Mind Yer Head

Being Well/ Well Being

There is a lot in the media lately about mental health. Last week was World Mental Health Day. It is timely then, that this weekend, as part of the Kildare Readers Festival, there will be a panel discussion about representations of mental health in film and literature. The panel consists of Prof Jim Lucey, medical director of St Patrick's Mental Health Services, author Carol Colley, actor Mary Mc Evoy and film maker Cathal Black.
http://kildare.ie/Library/ReadersFestival/Schedule/Schedule-SaturdayOctober18th/

At the same time, a cracking Irish feature film 'Patrick's Day' is doing the rounds of the American film festivals, having won Best Feature during the Galway Film Fleadh this summer.   According to IMDB, Patrick's Day looks at 'When a young man with mental health issues becomes intimate with a suicidal flight attendant, his obsessive mother enlists a dysfunctional cop to separate them'.

I seen the film recently, at an IFTA screening in Dublin. I thought of my own two seven year old children. I wondered how and when I will let them go as adults ?  I guess that they will decide this for themselves. It's the natural order of things.  But a child with mental health issues may not have this choice of when to move on and spread their wings.

At a Q & A session after the screening of Patrick's Day, the Writer/Director Terry Mc Mahon and Producer Tim Palmer spoke about the dilemma of getting distribution for the film, because of its 'difficult' content.  Yet Dr. Ivor Browne, Prof Emeritus of psychiatry at UCD and former Chief Psychiatrist of the Eastern Healthboard spoke passionately about the importance of this film. He said that people needed to see it. I agree.

The film shows treatments including electric shock treatment being administered.  Think One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Except it isn't a 1975 film. It's modern day Ireland.  It's Dublin and Kildare and probably other places too.

It explored (a lack of) intimacy, sexuality, choice and how that could impact on the wellbeing of a person, who is already considered 'unwell'. It made you rethink your own thoughts about mental health stuff. You judged the over protective mother, but you wondered what you would do in her shoes.  Hopefully the film will be on general release in Ireland very soon.  Moe Dunford's acting is superb. You need to go and see it.

I met some 'new' people with MS recently.  When us MSers get together, we often compare symptoms, medication, therapies and tips (before launching into gossip/craic/nonMS stuff, incase you think we are all boring gits). I was quite surprised with what I had heard from two women, around my age, who were recently diagnosed. They were both taking the same inter muscular drug as I take. They were also both taking anti-depressants, that seemed to be prescribed at the same time as the other drug, to counteract possible side effects like depression. I was surprised that 1. Medical Professionals had prescribed the anti-depressants so readily and 2. That the women hadn't tried other methods to protect their mental health before opting for anti depressants, which could become a life long habit, alongside the other meds.

It would be remiss of medical professionals to not talk about depression when someone is diagnosed with MS, as many people with MS have depression.  Some treatments can also cause, or exacerbate feelings of depression (a double whammy, huh ?).  In my own case, I don't think I have depression proper.  If I did, would I be brave enough to name it here ? If I did, would you look at me differently ?  What I do get though, is what I can best describe as feelings of 'being overwhelmed'.  It can come across me anytime, but usually if I have fatigue.  If I look back, I've probably had such feelings for most of adult life.  It was a relief when, after my diagnosis, that I could align these feelings to MS. With this new found self awareness, I could really tune in to how I was feeling.  These feelings have also become more frequent since I started taking the big-boy-drugs. I can almost visualise these feelings coming over me like a dark cloud.  By tuning into it though, I can also acknowledge that the dark cloud will pass. This may sound like a simple thing, but it really has helped me.  It seems to me that taking anti-depressants to counteract these feelings, could lead me on a 'there was an old lady who swallowed a fly' spiral, where I just keep taking drugs to counteract the other drugs and it could go on and on.  I don't think that my liver would thank me for it either.

