The organ grinder and the monkey

It seems like so much longer since I returned from Great Hucklow-so long I finally got the name right. But I came back feeling very low-I was tired, down, in a very pissy mood, and everything went wrong in these two weeks. So I stayed away from the computer, since I know from recent experience that nobody should write anything to anyone when in a very bad (or depressed) mood.

Everything really did go wrong: the plumber didn't show up (twice), so I still have a leak in the kitchen. Someone else didn't show up to fix a light switch-so if there is a fire, I hope it happens when I am absent! And on and on it went, to the point where I finally imploded. I sat on the bed, stuck my face in the pillow, and screamed and cried, and punched the pillow a few times. I wanted to do this all silently, just in case the neighbors thought I was being murdered. Then after about ten minutes, I felt better, and I did what any self-respecting woman would do under the circumstances: I went shopping.

I thought about buying a new stereo-but the one I want is so expensive, I wouldn't be able to take a trip home in the new year. So that was out. Instead-I bought a new hat. Did I need one? No. But so what? I've been through one ordeal after another-for four years, and there is no sign of it stopping-so I decided to buy a really lovely burgundy trilby. Expensive, yes-but much less than a new stereo system! And I came back, feeling much happier than I had felt in the last two weeks, and paraded in front of the mirror, deciding that I look really terrific. Why not? I recommend buying something when you feel really depressed for a long time-not a car, or a house (unless you are very rich, in which case you can buy me one, too)-but a hat? Great.

I had a very bad time, with the black dog biting big chunks out of my behind and refusing to leave-for longer than usual. But I have been so stoical since the gentamicin experience, and the cancer experience-cracks were bound to show in my facade of being happy and cheerful and joking. I have never felt sorry for myself for very long, or moaned to anyone (other than close friends) for very long, so this really long, black mood took me by surprise. And it was bound to happen sooner or later.

But some good things happened in these two weeks, too. I remember when I got my first job, and my granny gave me some good advice: if you want to complain to anyone, don't talk to the monkey. Talk to the organ grinder. Well-I had to laugh, but it is so true: find the person in charge, the person with the power (the organ grinder), and don't give up on what you want (or think you deserve) until you either get it or are given a valid reason why you can't have it. I'm just as guilty of complaining to all and sundry as anyone else, I hasten to add-another piece of good advice I ignored for too many years. Until two weeks ago.

I rang Mullaley's about the total mess their people made of my kitchen (if you are in the UK, never have Mullaley do any work for you-unless you want to stress yourself into a heart attack or a brain hemorrhage), and rang my landlord. I did both, repeatedly; I made a pain of myself until I got some results. I was not going to give up. And last week I had a visit from two very large men-I say "very large" because my kitchen is very small, and they kept bumping into each other. It was almost very entertaining.

One was called Dave, and he was the landlord's representative; the other, John, was the surveyor from the company that gave the contract to Mullaley. They spent forty minutes crashing into each other, taking photographs, saying what a terrible job had been done, and then asked me if I would be happy if they put everything right-including the washing machine, which the geniuses had broken by dropping it twice (and right in front of me, too). Yes, I said, I thought that would be very fair.

Someone from Mullaley (called Danny Murphy) will be here on Friday-along with John, the surveyor-and will organize everything to be fixed. And there is a lot to be fixed. But John assured me that it will all be done, and in the next few weeks, so we will see if they will all keep their word. Organ grinder. Only complain to someone who is in charge and can make decisions, and just keep at it until they get so fed up with you that they give you what you want just to get rid of you. Huh. Middle age can be a blessing.

But-there is also some not-so-good news this week, too. I've been having some pain for over a week-and I put it down to middle age: things go south, you get more lines and wrinkles, more grey hair (mine couldn't be any more grey-it's been grey since I was twenty), and when you move you start to creak in places that never used to creak. In fact, some days I creak so much that I think I seem like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz-except that he was taller and a better dancer.

I finally decided to call Mr. Tan's office (the oncologist who performed the mastectomy last year). I told his secretary that I was having pain under my right arm, and that it wouldn't go away-I said it is probably nothing, but I said that last April, too, and look where that landed me! The next thing I knew I was called and told that I need to go back to see Mr. Tan this afternoon-because cancer can come back. And that was the reason he didn't do any reconstruction last year. The cancer might have returned-and gone into the lymph nodes. I will know more when I see him a bit later. That is a bit of a blow.

Whatever happens, I will deal with it. I handled the total destruction of my balance system four years ago, when I was finally told that I would never be completely better (I'm not completely better, but I'm not giving up, either). I handled breast cancer, knee surgery, hospital admissions for serious chest infections-I handled everything, on my own-the only real support came from the people who are closest to me, and they are over the Pond. Everyone who called themselves my "friend" in this country disappeared. I couldn't stand up without falling over after the gentamicin, so I couldn't go out and party-so that was that. And last year-well, perhaps people thought that cancer is contagious. You exhale, they inhale, and - oops! Who knows? Cancer frightens people. It scared the hell out of me, I can tell you!

I'm a bit nervous about my consultation with Mr. Tan this afternoon-but whatever it is, I will deal with it. These last four years have taught me how to be very, very strong. And one thing I do know for certain: if I can't take my new hat and my Kettle Chips with me, I'm not going anywhere.