Storms are Forecast

Christmas was good! We sang carols in a big barn. We hosted friends at our house. We had a very good time with all my family and I enjoyed the sense of holiday I always get when I'm at my parents' house. We gave and received lots of presents and ate lots of good things. I even did a bit of studying in quiet moments, not that there were many of them.

Manna and my dad reading 'Press Here' for the tenth time:

Ember ice skating for the very first time (my dad on the left, about to crash into the barrier and my nephew and sister on the right helping not at all):

About halfway through present-opening, the girls hit a lull and got engrossed in one new thing. Ember drew an intricate tesselating design for a tree in her notebook ("It's like your art, Mama") and Manna made colour-sorted cog towers. I had a cup of tea :).

One of our loveliest gifts has been Manna's very own quilt, made my her great grandmother. It's toddler-bed-size, but so lovely I couldn't wait and she's using it in her cot already. Everyone in the family has one of these. They are all different and represent hundreds of hours of work. We are very lucky.

And we have been doing some 'normal' things too, things which we know make us very happy. We have been to our lovely mum-run forest school and marauded about with sticks.

Ember has done more rushwork with Linda Lemieux, who worked a lot with Thomas and taught him all he knew about weaving and basketry. It is special to both of us to see Ember showing such enthusiasm and aptitude for this. Here she is, happily engrossed in a basket, with splendidly muddy trousers :).

My mum showed me some 'lovely' photos of myself. I was appalled and cut my hair at once!
So instead of this:

I now look like this:

Well, actually right now I'm in my pyjamas, but I won't inflict that on you.

We have enjoyed the bracing Dartmoor weather (read: sideways rain) and taken advantage of milder days to scramble about outside and, of course, splash in all available water.

More storms are forecast; internally too. I have made it through the sixth anniversary of Thomas dying. Usually I hide in my house behind the biggest bag of crisps I can find, but this year I experimented with going out. A friend had organised a clothes swap (very hard to resist on any day), so I got a babysitter (another thing I 'don't do') and had a good evening seeing how I look in clothes I might never actually buy. Fatter than expected, is the first answer (those damn steroids!), but also pretty good. So I have a selection of the kind of clothes I love...and a bright yellow miniskirt which hasn't been out yet, but definitely will.

On Monday 29th, Manna will be exactly the age Ember was when Thomas died. I cannot hug either of them enough at the moment. I cannot look at them enough or say enough prayers of thanks that they are mine and they are here and that, thanks to my mum, I will be here for them for a very long time.

Storms are forecast, but if you're dressed right, you can cope with anything.

Manna Manuka

Several times I have stalled a post because I still haven't told you about this:

Manna Manuka is out in the world! The labour was fast and wonderful. Ember (Pickle has decided I should use her real name too) was my birth partner for the first three hours, copying my 'funny movements' while I managed back-to-back contractions, fetching clean pants every time my waters broke (there was an ocean in there) and phoning Granny to let her know. Regardless of age, I couldn't have asked for a better person to be with me. She was calm but excited, did everything I asked and even made me laugh. With a big grinding crunch (yes, ouch), Manna spun round to the perfect position and the contractions got much faster, but also much easier for me. Gappy came to play with Ember and my excellent friend and neighbour Miriam came to take over as birth partner and get me to the hospital. Her husband drove us and we spent a looooong time in a traffic jam (tip: don't go into labour on a Saturday morning) while I tried not to groan too alarmingly, but we got there in time and Manna was born an hour later, weighing 8' 6". She was grey and floppy in a way which makes my heart tremble as I write. The midwife couldn't get her breathing, so the neonatal superheroes flooded in and after just a few puffs of the oxygen mask she was breathing fine. I lost a very messy amount of blood, which is why I can never have a homebirth - way too much cleaning to do afterwards, but I didn't need a tranfusion.

Once I had been stitched and had a cursory bath (why do my daughters feel the need to cover me in meconium at first sight?), I fed Manna her first bottle. I was sad I didn't have a breast to offer her, but the way she guzzled it down then looked so content afterwards reassured me this was good enough. And I knew I had milk from some wonderful women in the freezer at home. Ember wanted to be the first to know Manna's name, so I told her over the phone and she announced it to Gappy and my parents. This is the sisters' first meeting:

Ember has been such an amazing big sister. I didn't imagine she would be so unfailingly tender and understanding. I feel I am falling in love with Ember in a new way, as I fell in love with Thomas in a new way seeing him with Ember.