Getting back to the medical professionals - I wonder how many of them prescribe exercise, or taking up a hobby to combat depression ? My own experience has been one where exercise in particular, was encouraged by my neurologist, GP and MS support team, key to living with MS.  I cannot emphasis the importance of my daily trot with my doggy (even if I banjaxed my knee running during the summer). I find gardening and writing (this blog) very beneficial too.

Through Kildare County Council's Arts and Wellbeing programme, we have established a Creative Well programme. This programme promotes well being and quality arts experiences to support mental health. Given our resources, the programmes can only be offered to small numbers of individuals.  The finely tuned programme is currently being delivered by visual artists Dominic Thorpe and Emma Finucane.  The HSE locally have been very supportive of this work and the benefits to individuals are starting to be recognised by the medical profession. http://www.kildare.ie/ArtsService/PressReleases/TheCreativeWell-Naas.html

Meanwhile, Kildare's library service have established a 'Shelf Help' service, also with the HSE and other partners.  The idea is that your GP, or other medical professional, can refer you to a series of books, available to borrow free of charge on a whole range of topics including bereavement, post natal depression and suicide. http://kildare.ie/Library/SpecialProjects/ShelfHelp/

I'm not that naive to think that serious mental health difficulties can always be treated by such initiatives.  It's fantastic though, that in Kildare alone, the medical profession are taking note of alternatives to, or as complimentary to, standard prescriptions for pills.  It's baby steps, but in the right direction.

Come along on Saturday afternoon to Riverbank Arts Centre to the discussion about mental health depictions in literature and film. It will be an open and frank discussion. It's good to talk.

@BlogAwardsIE

Myself and the lovely Aoife Kirwan represented the 9 strong 'MS and Me' bloggers team at the Bloggers Awards Ireland last weekend.  Only in the first year of our blog, we were nominated for Best Group Blog and Best Overall Blog.

In the run up to the awards, I didn't have much time to think about it all.  But on the morning of the awards, I found myself getting a little teary. Okay, a lot teary. I felt honoured to be representing the team with Aoife.  I reflected on the strange journey that I have been on health wise in the last few years, that somehow led me to start blogging, for my own blog and for the MS Society. In my small way, I hope that my writings help someone and that I am giving something back to the MS Society that has been good to me. In return, I get a real buzz out of writing and love to read the words of others, that I can relate to and make me feel a little less crazy.

Roll on 6pm. I still hadn't decided what to wear, but decided that I wasn't doing the 80's themed dress. The odd time I go out, I want to wear a proper guna. Legging it out the door a half hour later, I wondered if my fake tan would appear any time soon and cursed myself for not letting my nail varnish dry.  I landed in the Westgrove Hotel, in Clane and I felt like I had arrived. The party was in full swing, with lots of 80's gear, but thankfully lots of people in regular guna deas's. Aoife hadn't yet arrived, so I stood on my own for a while, a little self conscious. Before long, I was chatting away to fellow bloggers, comparing notes and plugging our blogs. A diverse bunch of people, but all equally committed to writing about stuff and posting it on the WWW.

A funny thing happened then. I've always been pretty open about my MS and have written and spoken publically about it. I'm very proud to be part of the blogging team.  But that night, when I said that I wrote for 'MS and Me', I was revealing something that I'd rather not, to people that I had just met. You can see by the way that people react to you that they aren't sure what to think, perhaps thinking that 'she doesn't look sick'. That night, I just wanted to be a girl in a dress at an awards night who writes stuff. Of course, I gave my personal blog a plug wherever I could   (http://poppycottagediaries.blogspot.ie ) if you are interested).  My personal blog was also nominated in the Awards long list, which I was chuffed about.

Once we were settled at our table, I got over that feeling. We shared with the guys from http://www.isitabicycle.com and the rather fobulus gal from http://hautesofabulous.blogspot.ie . The organisers had gone to a lot of effort to dress the tables 80's esque and with really decent goodie bags (dontcha just love free bits and bobs !!).  There was something like 170 finalists, between all of the categories.

