Climbing mountains

Watching the BVI Dinghy Champs from Emily's balcony and Nanny Cay (Photo Credit: BVI Beacon)

The boys have been racing all weekend as it's the BVI Dinghy Championships and Tyler has made over 200 rolls for lunch. I've ventured down both days and it has been good to get out a bit again. Hardly a hardship, as you can see.

James's first Red Fleet race. Photo: BVI Beacon

With fellow team member Amalie Clark. Photo by Ed Childs

It's been an up and down week.  I'm getting stronger by the day but am still left chronically tired after the smallest exertion, which frustrates the hell out of me. I am going to have to start back at square one to build my core strength up again which had me feeling pretty depressed this week at the thought of it all. Since I don't find exercise or gym easy to do even when I'm fighting fit, this feels like a steep mountain to climb. Anyway I've given myself a stiff talking too (several in fact) and I'm going to start by walking up and down our hill once a day  with some very loud music on the old Shuffle.

I also feel completely saturated by the World Wide Web. It's enough! I don't think I can look at another Pin Board or read another food blog or scroll through endless artisan websites anymore. The relentless number of kale and quinoa recipes becomes mind-numbing after a while and there are only so many Habitually Chic lives I can look at before I want to run off and join the Baader Meinhof gang.

I almost felt compelled to knit this week, which tells you how bad things were getting as I despise knitting.

I've now tidied up the study and my desk. I even sharpened some pencils. I'm going to try a bit of work in town on Tuesday which will also take my mind off things as we hear about James's school application this week. There is no Plan B so it could be an interesting week.

On a positive note I feel rejuvenated on the bakery front. I've spent time trying new recipes, redesigning our packaging and sourcing potential products and stuff for our 'new' venture, if it ever comes off. It's quite easy to get burned out by it all, but I seem to have reconnected with my inner Domestic Goddette with all this time spent at home.

I promise not to Instagram any of it.

My Mother

Barbara, April 2014, Cape Town. Photo by  granddaughter Paula Mills

Don't you think that too much emphasis is placed on youth and 'start-ups' nowadays and not enough at the other end of the spectrum? Old age seems to be synonymous with the ghastly state of old age homes, Alzheimers (which my father had) and "old people" as opposed to people who are just older doing interesting things.

My mother has recently turned 85 and lives on her own in Cape Town. She is a testament to how vital and relevant and independent one can be at her age. She is passionately engaged with global news, political debates and the latest trends.  Her most common expression is "I saw an interesting programme on BBC the other day..." She cuts out news articles for me on stock prices, old friends and restaurant reviews and sends them 9000 miles to the other side of the planet along with a coffee mug for my birthday with "I love cooking with wine...Occasionally I add food" on it, as it reminded her of me.

My mother grew up during the war on the outskirts of London. After an unexploded bomb was discovered at "the bottom of the garden" her family moved into a rather grand country house hotel along with a coterie of eccentric Polish countesses and other colourful Mittel  European refugees. As her convent school was also bombed at much the same time, she spent her days playing snooker, golf and bridge with all the old dowagers and became particularly good at darts.

After the war, there was "no point in going back to school" so off she went to Wimbledon School of Art  where she met my father and promptly married him at 17. They lived in a gypsy caravan next to the Epsom racetrack with yet more old duchesses and 'real' gypsies until she had my first brother, Paul.

Despite my suburban childhood, my mother always retained this slightly bohemian quality. She dressed me in pink and navy tweed when everyone else was in Seventies dungarees with heart patches. My father gave her beautiful Persian jewellery and she had her hair done by the bouffantted 'Mr' Piaonni himself, the last word in Cape Town Sixties chic. She always wore Arpege perfume and put on red lipstick ("it's important for yourself, really") before fetching my  father from Pinelands Station promptly every afternoon at 5:30pm.

She taught me how to read silver hallmarks, made all my clothes and scoffed at shop bought biscuits. We collected pine ring mushrooms on the winter slopes of Table Mountain and ate them with real crumpets dripping with butter in front of our fire at 5 Rheezicht, with the ersatz 'river stone' wallpaper on the chimney piece.  We ate bacon and egg sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper on Bloubergstrand every Sunday morning before going for a "good walk" along the lovely, hard sand and she made me homemade play dough before it became a symbol of Pinterest Good Mumminess.