Manna herself is awesomely contented and smiley. She even sleeps! In the night! She had bad reflux and took a while to get her birthweight back and she struggles with colic still, but generallly she looks like this:

She is cute in both ways, always watching, learning; now grabbing whatever she can.

When she was three months I had my final surgery - ovaries and fallopian tubes out. It is a big relief to feel safer, although it has been tricky getting the HRT balanced, but I think I'm there now. I didn't have to stay in hospital overnight, so Gappy had a day with Manna. It was very painful to leave her for so long, but of course she was quite happy:

So now she is splendidly plump and already very keen to be up at the table with the big girls. She is so pleased with herself and merrily teeths on bell pepper or carrot, grinning all the while.

I am so happy with both my daughters. Of course it isn't always easy being a single mum with two children and there have been times of deep grief for the loss of Thomas too, but we feel like a complete and loving family, which is all I ever wanted. Our next adventure is to find a new home, but we'll stay in Chagford and maybe it will be a strengthening thing, in the end, to get some distance from the memories which overlay this house and garden for me. There are so many more memories to be made and I will do everything I can to make them very, very happy.

Mr Right Has Been Found!

Change is coming. Already there are touches of lemon yellow weaving the greens and the children are full to bursting with blackberries and apples and all good things. Pickle and I have only a few more days of moochy mornings in dressing gowns, reading stories on the sofa between sips of coffee (just me, obviously) and making hazy plans for the rest of the day, typically including the park, the garden, a friend, an icelolly and a thwarted request to have pasta again for tea.

In the mainstream way of things, Pickle would be starting proper school on Monday! I'm very glad she won't be, although I think she would cope fine. Instead, she'll do another term at her lovely Montessori nursery, then start school part-time in January. Although I am feeling increasingly confident about my ability to homeschool without losing the last shreds of my mind, I know I'll appreciate being able to work more. I have been adding to my Etsy shop in the evenings. Here is a drawing by Thomas which I have titled Contemplation. I think it is a fantasy drawing of a different type - actually where he would like to be, taking some time to let his mind drift on a beautiful hill, with a spot of archaeology when he feels like moving. And always the joke is on the humans - the magpie, unseen, removing the best find of the day.

During the days, Pickle and I have been making the most of our time together. We visited a donkey sanctuary with some friends and I enjoyed, as I always do, seeing Thomas's gentleness in Pickle when she is with animals. Here she is grooming a lovely rescued donkey called Rodney. (She later speculated that he might have been pregnant.)

Chagford has had its annual Show. It's been a big farming thing for aeons with proper 'best veg' competitions which are taken absolutely seriously and Dartmoor bluefaced and greyfaced sheep winning beauty contests, but it has expanded into a funfair and art/craft event as well, with heavy horse and bird of prey displays, vintage steam-powered tractors and the like. I tried to photograph the sea eagle as it flew over us, but failed, sorry. Walking across one of the fields we found a teepee and crawled inside. There, Pickle was shown how to light a fire. She knows the theory from me and from Forest School, but this is the first time anyone's given her a bundle of dried grass and a striker and the time to try again and again and again until this happened:

I have read about the different ways mums and dads parent and I try to do some of both, which mostly means being less risk-averse than I would naturally be. This is the only explanation I have for taking Pickle on this:

We were so scared! And so excited! Pickle wisely opted to spend the time we were halted at the highest point with her eyes shut and her face buried in my chest. I wisely opted to hold on to the bar and to her tighter than I remember holding on to anything else ever. The best bit for me was watching Pickle's adrenaline rush afterwards. She really felt brave and that she had done a very Big Girl Thing - and so did I.

Danger and excitement followed us home. A friend gave Pickle a big egg. We put it in water and Pickle ran downstairs as soon as she woke every day to check the progress of the cracks ... what would come out? This came out:

A stegasaur! It is now right out of its egg and still growing! We are very relieved it is not a carnivore.

Keeping with our dinosaur theme, we have also made these:

We were very proud.