Our host Bunny, was a drag queen with a very enviable waistline and a spectacular 'do (which I wouldn't like to see near a naked flame).  A Nordie Presbyterian, he wasn't letting us blogging Southern Catholic types away with much. The craic was great. If I had one complaint, it would be that I was starving all night, waiting on the food, which was served between award presentations.  It was largely my own fault for not eating earlier, while battling with the wardrobe/nail-varnish/children/dog. Still, the Glenisk yoghurt dessert cocktail thingies were worth the wait and I horsed into them.

Throughout the night, we were encouraged to tweet and use social media. It was the type of thing that I usually tut at - people glued to their phone during a meal. But here, I was part of a bigger thing, kindred spirits committed to sharing their stuff, whatever it was on t'internet.

The MS and Me blog didn't win any awards on the night, but it really didn't matter. A cliche I know, but it really felt like we were winners already. Hopefully the nomination will raise awareness of this wonderful resource for people with MS and their families.  For me personally, the awards made me realise how big this blogging thing is.  It was an affirmation that 'yes, you can' - provided that you have access to basic technology and the confidence to press 'submit'.  I feel more comfortable about this new world that I have entered, quite by accident.  Me, just a girl in a dress, who writes stuff.

SUGAR BABY

I've been accumulating a nice bit of the baggage throughout my life.  Part of this baggage includes a fear about sugar.  Yes, the white, granular stuff.  The divil's fare on earth. Two key happenings spring to mind.
                                                      
1.  Loosing way too many adult teeth at the hands of a pliers-happy dentist, before I even left primary school.  Generous Me thinks that it was a different time and that the dentists' rationale was 'pull 'em out now, save hassle later'.  Cynical Me wonders how much more the dentist got paid for an extraction than a filling ?   I don't remember radio features about the dangers of sugars then, like you hear about the evils of fructose in fruit juice now.  I was very partial to a sugar and butter sarnie when I was a kid.  It was best served at an impromptu picnic with a clatter of other children, on squidgy, fresh, white sliced pan.                                                             Nutritional value : Zero. Childhood  satisfaction : High                                                                                          
2. A few very unhappy years in late teens/early twenties when I was overweight.  I was lonely and felt like a fish out of water when I started college in Galway and I comfort ate.  Although I'm more of a savoury kinda gal, I ate sweet things that I didn't even like. It made me even more miserable.  My circle of girlfriends were skinny Minnie's.  I hid in shapeless, baggy clothes while others had discovered their figures and labels.  Older women commenting that I was a 'grand sturdy girl'.'Hefty'.
                                                       
As a result of these two experiences, I am concerned (obsessed ?) with my children's intake of sugar. Once their baby teeth appeared, night time drinks of milk were a no-no.  I could imagine the lactose, working away while they slept, rotting their brand new pearly whites.  More recently, I have been known to get resistant six year olds into a headlock just to give their molars a good scrub.

A recent TV advertisement for a well known chocolate spread shows a child eating a bowl of porridge, with a dollop of chocolate spread, sprinkled with strawberries, giving the illusion of healthiness.   A wholesome, smiling mother looks on in approval.  It drives me crazy.  What are you doing to children if we are normalising eating this way ?

I get a nervous twitch when shop assistants hand the children a lollipop, before smiling at me, saying 'you don't mind, do you ?'.  Occasionally if I was very brave, I would smile back and say that Now that you mention it - I'd prefer if you didn't, ta very much', before apologetically backing out of the shop.  I often produce food wrappers and lecture the children on the hidden sugar content of food. '33% sugar and you want honey on it ?!'.  Their eyes roll, yawns stifled and they sigh, as if to say 'she's off again !'.  The males in my house would a fierce sweet tooth.  They would devour a packet of biscuits in one sitting, and would give the Cookie Monster a run for his money.  So I think it's best to not have them in the house in the first place.  So, if you want to visit me unannounced 'tis best to BYO biscuits.    

