A medical lesson learnt

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About 14 months ago, I found a lump. It was in my lower stomach and was a solid, unmistakable mass that I could palpate myself. “What the HELL is that?” I thought, and panicked.

I got it checked out, and was told by an ultrasound technician it was a haematoma (an internal bruise). This did make sense as I’d been accidentally kicked pretty hard by my youngest son, who cannot stay still. ‘Kids, eh!” I laughed, and notched it up to an occupational hazard of being the occasionally banged-up mother of two boisterous boys.

Over a year later, it hadn’t gone away, but I’d got so busy I didn’t give it too much thought. (You know what it’s like, you deal with everything else, school problems, meal prep, work, chores, hair colour, manicures, before dragging yourself to the doctor, getting a mammogram, etc). Besides, I thought I already knew what it was.

I finally got round to mentioning that the lump was still there at a doctor’s appointment about something else.

“Hmm,” said the GP, “this needs further investigation. They often don’t know what it is until it’s under a microscope being biopsied,” she explained, picking up her phone simultaneously to make an appointment with a specialist.

“A BIOPSY?” I replied, wide-eyed with fear. And why was she making the phone call FOR me?

“But don’t worry,” she said brightly (I had to ask, was it the big C?). “After this long, you wouldn’t be so well now, if it was.”

I hear lumps and bumps are more common after 40. Be vigilant, I say

I hear lumps and bumps are more common after 40. Be vigilant, I say

A few days later, I found myself lying in an MRI machine for 45 minutes, listening to piped music and artillery-like banging noises as loud as a balloon being popped right by my ear. The clinic threw in a free ultrasound and I learnt that when they’re looking at a lump, rather than a kidney bean of new life, ultrasounds are not joyous.

The initial diagnosis was wrong. Next, they thought it might be a benign tumour, then they decided it was probably a complication from my two C-sections that was slowly growing!

And herein lies the lesson: all turned out to be fine, but I should have followed this up months ago. It’s strange that I procrastinated, because I’m a hypochondriac at heart, which just goes to show I worry about the wrong things 98 per cent of the time. If there’s something you’re putting off, be it an annual breast exam, pap smear or a niggly problem, don’t delay any longer! I don’t need to tell you that, if God forbid it is serious, early diagnosis is vital.

I went back for a check-up the other day, and the surgeon caught me by surprise.

“We did a wide-excision removal,” he explained, “a good 7x4cm, and you’ll be left with a dent.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Even better than liposuction.”

“I took some pictures,” he continued, fishing out his iPhone.

“Really? You did?” I blurted, not sure whether to believe him, but itching to see.

I worried a little that I was plain weird for being so curious, but then my friend told me she knew someone who’d kept their gallstones, and that made me feel better.

I’m sure that, by now, the photo of my rather peculiar, ignored-for-too-long lump must be online, on a medical equivalent of Facebook. How about that, for fame at last!

Beirut and beyond

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If you’ve been following this blog, you might remember that my in-laws live in Beirut. I may also have mentioned that my mother-in-law (MIL) is an absolute whizz at designing and furnishing houses.

When I was 15 and dating DH, I stepped into their London basement apartment on Gloucester Road and knew immediately that I wanted to live in a house just like it. The Japanese screens, oriental ornaments, Persian carpets, silk cushions and golden Buddhas that adorned their flat conjured up images of far-flung corners of the world that I yearned to travel to.

My MIL’s uncanny talent for interior design has been unleashed on homes all round the globe (places they’ve lived include Kuwait, Thailand, Japan, Hawaii and Washington DC, to name just a few). Most recently, my in-laws have been renovating a property perched high above Beirut – a yellow-stoned, cavernous building that was a crumbling, derelict shell when they bought it.

What they’ve achieved is astonishing.

Next door to their home is a guesthouse that they’ve just finished, and I’m posting it on the blog because it’s available for holiday lets (and no-one knows about it yet!).

From my in-laws’ two-bedroom guesthouse, there are 360-panoramic views of the Mediterranean and surrounding olive groves. Nestled in the mountains just 30 minutes from downtown Beirut and 15 minutes from the airport, it’s a tucked-away retreat, located 700m above the city’s humidity.