We have been to the Aesop musical put on by the older children round about. I had a bag full of shushing food, but needed none. Pickle was rapt for the whole performance and has said she wants to take part when she's old enough. Chagford Carnival has whirled past and Pickle was very much a part of that. We were in the square all day watching innocent children being drilled through the middle, or having knives juggled over their prone bodies. We watched the unicycling fire juggler play dodge-the-bunting. Pickle was first up for every dancing opportunity - we even did some morris dancing because Thomas would have loved that. Pickle bounced on the castle, had her face painted like a dog and was entranced again by songs from the musical. There were bands and locals singing and playing divinely and squiggly tail things on sticks which went viral within five minutes of the arrival of the curt cart man. Then there was the parade. We got ourselves seats on the graveyard wall and cheered as all the fantastic creations danced, chased, swam, sang, played, rode and toddled past. They were all amazing, but the one I will show you is the Save Our Library gang. What you can't tell from this photo is that a certain Tilly-walker is the dormouse.

So, these have been our happenings since last time, but what of Mr Right? Well, I know which city he is lives in, his hair and eye colour, his height and his weight. That is all. And on the strength of that I have selected him to be the donor dude for my next child. If this sounds like a flimsy foundation for faith, let me tell you a little story about an omen which came my way.

Some weeks ago a man appeared in my garden as I was hanging my pants on the line and beseeched me to buy into his charity lottery. No, I said, I already do the Air Ambulance lottery and that is all I can afford. Have you ever won? he asked. More people win with ours. No... But it's not really about that. I won't switch.

A letter arrived from the Air Ambulance Lottery. Sorry to trouble you. Mr Hine has won some money. We see he is deceased and have no next of kin contact.

I phoned the number. Yes, we can re-issue the cheque in your name. Hang on, I'll find out how much it was...

I am on hold, hoping it's the big £100 win, but knowing I'll be grateful for a tenner.

...Ah yes. Mr Hine has won one thousand and three hundred pounds. 

At this point I start crying and telling the poor woman this couldn't be better timing because I really need the money.

The cheque duly arrives and the bank clerk takes it like this is a normal amount of money for me to pay in. It is a huge sum for me; nothing like what the IVF will cost, but a big help.

Then I am sent my Blind Date info about all the men I might like to mix genetics with and plump for Mr Birmingham. And THEN it transpires that if this all comes off in the first go, I can now cover the costs without borrowing. Thomas may yet, against apparently insurmountable odds, be able to give me the baby we wanted to make together.And if that isn't an omen then nothing is. Which may well be the case. But for me it feels like a blessing from Thomas on this new child and a sign from the universe that I am making good decisions. It feels like there is a real chance that my dreams will come true: that I can complete my family and no-one else need get very ill or die. We can simply live happily ever after.

A Time to Rest, plus Breasts, Beer, Boots - oh, and a Baby

So, my husband died and I've had a couple of years adjusting to the emotional and practical realities of single parenting while grieving him. I have stopped hoping that one day I will feel unmitigated joy again. Those times have gone. No matter how good, it would always be better if I could be there with him, or catch his eye at the funny moment, or tell him about it afterwards. Or see his pride in our marvellous daughter. Or hers in him.

But all is not lost. Being diagnosed as coeliac was a hassle I didn't want to confront so soon after Thomas's death, but I feel physically and emotionally so much better for being off the gluten which freaks out my body. I feel I am a new and improved person and I wish Thomas could have known me now.

The BRCA1 diagnosis a year in was a real blow and I wish I had known in advance it would take another whole year before the surgeon agreed to take off my breasts. But now I am healing beautifully  and my good girl is over the insecurity she felt when she saw the person who forms her bedrock so vulnerable. She has a new Big Girl bed and is relishing this rite of passage. It has confirmed to me how often unpleasant and difficult behaviour in children is a result of a need not being met - most likely not recognised, perhaps even by themselves. I doubt us grown-ups are much different. Who amongst us, with all needs met and held safe in a loving community against future needs, would rock the boat? No - then we call down the strong winds and sail on, leaving laughter in our wake.