Having said all of this, I really enjoy baking with the children.  The only problem with this is that once you bake it, you have to eat it.  I know I could freeze my baking, but then it would get lost in a sea of ice deposits.  And at the back of my mind, my Hefty Girl years are there, taunting me.

To my shame, most autumn times, I let a garden full of apples rot in the ground. I justify myself, knowing that the birds will eat some of them (and perhaps other fellas with four legs and long tails will too - eek !).  I was gathering some apples for our hens a few weeks ago and Mya, my little girl asked if we could use some apples to make an 'apple tart like we buy in the shops ?'  So much for my Farm to Fork ideals - my child thinking that apple tarts grow in shops ... Had it been that long since I made some ?

We started making pastry immediately.  'Wow Mam, that's a LOT of margarine !'.  Assembling the apple tart, the children had the job of arranging the apples and sprinkling the sugar. 'Wooooh Mam, that's a LOT of sugar', they both laughed. 'See, I TOLD you guys.  I'm not making this stuff up !', I said, feeling vindicated for my many ... many ... sugar lectures.


I was on a bit of a roll with the home baking malarkey and so we made jam, from the glut of blackberries in our garden.  Jam making with two seven year olds is not for the faint hearted.  All of that measuring, stirring, pouring.  I was terrified that the children would get a burn from hot jam, but yet I didn't want to stop their fun.  It was so satisfying to produce something lovely from a hours foraging in the ditches, even if it was a little runny.  It also was a real eye opener to the children that there was so much sugar, a full bag of the stuff, melted and hidden away.

Like most things in parenthood, my standards slip regularly and quite spectacularly.  Sometimes the children's teeth don't get brushed - usually on a night where they were at a party drinking fizzy drinks - the ultimate of all evils.

I often bring my children to work related events. They know it's open season for goodies, so that I can go about my business.  'You owe us, Mam', they seem to say as they smile over at me, while stuffing their faces.  I'm putty in their hands.

And then there is the Final Frontier.  Grand parents houses.  Places that have yoghurts with chocolate balls and buns with icing.  Exasperated, I recently said to my mother-in-law, 'May, you wouldn't have given your children a Cornetto for breakfast'. 'Oh, I would have ... if I could have afforded it at the time ...', she said almost with regret.  She smiled at me and said 'You don't mind, do you ?' as the children horsed into a 10am ice cream ...

Breast is Best

Breasts, boobs, chest, bosom, diddies, baps, puppies. And only if you must ...Tits.  There you go.  I've said it all. In this post, I am going to be writing about breasts.  Mine and other peoples.  Are you still there ? Good.                                                                                                                                          

 It's National Breastfeeding Week.  Too much time has passed for me to whip a boob out and feed my children to mark the occasion, so I thought that I would write about it instead.  Ireland has one of the lowest rates of breastfeeding in Europe.  Of course there are many reasons why women can't or don't breast feed.  And of course it is a woman's right to bottle feed.  But I believe that the breast feeding rates are largely down to women's lack of confidence.   Well educated and articulate women have told me that they would have felt too embarrassed to ever consider breast feeding.

I breast fed my lovely twinnies for 8 months, until I returned to work.  How did I feed two babies ?  It was simple really when you think about it.  Two boobs. Two babies. A lot of patience.  I ate a hell of a lot of bananas.  Strategically placed scarves to save my modesty.  With the manoeuvring required to get the babies in position, I had arm muscles like never before.  It was a special time for my babies and I.  Our time.  I found it comforting.  There were no bottles to sterilise.  No winding of babies.  It was good for my mental health and great for getting back in shape too !

'Breasts' isn't a word that we are too comfortable with in Ireland.  Until I decided to breastfeed my children seven years ago, the only time I would have uttered the word 'breast' would have been in relation to 'breast cancer', whispered in hushed tones and only then because there was no substitute word for such a serious illness.  I don't think that I'm not alone in this awkwardness.