From my in-laws’ two-bedroom guesthouse, there are 360-panoramic views of the Mediterranean and surrounding olive groves. Nestled in the mountains just 30 minutes from downtown Beirut and 15 minutes from the airport, Casa Mia Shemlan is a tucked-away village retreat, located 700m above the city’s humidity.

On our first visit, I got a taste of the flair Beirut is known for while leaving the airport. Lebanese drivers were jockeying for position, edging forwards into the smallest of spaces to gain an advantage, and leaning on their horns.

As we climbed up to Shemlan via steep mountain bends, my father-in-law wound down the car window to pluck a fig from a tree and stopped to greet a neighbour in Arabic. There was an air of relaxed friendliness. But it was the panoramic view that stole the show. Beirut, laid out below, stretched alluringly across a headland jutting into the azure-blue, east Mediterranean sea.

A popular destination for Middle Eastern travellers, and a cosmopolitan melting pot of people and influences, Beirut is the most distinct of all Arab cities

A popular destination for Middle Eastern travellers, and a cosmopolitan melting pot of people and influences, Beirut is the most distinct of all Arab cities

From above, the city looked peaceful, almost sleepy. It’s anything but, of course. On the ground, Beirut pulses with life, glamour and hedonism.

Rising optimistically from the war-torn ruins of decades of fighting, Lebanon’s capital is a vibrant metropolis, inhabited by beguiling, beautiful people whose hospitality knows no bounds. Many are fluent in English, French and Arabic. “Bonsoir habibi, how’s it going?” someone asked me, using all three languages in one sentence.

You might spot a tank on the streets of Beirut, rolled out as a show of security, but these days you’re far more likely to see sports cars with their hoods down, or a Ferrari dealer next to a flat bread stall.

In the city, bullet holes stare, like unblinking eyes, and shelled-out buildings punctuate the landscape, but there’s a spirit of resilience that’s helped Beirut dust itself off repeatedly from periods of conflict. Once the self-proclaimed ‘Paris of the Middle East’, there’s still an outdoor cafe culture, and European architecture can be found everywhere. Hamra is full of smart boutiques and the downtown has been rebuilt, exactly as it was, with a series of elegant streets branching off from a central plaza.

Everywhere, the city’s jumble of history is evident. Sitting in front of the huge Blue Mosque is a tiny Maronite chapel, and there’s a perfectly restored Orthodox church next to a Catholic cathedral – all within yards of each other.

My favourite place to be at dusk is the waterfront Corniche, where at sunset it’s as though the entire city is out strutting its stuff along the wide, palm-lined seafront promenade. From here, you can watch the sky turn pink over Pigeon Rock, then head into Hamra to sample the city’s famed, vibrant nightlife.

Beyond Beirut, the scenery is stunning. Lebanon offers every type of recreation, from skiing to swimming, walking, ancient ruins and wineries. A famous, old Lebanese boast is that you can ski and swim in the same day. And don’t get me started about the food, made from the freshest of ingredients. Provided everything is peaceful politically, Lebanon gives the south of France a run for its money.

This post is adapted from a travel column I write for a magazine called The Source (click here). More travel posts coming up!

We drove to the mouth of the Dog River, where there are inscriptions that bear witness to more than 3,000 years of Levantine history

We drove to the mouth of the Dog River, where there are inscriptions that bear witness to more than 3,000 years of Levantine history

 

Travel widow: The five-day trip

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Guess who?

Guess who?

I’m often asked: “Is your husband away a lot?” The truth is, he’s home a lot more than most husbands who work 9-6 plus over-time and weekends. But, of course, the nature of his job means that every time he does leave, it’s for an overseas trip of varying lengths.

His favourite jollies jaunts are to Europe – about seven hours there and back, two days away in total and a European city, such as Munich or Paris, at his disposal (what’s not to like?). I think he rather enjoys Bangkok too (not too much I hope) and, naturally, he loves returning to his home country, the States.