So it's been a tough couple of years but I feel I'm over the highest hurdles. The grief marathon is always the most gruelling thing, but I have found a pace I can maintain and I have friends handing out water at regular intervals. I can do this. It would seem to be a time to rest and recuperate now. To focus on my creativity, on doing all those extra things I plan with Pickle. To really make my home the way I would love it to be and to read all those enticing books which line my walls. I feel I have earned a few years of just being, letting the sadness ebb and flow as it will and savouring all the good things I have summoned to myself as Pickle grows and learns and flourishes. I feel I deserve a bit of a life-holiday.

But that is just not my style. I am naturally more of a headlong-into-the-storm kind, so years of taking it easy just don't sound like fun. No. What I actually need in my over-stretched single-parent life, I have decided, is another child.

Yes! I hear you cry. What a sane and practical idea! We totally see how this will work out fine.

Great. I'm so glad you agree.

However, there is still the tricky matter of how. Although Thomas never acquired the organisational skills to keep a pair of socks within the same continent, he was all over the sperm-production side of things and so I rather left that to him and failed to learn how to do it myself. I can get very Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves about fixing stuff or re-pressurising my boiler or deciding a law is unjust and trying to get it changed (a story for another day), but this baby lark, which is what us women are supposed to be good at, has me stumped. I need help.

I was all set to adopt, but reading the blogs and message boards online gave me a more realistic picture than the one presented by the agencies and I felt it was too big a risk for Pickle, having already lost her Dada, to bring someone into our family who was damaged in some way and would need so much from me that I might have too little left for my beloved girl. I was sad to let that idea go and remain sad about all the children in such devastating need of love and security, but I no longer think I can help them. Fostering, some long way into the future, is still an option.

Of course then I thought of all the many ways I could find myself pregnant. Some felt immediately repulsive, others I took a couple of tentative steps into exploring before turning back. After years of essential oils and herb healing, living very close to the land and spending long times silent, of buying organic and loving nature with increasing devotion, I found myself left with one option: a clinic.

In so many ways this is not where I ever expected to be. Of course I thought I would have breasts my whole life. I thought my husband would live into his fifties and, if he survived his first heart transplant, into his seventies. I thought I would make children the easy and fun way. I thought a lot of things. What I think now is that the universe is clearly following some plan other than my own but I daren't ask for change because right now that plan includes my daughter being happy and healthy and bright and by my side. There is nothing I would swap for that.

But I am aware of Pickle's other side. Her lonely side. It would of course be best if Thomas were holding her other hand, or even if there were a little string of paper-doll children joining one of our big hands to the other. Many people, including me, think it would be best for Pickle if I had another relationship. I just can't. I'm not ready and I don't want to and No. Sorry but No. So what if she had a little sibling? Even a smaller person would bring complexity to our intense fire girl-fire woman dynamic and I think that would be a very good thing. I am aware of how desperately needy I am of Pickle. I try to hold myself tall and never lean, but I fear doing it and I would never want her to feel she had to supprt the weight of my need and my sorrow alone. What she needs is a friend and all siblings are great friends, right? Right. So, to the clinic.

I had visions of a no-drugs way, but have discounted that. I don't want to waste time on a process with such a low success rate (I will not really feel safe until my ovaries are out) and I don't want to spend thousands of pounds I don't really have. (Do please pop along to my Etsy shop!) But most of all I really do not want to go through the rollercoaster of trying and failing any more times than I have to because I cannot do that without dragging poor Pickle round with me. No matter how Fine thank you! I pretend to be, I look round to find Pickle face down on a shop floor screaming her heart out and I think, Yes, I feel like doing that too.

So, I have settled on the cosy-sounding Gentle IVF. Essentially, a much lower dose of drugs to force my blessed body to ovulate within office hours (a true fact!) and only one fertilised egg implanted at a time because a multiple birth seems laughably ridiculous. So ridiculous, in fact, that it could still happen, but I hope not. One sibling for my girl. One more child for me. Then an oopherectomy (isn't that a lovely word?) and then all I have to do is raise two children single-handedly. Phew! And I said I didn't want a rest.

Meanwhile, Thomas is busy supporting this whole crazy enterprise with his artwork. Here is the latest addition to my Etsy shop, a combination of all his favourite things, it seems:

If I am able to bring a new person into this world, I know I will sadly miss having a strong partner by my side and keenly mourn the loss of my breasts too, but in my madness I somehow feel this new child will never be quite fatherless, even if they cannot or do not find their Donor Dad. There will always be a tune on the breeze from one of the finest fathers I have had the honour of knowing.