As a nation, we aren't good at talking about women's bodies generally, especially the parts that can be associated with sexual activity.   I think that much of this is rooted in tradition.  We all know of our shameful history in the treatment of unmarried mothers, not that long ago.  Even married women weren't saved from the shame of 'doing the bold thing'.  'Churching' refers to a religious blessing that women were given following recovery from childbirth.  It is thought to have derived from the Jewish purification practice, where the sin of childbirth was washed away.  People considered the purification as important as it allowed the 'unclean' woman to reenter the church in a state of grace.  It was dropped by the Catholic Church after the second Vatican Council of 1967-65.  It doesn't seem that there was any similar ceremony for men who carried out the dirty deed.

Formula milk was introduced in Ireland in the mid to late 1950's.  A pricey commodity, it soon became associated with wealth.  Breast feeding was considered as an activity for the poor.  Breast feeding was ditched, in a similar way that ceramic bathtubs were ripped out in favour of avocado green plastic.  One of my friends breastfed her daughter about 25 years ago, much to her Mother-in Law's disgust.   A woman with notions like Mrs Bucket/Bouquet in the comedy series 'Keeping Up Appearances', she would announce 'here comes the cow' when my friend called to visit, infant in arms. She actually went as far as going out to buy formula milk and bottles when my friend nipped out for a walk.  I kid you not.  The wagon.

Us women aren't really nice to each other, are we ?  Thankfully my breast feeding experiences were generally very positive.  The only negative comments  I got about breast feeding were from other women.  Women around my age.  Unsolicited comments. 'How will you cope ?', with a concerned face, as if I had a terminal illness rather than two healthy babies who I chose to feed myself.  'At least with the bottle you know how much they are getting'.  I bit my lip, looking at my children thriving before my eyes.  I found such comments hurtful.  But I never retaliated with the long list of the benefits of breast feeding.  I don't think they wanted to hear anyway.

Men on the other hand, tended to be very supportive, saying things like 'good girl yourself'.  My Dad told his GP proudly, 'all that I know is that there isn't a bottle to be seen'.    Statistics show that women who receive family support when breast feeding  have greater success.  My wide family circle were encouraging and of course thrilled with the arrivals of my twins.  It was a pat on the back that I needed.  I also had a super public health nurse who was full of practical advise.

Other statistics show that women who see others breast feeding are more likely to do so themselves.  I was very pleased that my step daughter Zara, aged in her early twenties, also breast fed her daughter. She told me that she wouldn't have considered it, had she not seen me breast feeding. I'd like to think that, in turn, she was a role model for other young mothers.
                                                                                               
Growing up on a dairy farm, I was surrounded by mammals producing milk and all that comes with it - mastitis, calves finding it hard to feed, what happened when a cow died during the birth and the rush to find beestings (colostrum) to feed the calf.  You realised the importance of a mother's milk.  How the beestings could be life or death to a young calf.  It was natures way.      

One of my earliest memories of boobs for anything other that feeding your young, was seeing pictures of Toni, 'the exotic dancer' in the Sunday World.  She was a household name along with Fr Michael Cleary and Gerry Ryan.  You would see her there in all her glory as you ate the roast spuds and mushy peas.

Toni was a housewife from Tallaght, with HUGE boobs. Apparently she had a regular slot in The Lower Deck in a pub in Portobello.  (Queue : inappropriate jokes about the top deck. Ha ha). As far as I remember, she wore a gauze top, so she wasn't actually topless, but you could still see all that Toni had to offer.  At the time, I didn't think that there was anything wrong with Toni strutting her stuff.  Maybe it was because she looked like a mammy and her chest looked like the kind of place where you would go for a snuggle if you cut your knee after falling off your bike.  I was way too innocent to think that grown men might also have had thoughts about snuggling their bald head in Toni's chest.

