making me happy and sad in equal measure.

As far as ‘guilty’ pleasures go, George Michael is up there with white chocolate ice cream and Baileys (preferably together).

I'm counting the days until October…..

All’s fair in love and chocolate

This Easter, as always, our children kept up the tradition of seeking out the bounty hidden around the house by the Easter bunny. Although, they are past the age when they believe in the tooth fairy and Father Christmas they are more than happy to revisit their infant days in the annual hunt for chocolate.

In the past, hubbie and I have remained in bed and listened to the happy sounds as they find mini eggs and other treats hidden in vases, on picture frames and just about everywhere else. Not so this year! 

My eldest daughter, who I should point out is nearly 18 and supposedly grown up, got up early and started the search without her younger siblings. Having told her that it was a bit unfair, her bowl of eggs was surrendered and the Easter hunt was restarted.

This time, Lilly raced around filling her own bowl and leaving none for her sister and brother. Now, we have always had a rule that in the interest of family harmony, they divide up the bounty like they do at Halloween, but Lilly wasn’t in the mood to share.

“It’s not fair,” she protested. “I found the chocolate so I should get to keep it.”

My middle daughter, the diplomat, shrugged her shoulders and said that she had more than enough chocolate anyway whilst my son, not usually given to violent behaviour, hit his eldest sister over the head with his bowl.

Lilly responded by stuffing a handful of mini eggs into her mouth sending her blood sugar and temper into overload. A full scale riot ensued, shattering the peaceful Easter morning and my dreams of a harmonious, happy start to the day.

Hubbie and I waded into their midst. Eventually order was restored and tempers were sated with enough chocolate to keep them going until next Easter. 

Ten minutes later they were all rolling around together on the floor giggling over something stupid on TV.  That’s the good thing about it – no matter how old they get or how many times they fall out, underneath it all there is an unbreakable bond bound by love.

Happy Easter.