An Archer and a Date!

So, first, the Archer:

This is the latest in the Thomas Hine section of my Etsy shop and reminds me of how much Thomas loved archery. I remember one hot afternoon, while I did a workout inside, Thomas practising in the field with the sun on his back. He very rarely removed his top in public because of all the surgical scarring on his chest, so his skin was totally unprepared and he was too focussed to feel his skin sizzling. I have never seen such bad sunburn and it was even worse a couple of days later when the healing itching set in and we were visiting his grandparents. We had to keep sneaking off for me to slather his back in Pickle's nappy cream - I don't know what everyone else thought we were doing. Anyway, here he is, fully clothed and minus the Sudocrem, giving Rima a quick lesson while Pickle tries to help, wearing her Miss Havisham dress:

And now the incredible news that I have a date! I am playing with you here - I'm still a lightyear or two away from going on a romantic date, but I do have a date for my mastectomies after a hard year of waiting! I made my weekly phonecall, expecting the usual, 'We'll talk to him and get back to you' (which no-one ever did), but instead was told, 'Well, I've got you down for the 9th of June.' 'Oh,' I said, 'Will a letter be arriving sometime then?' 'I expect so.' she said. So, I am very glad I made that call and didn't miss my surgery because I didn't know about it. My house has been ready for months, in case I got a cancellation. Everything's down from my top shelves and I've bulk ordered everything from quinoa (dahlink) to baby wipes. (Yes, we still use them. I will use them forever for a hundred things.) I've put up lower towel and coat hooks and stockpiled vitamins and vegetable juice. By great good fortune Pickle's Gappy had already booked that week off for a dogsit which has been cancelled, so childcare for the first few days while I emerge from the general anaesthetic is covered and I already have multiple lift offers for getting me there for 7:30 am. Tom Hirons of Source Point Community Acupuncture will be sticking sharp things in me, setting light to stuff on my skin and peering at my tongue in a knowing manner, so all I have left to do is enjoy my lovely breasts while I still have them.

Ink Tree and Chagblood

I sounded so sure yesterday, didn't I? Last night long hours of fear chased me around and through and away from dreams and I find myself wobbling again. Reconstruction would mean so much more recovery and set my eventual hysterectomy back at least six months more than having a simple mastectomy. What, said my frightened mind, if I get ovarian cancer in that six months? What if I died because I didn't want to wait a few years to have foobs? What if my girl lost both her parents before she was five? How could she recover from that, ever?

And I know, I know, now that it is light (ish) and I have had a couple of coffees, that the chances are so very small... but my love is so very big and the fear changes size and shape too fast for me to keep abreast. (But not enough to stop me sneaking wordplay into otherwise serious sentences.) It is a very unmerry-go-round.

Nonetheless, it has created a wonderful thing. When I put the link to yesterday's post on Facebook, my friends started commenting with offers of help and, due to a misremembering of my blood weirdness (I have ITP which means my platelets are low), one even offered me her rhesus negative blood to have on standby while I have my surgery! Which, amazingly, prompted other people to list their blood type in case they could do the same! This has become known as Chagblood - the latest in a long, successful run of community ventures. I am overwhelmed by the generosity of my people and feel the gratitude running through my veins.

Meanwhile, my last few evenings have been spent doing this, which I recommend for stilling the mind.

Moments of happiness in the long time of waiting

"Mama, I wish Dada could be here just for Christmas." This, whispered in my ear at the busy table on Boxing Day, almost broke me. But this girl's Dada is not for Christmas any more than he is for life - unless you count the trees he is growing into, which we do. Despite this one rip of the heart muscle, Christmas was much less painful than last year. At one point, humouring my mum by joining in a stupid flute-tooting game, I laughed so much I had to reel back from the edge of hysteria - the kids don't need to see that. Pickle had lots of fun with her grandparents and cousins and could barely keep her eyes open for her bedtime story.

And far away a small boy had his very own name on his bedroom wall - a complex commission involving much research into sword design, which was unexpectedly fascinating:

The flowers each represent a member of his family - a really lovely addition and a fun contrast to the weaponry.