This week, he’s on a five-day trip to Australia and New Zealand. I’ve been with him on this one, and so I know the 14-hour journey to Sydney, the onward flight to Auckland and the jet lag are tough. But, the hardest thing, in my opinion, is the distance: it honestly feels like he’s dropped off the end of the world.

Before he left, he said to me: “Y’know, when I’m away, especially when I’m gone so far, the children just get better and better in my mind.”

“YOU WHAT?” I retorted, not sure if I’d heard him properly. I looked at him quizzically, through disbelieving eyes – but he meant it. He misses them so much that, to him, they become little angels, and not the whirling dervishes that seem to visit every time he’s gone.

So, I can’t resist, this is a day-by-day summary of not just our children’s angelic ways, but the household frustrations that he’s missing this week.

Day 1:
All is calm. This isn’t so bad, I think. The boys and I really bond when DH is away and we eat boiled eggs for dinner.

Day 2:
BB develops an ear infection, complicated by whining and exacerbated ten-fold by his noisy brother, who starts shouting erratically as though he’s got Tourette’s. We see the doctor and start antibiotics.

Day 3:
BB’s well enough for school and is all ready at 7.15am, but the bus doesn’t turn up. I phone the mum in charge and find out there’s no school. Teacher training. Sigh. (I swear, they have so many days off here that mums might as well tell themselves there’s no school, and then be pleasantly surprised when there is.)

Day 4:
The gas runs out in the middle of cooking dinner – time to call a gas delivery company (such as ‘Al Boom’ – yes, that’s its name, really!). TV stops working.

Day 5:
The boys are fighting like gerbils. They’re desperately trying to get their hands on our electronic devices. I eventually hide the iPad, and they go for my iPhone, and when I take that away too, LB grabs my Kindle like an addict and starts tapping it furiously in the hope it might have Minecraft on it (this can only end in tears). At bedtime, he tells me petulantly, “I’m not closing my eyes, I’m NOT!”

Happy days! Hurry home DH (and by way of a full disclosure, I actually wouldn’t swap roles in a million years.)

PS: If your husband is on the road a lot, do check out this article, in which Gulf ‘Travel Widows’ (including me!) reveal how they cope with the lifestyle.

The blinged-out art box

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I’ve started to wonder what other mothers keep in their art boxes (I’m also wondering what else finds its way into party bags, after hearing about a mum who gave each child a live goldfish as a party favour – but that’s a whole new blog post).

I know there are crafty and not-so-crafty mothers, and I like to think I fall somewhere in between, but, somehow, my craft box always seems to be lacking something.

I bring tonnes of used paper home from work, which would otherwise go into the shredder, and I buy felt pens, pencils, glitter, etc, when I remember, but lately I’ve started wondering if I should be thinking outside the crayon and marker aisle.

Precious stones glitter on fingers and on art projects

Precious stones glitter on fingers and on art projects

This was brought home to me at approximately 5.15pm this evening – that joyous, twilighty zone when you’re busy with dinner, crabby kids and homework, and your offspring are hell-bent on pushing your buttons.

Nearly there, I’m thinking to myself, imagining that first sip of soothing sauvignon blanc sending post-bedtime relief coursing through my veins.

When…

“Mum!” my oldest bellows. “I forgot to tell you. I’ve got a project to do. I have to make an igloo, out of marshmallows.”

Hmm, timely, I think – given that it’ll soon be hotter than Hades in the UAE, and it’s nearly dinnertime.

“I have to take it in tomorrow. The teacher says so. Everyone else has done theirs’.”….. “I kept forgetting to tell you,” he says, in a quieter voice at least.

So, attempting to fake enthusiasm, I hurriedly spread newspaper over the dining table, find some cardboard, and try to creatively suggest how we can fashion an igloo out of marshmallows, glue and sellotape. (Could be worse, I decide; we could be making the Burj Khalifa out of yogurt pots).

It’s beginning to take shape; I thank my lucky stars that I actually have marshmallows in the house and skirt round the request for cotton wool snow by producing some toilet tissue (voila!). Then BB tells me about Xavier’s igloo.