Compared to the Jordan's and other surgically enhanced models of today, Toni looked pretty wholesome.  It's worrying that young girls are surrounded by so many images of plastic people, only to eager to stick their booty in our faces.  It's all the more reason for us wimmin to embrace breast feeding.  Encourage young mums.  Tell them that every single feed makes a difference to them and their baby.  If  breast feeding isn't your thing, hold your tongue in front of a breast feeding mother. She might be having a bad hair day.  Talk to your daughter about breast feeding as a natural, lovely thing to do.

Reclaim the space that only us women can.

A Papal Baby

Those of you who are old enough to remember the 70's, will probably remember where you were when Pope John Paul II came to Ireland.  I can clearly remember 5 year old me sitting on the bottom step of the stairs in my parents house, crying my eyes out.  I wasn't overcome with emotion at the presence of the Pope in Ireland.  Rather, I was gutted that I had a new baby brother and not the baby sister that I longed for.  I already had two brothers.  Enough for any girl.

Eoin Paul Russell was born on 29th September 1979, around the time that JP was making an appearance in Drogheda.  His birth was even mentioned in the newspapers.  After giving birth, my mother queued up for a pay phone to call her mother.  As her money was running out, my mother had to interrupt my Nana talking about JP to quickly tell her that she has a new grandson.

Meanwhile, I spent a few very boring days, going from house to house with relations with nothing but wall-to-wall television coverage of the Papal visit.  JP Mania had well and truly gripped Ireland.  It wasn't all praying though - I have it on good authority that at least one indecent incident between one young couple happened under a currach in Galway, while en route to see the man himself.

As a result of the mania, the country is now flush with fellas in their mid thirties, imaginatively called Eoin/Owen/Eoghan, Eoin Paul, John Paul, JP. I met a neighbour recently, called John Paul.  I asked him if he was born the year that the Pope came to Ireland.  He said 'no, I was born the year that he was shot', which I remembered with a much greater sense of wonder.

That, and JR getting shot in Dallas.

Being five years older than Eoin, I took on much of his child care.  He was a lovely baby.  I changed his nappy.  I fed him.

I was there when he took his first steps in the garden under the swing.  Proud as punch I was. And who knows, without me, he might only still be crawling ?

When he went to school, I was often landed with the job of helping him with his spellings and tables.  A mammoth task as he spent most of his time gazing out the window/at the ceiling/anywhere but at the page.  It was TORTURE.  I get flashbacks to this now, reading through homework with my easily distracted son who reminds me of Eoin as a child.

I got my own back on Eoin though, using him as my fashion guinea pig, allowing me to dress him up in ensembles of my own making.

Although I say 'allowed me', I don't think that I gave him any choice in the matter.  He seemed happy enough to pose for photos though, so I'm not expecting him to sue me for sibling abuse at this late stage.

It is strange though, that Eoin let me dress him up and yet fought with my mother about wearing new clothes.  You almost had to drive over them with a mucky tractor before he would consider trying them on.  And funnily enough, my boy has similar tendencies now.  Those flipping genes again.

He scared the life out of us when he peddled his toy tractor straight onto the road outside my parents house when he was aged about three.  He was hit by a car.  I can still hear my mother's screams. Thankfully his toy tractor took the worst of the impact and after a few days monitoring in hospital, he was fine.

Growing up on a farm doesn't mean that you are naturally drawn to animals, but Eoin was.

He spent much of his childhood cuddling and tending to sick and terminally ill animals, no shite-covered cow too smelly, no puss-filled abscess too gruesome.

He was also the designated injection giver and the put-your-hand-up-a-cows-bum guy, while the rest of us would run a mile.  Growing into a giant of a man, he could carry small animals, when others might have needed a trailer.  

Getting away from farming life, Eoin studied in Dublin and stayed in a flat beneath mine on the North Circular Road.  Finding it hard to cut the motherly ties, I made him dinners, for fear that he might fade away.  Little chance of that as he ate like a horse.  My cooking was boot camp style though.  I didn't tolerate the 'won't eat onions/vegetables/will only eat chicken nuggets every day for a week' demands that my mother did.

