I believe Winston Churchill first said the words, ‘Never, never, never give up’, but today’s zeitgeist is so saturated with this sentiment one could easily think it was Lorna Jane or Bear Grylls who came up with the idea! The past few months have certainly heightened my appreciation of this strong message of persistence and resilience. Lately though, I’ve been feeling it’s too warlike and perhaps a tad egotistical, to be of continuing use in my current circumstances.Continue Reading
In a comment on my last post, my dear friend and author of the incredible As the Lonely Fly, Sara Dowse, exhorted me to ‘forget the Methodist upbringing’ and rest big. That reference to my distinctly Protestant Christian childhood hit me like a B-Line bus barrelling down Pittwater Road. I’ve never considered myself a blamer but if I had to point the finger at the root cause of my own personal work addiction madness, I’d blame the Methos and the Scots. Allow me to explain.
When Lucy Pevensie meets Aslan on her second trip to Narnia in Prince Caspian, she asks why he didn’t jump in and save them like the previous time in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Aslan answers, ‘Things never happen the same way twice, dear one,’ which sums up precisely my feelings about this second go at chemotherapy.
Recently I’ve gotten back into the pool, slowly building up my lap numbers and time in the water to around 45 minutes. It’s hard work but very satisfying and the toning effect on the old treatment-ravaged bod has been almost instantaneous. Even though my togs have a pouch for my breast prosthetic, I’ve never worn one to swim anywhere let alone in a chlorinated pool, fearing degradation of whatever material is used to shape that fake left bosom. And that’s all good from an aesthetic point of view because when one wears body-hugging racing cozzies, being one breast down is barely perceptible. From a functional perspective, however, the one-breasted swimmer can’t help but feel a little lopsided when coursing through the water.