“His is the best,” he says, clearly impressed. “Xavier used an upside-down china bowl for the igloo, and there’s a blue river running round it – made out of diamonds.”

Diamonds? Seriously? Could you get any flashier? Oh how very Dubai.

Silent Sunday: No more swimming in soup

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Believe it or not, in the UAE many swimming pools are heated in winter – and chilled during the hot summer months. To our delight, this sign appeared at our compound pool last week.

Having a chiller installed means the pool will be swim-able all summer. If the water isn’t cooled from June to September, swimming feels more like taking a dip in a giant Pot Noodle. Now, if they could just work out how to cool the concrete so it doesn’t scold the ole’ feet.

Having a chiller installed means the pool will be swim-able all summer. If pool water isn’t cooled from June to September, swimming quickly starts to feel like you’re taking a dip in a giant Pot Noodle. Now, if they could just work out how to cool the concrete so it doesn’t scold the ole’ feet.

Hannah’s shoebox project

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Last week, an extraordinary eight-year-old who overcame serious illness brought happiness to 56 labourers toiling in the heat outside our desert compound. This is the story of Hannah’s incredible spirit

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German-born Hannah and her younger brother with the men who help build Dubai

Standing in bright sunshine, outside a dusty, hastily erected camp, a very special little girl brought beaming smiles to the faces of the construction workers gathered around her. “Thank you,” she told them, speaking off the cuff to at least 30 men in hard hats and overalls, “for making our road.”

It’s not every day that labourers in Dubai – most of whom have their own children living in countries such as Bangladesh and Pakistan – get to meet a blue-eyed, blonde haired little angel like Hannah. The workers at the back craned their necks to see, and everyone listened intently, even if they didn’t fully understand the English, to hear what Hannah, aged 8, had to say.

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Hannah presented the gifts individually

After her impromptu speech, delivered with the confidence of a child much older, there were more smiles as Hannah handed out gifts, 56 in total, to the crowd. The bags, crammed full of goodies, were the culmination of an initiative she had dreamt up and organised herself. Quite extraordinary. Except we already knew that about Hannah – who, five years ago, beat cancer.

Battling illness
Hannah, from Munich, Germany, was almost three when her mother was given the devastating news that she had a childhood cancer called Wilms’ tumour. A type of kidney cancer, it affects 500 children a year in the US. “I took her to the doctor because she had a swollen belly,” says her mum Kate Mestermann, a midwife. “It wasn’t all that noticeable, but my mother kept telling me to get it checked out.”

And thank goodness she did, because within days cancer had been diagnosed. “The doctors sat me down and told me,” says Kate, recalling the shock. “My husband, a pilot, was away, upgrading to become a captain. I didn’t tell him that day because he was about to do his final check ride. When he called afterwards to let me know he’d passed, I had to tell him our daughter had cancer.”

Hannah had chemotherapy for several weeks, followed by surgery to remove the kidney. As her other kidney showed signs of developing the same tumour, she then underwent another 20 weeks of grueling chemo. “She lost all her hair and suffered from sickness,” says her Dad Marc. “It became daily life for us, to be honest, but anyone with us who saw her suffering the chemo side effects was quite shocked.”

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Shopping done and bags packed

Five years later and now living in Dubai, cancer survivor Hannah is a healthy, happy little girl, who knows that having beaten this illness, she’s got what it takes to tackle whatever life throws at her. “The saying, ‘God won’t give you more than you can handle’ definitely applies to our daughter,” says Marc. She also displays a remarkable and highly developed sensitivity to others – personality traits that led to her shoebox project idea.

“We were driving along our compound road, and she looked out at the workers, who for months have been building a new access road through our patch of desert, and said, ‘We should do something to thank them.’ It was all her idea,” says Kate.

Shortly after that, Hannah’s shoebox project started taking shape. She started with a mind map, showing how she’d raise money, then, with her parents’ help, set about fundraising. “She approached the managers of our local stores to ask them to donate raffle prizes, and sent emails,” says Kate. “Hannah also went door-to-door around the compound, selling cookies, brownies and cupcakes that we’d made. In total, she collected 3,800dhs.”