If there was angry words, it was when I went to my fridge, looking for my lunch, running out the door for a hectic days teaching to find that Eoin had got there first and the cupboard was bare.  No wonder we called him 'Eoin of the Seven Dinners'.  And no wonder that he grew to a six foot plus lad and I remained a short ass.

Despite the clear-your-fridge-without-asking-you tendencies, Eoin was and is a thoughtful and generous kind of guy.  I remember one Christmas Eve when he landed home on the bus from Dublin with gifts, plus a new toilet seat and a huge lump of frozen ham for my Mam.

Fast forward to today, the eve of Eoin's 35th birthday.  To this day, I can see how I have influenced him.

He still eats onions.

He still remembers how to spell and count.

He has a dapper sense of style - influenced no doubt by all that dressing up in scarves and braces.


I never got my longed for baby sister, but each of my brothers landed themselves with lovely wives and partners, so I kind of got my sisters in the end, without all the bickering over toys and clothes.

Eoin is now the father of 4 very cool children with a lovely partner.  All grown up.  But he will always be my baby bro.

Happy birthday kid x

Loosing My Religion

This post first appeared on the MS Society blog site 'MS and Me' on Wednesday September 17 2014 

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We have all had those conversations with ourselves - 'what would my last thoughts be if I was on a sinking ship?’  As a non-believer, I've wondered if I would I hedge my bets and start to pray to a (wo)man above. The closest I've come to that sinking ship 'moment' was in the days and weeks around my unexpected diagnosis with MS. In those long days, I was overwhelmed with good wishes, cards and gifts from family and friends. I was given religious relics, mass cards and messages saying that I was in people's prayers. I appreciated each and everyone of these gestures, but I confess, it did nothing to draw me back to the teachings of my Roman Catholic upbringing. Rather, it reinforced my lack of faith. Would I say that I am a full blown atheist? Probably. This can be tricky living in Christian Ireland, when education, births, deaths, marriages and everything in between is immersed in religious ceremony. But I am happy enough to go along with these and actively participate at times. Am I a hypocrite? Probably. 

I met someone soon after my diagnosis who asked me, 'Have you thought, why me?' My initial response to her question was to imagine myself on a Eurovision stage, having a Linda Martin moment, belting out her tune 'Why Me?’. My second thought was 'Why NOT me?’ I certainly didn't ask the God that I don't believe in, 'how could this happen to me?’ It's just the deck of cards that I've been dealt and I may get on with it.  However, I know that family and friends continue to pray for me and I genuinely appreciate that. I feel if they can get comfort from their own prayers, or if their faith helps them come to terms with my diagnosis, that's good for me.

So, am I ‘faithless’? I don't think so. I have faith in my medical team in Beaumont Hospital. In a way, I feel that I have almost transferred a traditional religious belief onto them, willing them to make the best decisions around my care. In a wider context of medical research, I have faith in new developments in medical treatments and ultimately a cure for MS being found in my life time. Perhaps this is unrealistic, but that thought helps me stay optimistic about the future. 

If you are religiously inclined, there is no point in praying to God to win the Lotto, unless you buy a ticket. In the same way, I have not passively handed myself over to a medical team to do all of the work. I'm working damn hard to be well, trying to strike that balance between meds, exercise, lifestyle and general well being. I try to practice mindfulness as much as I can, to appreciate the moment, to see beauty, to embrace life with both hands. I continue to be touched by gestures of human kindness. And so, I'll keep the faith.

The Day We Caught the Train

If you have read my previous blogs, you may have picked up that I am a tad hyper and find it hard to justify just doing nothing.  Even my hobbies, such as gardening and walking have purpose.  I blame, I mean 'attribute', this to my upbringing on a North Meath farm where there was always something to be done.  And if there wasn't something to be done, you looked busy anyway.  