In January I finally saw my mastectomy surgeon, expecting to be 'allowed' to make a decision about surgery and be put on the waiting list. But no. What I got was a physical examination which, because my wonderful friend, neighbour and brewer-of-healing-tea was there, caused giggling rather than trauma. The surgeon was checking whether I had sufficient 'resource' (my new favourite word for fat) to create foobs (fake boobs) with my own flesh. Stomach: "There's nothing there," he said. Yes! Feeling smug, I turned around and he started kneading my back (when did it last get a really good scrub, I wondered). "Oh yes, we could make you a good pair out of this." What? How do I have so much more back than belly fat? Is that normal? At this point I'm topless (I'm discounting the preposterous 'cape' which only highlighted the nudity underneath) and he mentioned the possibility of using buttock fat. "Oh, she doesn't have a bum," said my friend, thus saving me getting my trousers off and earning herself extra Kettle Chips. Then clothes on for the statistics and the discovery that I can't be put on the waiting list until I've seen a clinical psychologist who, if she's worth her salt (? I don't know - my Nana used to say it), will diagnose me with chronic stress caused by waiting for surgery. But then I go to my online BRCA forum to complain about how looong this takes and there's people on there who can't have the surgery at all or are considering mortgaging their family home because their insurance doesn't cover this. And I remember how desperately grateful I am for the NHS which gave my husband 30 more years than he would have had, rescued me when I ran out of platelets and housed us both so we could be with Pickle while they helped her through her first 3 weeks. I'm still spending some of my nights running scenarios where I don't have the surgery quick enough and Pickle's orphaned at 4, but mostly I'm just trying to trust it will turn out okay and distract myself with other things.

Like hunting down every clothes moth and its spawn in my house. Grrrr. I'm coming to get you, you beautiful flutters of dust and writhing hole-makers. I've got cedar oil and I'm not afraid to use it.

And life modelling. Tomorrow will be my first time for years and I'm quite looking forward to it, if we can get the room warm enough. I went last week to draw and although most of what I produced made me cringe, theree was something which pleased me about this one:

And looking after Pickle, who's recovering from Slapped Cheek (not 'a slapped cheek' - please don't write in). Here she is, snuggled up with Bill, Thomas's dad:

Looking at this photo I am reminded again how grateful I am to all the good men and heartful fathers in Pickle's life. You give her something I can't and I just don't have enough thanks for that.

BRCA1 Lunar0 Still in Play...

So, I got my BRCA1 result. Positive. The evening skies have run with fire and blood ever since. Clearly I and all my good friends are quite bad at thinking negative, even when we try. But thank you for trying.

There are options, none of them simple or free of trauma or entirely satisfying.

I can walk away, forget about it, get on with the rest of my life.

I can have lots of screening - MMRs and mammograms. Until...

I can dedicate myself to my health in a web of ways outside of Western medicine.

I can have my breasts cut off now and my womb and ovaries taken out when I'm 40, in five years time.

No way can I forget about it. The horror of orphaning Pickle when she's already been through so much is unspeakable. It has run ragged through my nightmares and slashed me awake many nights. So no walking away for me. 

Screening, for me, feels like a rollercoaster which you know is more likely to end badly than not. 'Badly' might not mean death, but in my situation, chemotherapy is just not possible either. Of course my wonderful community would help me - they thrive on a soup and sympathy rota - but I would not be able to care adequately for Pickle for a long time, and how could I get her to believe that I would get better when we couldn't be sure and we thought that about her dad? No. Not my choice.

If I didn't have Pickle; if my death wouldn't mean a small girl lost the last of her nuclear family; I really might immerse myself in my own wellbeing (do please write in with the reason we're not all doing this anyway) in may ways, particularly Traditional Chinese Medicine which has some form here ('some' meaning thousands of years). I might aim for quality of life and spend some of that time praying for maximum quantity too. I feel that would be the most courageous choice, the most life-affirming, self-loving. The biggest YES to the universe which is asking me, Do you want to stay? But, and this is new for me, I am tempering courage with a stoic clarity of mind. Yes, this is the best option for me-in-a-vacuum. No, this is not the best option for me-in-my-life. My wise friend reminded me I needed to listen to a voice other than my Tiger Mama to make sure my decision was right. I did. I found this voice, which says with Falstaff: 'The better part of valour is discretion; in the which better part I have saved my life.' 