It was then time to hit the retail store Carrefour, with a lengthy grocery list. Items she purchased to put in each bag included rice, lentils, sunflower oil, sugar, teabags and other food items; toiletries such as razors, shaving cream, toothpaste, soap and deodorant; and pillow cases and sheets.

If you don’t live in Dubai, you might wonder why people here would need basic items like this, but the truth is Dubai’s labourers are paid a pittance. They pay employment agencies to get here – to escape the poverty of their home countries – and instead toil for low pay in the extreme heat of one of the world’s richest economies. All, or nearly all, of the money they earn – which can be as little as £150 a month – is sent back to their families. They live in crowded labour camps, where facilities are basic, and work long shifts (you can read more about this here).

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Cancer survivor Hannah is full of determination

Whilst it’s clearly very wrong that their employers think it’s okay to bring them over here and pay them so little that charity drives are needed to provide essentials, you only have to see the radiant smiles on their faces when strangers show them kindness to understand how appreciated charity boxes are.

“It was wonderful to see the different reactions and expressions on their faces when we did the handover,” says Kate. “And Hannah took it all in her stride – that’s just how she is. Her next project is already on her mind.”

I’m sure I speak for everyone in our compound when I say we’re all moved by Hannah’s story. As one resident put it, “What a great thing! I wish more people in the world could be as super sensitive as you sweet angel.”

Tittering Tuesday

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I must say, signs like this do brighten up the ole’ commute to work. Thank you to my friend K for snapping this while out and about in Dubai. Just a quickie tonight…back soon!

backside entrance

A mother’s illusion

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“Mummy, when you went to the hospital to be chopped up, did they have a party?”

It was a question I wasn’t expecting to hear from my youngest son. I knew what he was referring to – my surgery last week, but good Lord, what on earth did he think had happened? Some kind of ultimate mummy sacrifice?

On the day, they didn’t even know where I was going. I think they just thought I was at work a long time.

But, of course, when I got home, we had to explain why they couldn’t jump on me; why I had a ‘big ouch’ that hurt and why I couldn’t carry LB or even do bear hugs.

“A party?” I responded. “Erm, no, it wasn’t a party LB.”

“Oh.” [looks disappointed]. “But wasn’t there a wabbit? A white one?”

And for my next trick, mum will pull a white rabbit out of a hat

For my next trick, mum will pull a rabbit out of a hat

“There was no rabbit, just the doctors, and nurses – rabbits aren’t allowed. Sorry darling.”

“But they chopped you in half, didn’t they?” [makes sawing motion].

And the penny dropped: he thought I was the (glamorous? ha!) female assistant in a magic show, the lady who gets put in a box and apparently sawn in half.

The one who might just look like she’s playing a supporting role to the magician, but is, in fact, making the mechanics of the illusion work.

And, actually, come to think of it, that IS exactly how I feel in my role as mother much of the time. Thanks LB, you hit the nail on the head!

The golden years

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I do love the fact that, in retirement, my parents are busier than ever. My mum has been visiting this week, and she’s literally squeezing it in between family engagements at home.

“Why are you only staying five days,” my older son keeps asking. “Last time, you stayed seven.” (he’s keeping tally)

“And where’s Grandad?” (Kids like a full set, don’t they? But Dad couldn’t come as he had commitments for the various charities he’s involved with, plus he’s fitting in FOUR rounds of golf.)

But it’s not just keeping busy that fills my parents’ time – my Mum is continually doing things to the house, and if I haven’t been home for a few months, it’s amazing what changes.

“Well, the guest bathroom is finished, and we’ve got new brown, leather sofas in the living room,” she told me today.

“Then there’s the traffic light in the garage.”

Who knew that British driveways near stations are paved with gold?

Who knew that British driveways near stations are paved with gold?

“Seriously?” I replied.

“Yes, Dad’s new car is very long. The traffic light changes from green to amber to red, telling him exactly when to stop so he doesn’t crash into my freezer.

“And we have a Porsche parked outside now.”

“A WHAT!” I exclaimed (I mean, if it was Dubai, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid, but my parents live in suburban England where I presume those kind of cars still cost a fortune).