  

I remember one teenage afternoon, standing in a gap in a field in Aghamore, where my only duty was to stop the brainless sheep running through.  From out of nowhere, my father appeared across a hill in a mucky car,  like the A Team van (minus the de-de-de-dee, de-de-de theme tune) beeping the horn and banging his hand on the roof, a Major cigarette in hand.  

He roared at me and said 'would ya look lively, would ya?'.  So even then, standing in a gap, I was supposed to look busy. I wondered if I should have knitted a pair of socks, or maybe peeled a few apples for tarts, to maximise my time while gap guarding

You can see how my problems started, can't you ? 

One of the few places that I feel I can really relax is on a train.  Trapped in the confines of a metal carriage, your choice of activities are limited.  I find the constant, gentle rocking motion of the train soothing. A slave to my iPhone, I could spend the entire journey online, but I don't.  I prefer to people watch.  To ear wig.  To observe habits and rituals.  Having chats with random strangers.  Passing judgement on people that you don't even know, a live Jeremy Kyle show before your eyes.  A pretty young mum sucking the life out of a cigarette before you hauls a buggy on the train. 'Do you not know he risks ?' I say silently.

German tourists, confused by the Irish accent in the announcements on the intercom.

Three nuns, their necklaces, the only identifier of who they were.  But looking at their plain clothing and modest clothing, I would have guessed anyway.  Their quietly spoken words and way of being.

I sat beside a bubbly young woman yesterday on an early morning train.  She was eating crisps and working eagerly on a college project, her hand writing suggesting her young years.  An 'Event Management' student, she said.  My ears pricked up.  'Oh, I'm involved with Culture Night.  We had 56 events in Kildare last week'.  I was met with a blank face.  She never heard of it.  'Is that a new initiative ?'  'Kind of', sez I, 'it's been around for 8 years or so'.

A frail looking older man, accompanied by his daughter.  He looked anxious, but nodded and smiled as his daughter talked him, through what would happen when he met his consultant. I imagined the contents of  his hold all.  Newly purchased pyjamas, a wash bag full of toiletries that he wouldn't use at home.  She touched his hand. 

Immaculately presented staff politely offering 'tea or coffee madam ?'

Two women, around my age.  Talking about their friend.  'Too thin'...  'Yeah, too thin'.  'It's surprising really ... you know ... given all the wine and chocolate that she eats ...''. 'Yeah ...'.  'Is she still smoking?' 'No, she gave up when she found out that she was pregnant'. 'Oh, right.  I could have sworn that I seen her smoking lately.  It must just be the odd one now and then'.  'Yeah, it must be'.

The surfer dude with low slung jeans, showing off his cheap boxer shorts, listening to too-loud music on his iPod.  Does he not worry about his hearing ? 

Regular commuters with serious faces, furiously working on laptops, getting an hour in before they get to the office - giving them a chance to get home early tonight to put the kids to bed.  Women in tailored suits with ugly runners, ready to rush onto the Luas, before changing into heels as they arrive at their workplace.

Checking out the style.  A fabulous stitched leather handbag.  A great pair of boots for walking around the city.  The perfect 'day to evening outfit', clever I thought.  Gleaning ideas for my future outfit combinations.

A couple in their 70's.  They looked like they were 'comfortable' financially. They (the wife probably) had gone to great efforts with a picnic. A flask (a heavy yoke to be carrying around Dublin all day, I thought), a knife to peel fruit, an impressive sandwich collection.  The woman served the hubby refreshments, who was reading the Indo.  She fixed his collar, told him that he 'missed a bit' shaving. Country folk on a day out.  They reminded me of my own parents.  I felt a pang and wanted to be at home in Meath and have tea in the kitchen there and then.

We are almost in Heuston.  The usual scramble to gather bags and put on coats, forming a queue, saving thirty seconds in travel time.  And we arrive.  And with that, the promise of a brand new people watching experience.  To do a Maeve Binchy on it - to listen in incognito, observe and gather ideas for stories