Which leaves me with cutting off my breasts. There are nicer or (not and) more clinical ways of describing a double mastectomy, but I challenge you to find a truer one. It is, however, a much more complicated procedure than I had imagined, with grotesque decisions to be made. The big one is to reconstruct or not to reconstruct. This I don't have an answer to yet, although I am swayed by these beauties.

It was my mum who first called a halt to this gene's secret snaking down our bloodline. After early breast cancer, then an unusual form of ovarian cancer, she was offered a DNA profile and found BRCA1. A flurry of 'relatives letters' went out, bringing fear, but also new choices to many homes in my extended family. She will have a double mastectomy very soon, but first, to help us prepare for the gamble of our breasts for our lives, she and I will celebrate our bodies as they are with some life modelling for a couple of particularly lovely and talented artist friends.

It's been tough. I've been stressed and irritable by day - not a fun person for poor Pickle to live with - and tearful and insomniac by night. But I'm accumulating dribs of acceptance and have much support, not least acupuncture from Tom Hirons of the admirable Source Point Community Acupuncture clinic.

I am left knowing only this for sure: I do not want to die. Not yet. There's Pickle to consider, and my family's been through enough grief with losing Thomas and not knowing how long we'll have our mum with us... but it's not only that. I love this life. Truly. I'm still racked and wrecked by grief sometimes and there are things happening in the world on a scale of horror beyond my comprehension. But this world is such a beautiful place still. I remain deeply grateful for every rising sun and moon and tide and shoot and even early three-year-old. If I go ahead with this surgery, it will not be because I am afraid of cancer, and certainly not of death. It will not be about fear at all. It will be because I have a gene which could be the death of me and the woman who once gave me life has now given me the chance to stay alive a lot longer. I will not be part of any 'fight against cancer'. I don't want to 'beat this gene'. Fighting is never the way to win. (Seriously, twenty first century and we're still having to remind each other of that?) No. Not my way. This surgery is an opportunity to sacrifice in the old way; an active choice to lay on the altar of life something I hold most dear. And what do I receive in return? Isn't it obvious? My heart, closer to the surface of my being, nearer to the world around me and the future ahead of me. My fearsome, warrior heart, out there like never before.

Thinking Negative

Pickle's going to be an astronaut and is quite serious about training. So far this has included eating extra green veg and walking further. I would love to find a way to include toilet training, after a bit of a relapse, but she has chosen the one profession where you really are supposed to pee in your pants. Two friends have agreed to join her, so watch this space for progress reports on our all-girl team to the moon. [At the time of publication, there is some possibility of her being a roofer instead. Either way, she's aiming high.]

I thought we'd have a spacious and relaxed summer this year, but we just can't stop having adventures. 

We've been to stay with my sister's large and wonderful family, which is an adventure in itself, and we all went to see Happy's Circus, which was brilliant. They're aimed at schools and I'll be trying to persuade Chagford School to invite them. The kids were all entranced and Pickle couldn't stop herself standing when something extra exciting happened.

With only one night to recover from that, we flew off to Jersey to see my good friend and her daughter. 

Always a fan of the budget holiday, we camped in their garden and had a lovely time.

We played in big rock pools (Pickle still not being a fan of the sea)

went rock climbing

spent a whole day at the Gerald Durrell Wildlife Park (I can't do zoos)

enjoyed the company of Uma the coral snake

went down huge slides

got genuinely lost in a maize maze

and generally had a very lovely time.

We flew home (Pickle opting to leave the plane halfway, but being talked out of it by me), washed some pants and drew breath, then off to my parents' home in sunny Somerset, where we had a ride on a proper 'woo woo' steam train

saw sheepdogs at various stages of training confuse a lot of sheep and ducks, and some amazing birds of prey, including this lannar falcon

and Pickle showed off her Forest School skills.

Meanwhile, I can now steer a car a bit, as long as I don't have to go round a corner while changing gears and have even done 70mph on the A30, then later discovered a bee in the car.

And as if that weren't stressful enough, I've got my BRCA1 gene test result this Monday. If it's positive, I think I'll have a double mastectomy as soon as possible, then my ovaries removed when I'm forty (in five years). So let's think negative :o).