“Yes,” she smiled. “Parkatmyhouse.com. We registered on the website, and a young man turns up in his Porsche at 7 every morning, leaves it in our drive and walks to the station.

“Never see him, but presume he’s one of those, you know, city types.”

What an ingenious way to turn living in the commuter belt into a little earner.

Hospital bed buddies

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I had to go into hospital last week for surgery (more in a mo). I was only there a day, but during that time, I proved once again that I’m not only a medical marvel with odd problems, but that I also always meet interesting characters in hospitals.

Best example was in the UK, giving birth to my second son. My five-day hospital stay felt a little like youth hostelling, with women of different nationalities bed hopping around me, packets of cereal and a toaster outside, and lots of comings and goings at night. (Great medical care and staff, but oh the joys of co-habiting on the wards.)

After my C-section, my first night was spent separated by just a curtain from a really overweight, pregnant lady who was clearly in a lot of pain judging by the amount of noise she was making.

We talked a bit and I tried to offer some encouragement as the poor thing was alone most of the time, and screaming in agony. I was sceptical, though, because she kept disappearing for cigarette breaks – a fact that wasn’t lost on the nurses.

On stepping outside...

On stepping outside…

Turns out, the consultant – who caught her on a fag break – wasn’t being taken for a fool either, and in the morning informed my bed buddy, in a very direct, matronly manner: “You’re NOT in labour. Absolutely not.

“You’re constipated.” Yes, really!

Her skinny-as-a-rake husband finally arrived and was sent to the nearby supermarket with instructions to buy a basketful of fruit to help ‘get things moving’.

A day or so later, now on a different ward, my DH told me he’d seen her again and had overheard her talking about the weight being 5 pounds.

A 5-pound POO, I wondered? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have thought the same?

I went to investigate and found out she had indeed delivered her baby, at 32 weeks gestation. Happily, the baby was doing well in the NICU and my new friend and I continued bonding in the hospital canteen, sharing a variety pack of chocolates that she ripped open with the excitement of an addict.

If you’re desperately bored, my NHS labour ward story is on my first blog here.

Last week’s hospital trip was to remove a (benign) lump from my stomach (oh yes, this provoked a severe attack of cyberchondria, and if anyone else suffers from this I do have some advice: DON’T leave your iPhone by the bed so you can Google rare conditions at 3 in the morning. Promise me you won’t.)

cyberchondria

The surgery took place at Dubai’s American Hospital and was a good experience as far as going under the knife goes. Even the Emirati admin lady with bright-red nail polish, an abaya, head veil and forms to fill in tried to make it less stressful by telling me to ‘Have fun!’ as we left her office.

There were loads of staff buzzing around, from all over the world: a lovely, talkative Scottish nurse; a Russian surgery nurse with thick black eye make-up; a German anaesthetist who promised me my best.nap.ever; and my sweetheart surgeon from Pakistan. Dubai’s multi-cultural ethnic mix extends to the hospitals too.

Is it just mums who rather than enquiring about the method of anaesthesia, ask: How long can I sleep for?

Is it just mums who rather than enquiring about the method of anaesthesia, ask: How long can I sleep for?

But, while I really liked all the medical staff, it was my bed buddy behind the curtain – a young man with no companion – who really made me smile.

The Russian nurse with the heavy eyeliner was walking round with a clipboard taking pre-surgery notes. She’d already made me a red wristband signalling my allergy to penicillin, and I overheard her ask him the same question: “Do you have any allergies?”

“Nah,” he replied. “Just traffic…” he quipped, “….and cats!”

After surgery, our paths crossed again in the recovery room. I wasn’t very with it, and quite possibly high on intravenously injected pethedine – which must explain why I gave him a cheery thumbs up.

He waved back like an old friend, grinned and mustered the strength to call over:

“See you on the other side!”

I think he was in for a biopsy on his trachea, and I really, really, sincerely hope the news was good for him.

Shortly after, the anaesthetist – keeper of those marvellous sleep drugs – came by to check on us. “So, you’ll be back tomorrow, for another nap?” he asked me.

surgical-cartoon-3