As I write this, I realise how keenly I am like my mother. How her 'everydayness' has become me and how I am in my own home, with my children.

We are both strongly opinionated and unsentimental and we argue like sisters, trade harsh words and drive each other to distraction. We admire and respect each however, which I think I prefer. I love her so much it aches.

My mother is the only one of my family left in South Africa apart from my brother who lives on the other side of the country on an isolated farm, miles from anywhere. The rest of us are sprinkled to the remote corners of the globe.

What a difference the big tech companies could make if they invested in teaching computer skills and internet saviness to the over 70's. Imagined if they opened up social media to this generation and gave them access to all the wonderful information and ease of communication out there. Think of all the possibilities and good use that such stylish, wise and interesting people would put it all too as opposed to the infinitely shallow and narcissistic culture of 'selfies' and 'My Perfect Life'  which is so all-pervasive.

No doubt as the twenty year old Silicon Valley techies age we will see this shift, but I want it now. I want my Ma on Twitter and Pinterest and FaceBook. It would be hilarious but it would also mean that I could hear her say "did you see that programme on BBC after the news last night? You must, it was riveting. Here's a link".

In a pickle

Balcony sundowner sans Gin & Toto

I had way too much excitement yesterday as Cessie and I cooked up a storm trying to re-stock the bakery with our traiteur range (in one go, it seemed) so I'm back in bed today. No lecturing please. I keep thinking I'm stronger than I actually am. Found to my horror a few days a go I can't even open a bottle of tonic (I can manage a can) so no sundowner G & T on the balcony, which was pretty shocking.

The Guilty Culprit: Piccalilli

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Hrmph

Polka on Rotation. At least he's reading the music here

I am getting stronger day by day now and can even feel mozzie bites again which I havn't felt for weeks (as my skin surface is numb) and best of all I've almost got my sense of taste back, but in the process seem to have lost my sense of humour. Such a weird feeling not being able to taste. Mealtimes became quite joyless without the pleasure of eating. I'm also walking unassisted now around the house and can maneuver the staircases - which has been a big leap, well totter maybe, forward.

It was my birthday on Tuesday. Thank goodness for Facebook, otherwise the day would only have consisted of bed, a good book and 12 hours of complete silence apart from a few lovely long-distance phone calls. Not exactly celebratory, but peaceful all the same.

The crap truism of being too weak to make the most of all the downtime also frustrates the hell out of me. The omnipresent Baby Books, for example, are always there to haunt me. I've so far managed James's first year, which only leaves me with 31 years to catch up. My fine motor skills are shot however and we don't have any photographic developing on the island - so I've got quite a good excuse this time round. The deadline has to be the first grandchild I'd imagine, so a few more years of self-abasement and guilt to go.

I've now watched just about everything there is to see on the iPlayer and have used up my social media quota for the next 5 years. I'm am getting up every morning now and on Thursday was able to help Georgie prepare for his RCM piano exam. Although I plonked back into bed completely exhausted afterwards, I did shed a few frustrated tears at not being able to accompany the boys to their exams.

It's been nearly 6 weeks now with this ghastly 'thing' and I am the worlds most impatient person. The severity of it has been all encompassing, but recovery must surely be on track if the personality is starting to default back to type? I start physio next week and am looking forward to re-building this rather broken body. I'm also working hard on keeping the serenity but regaining the sense of humour.

In the meantime though I'll just keep  hrmpphing like Eyeore in Winnie The Pooh and ignoring the plastic chips which are meant to be made into beanbags.Uncompleted Project Number 350.

Tigers Don't Cry

The Patient 

Years ago I went to a Chinese masseur in Joburg. As usual my back was a washboard of knots and it was  painful. As I cowered on the table the masseur said briskly to me  "Tigers Don't Cry" (my Chinese birth year) and it has sort of become my mantra since. I quite like the idea of being a tiger.

Tigers can however get a bit bored in bed especially when it's been almost a month. For the first two weeks I wasn't up to much as I was so ill,  but now that I'm slowly getting better I'm looking at ways to stay sane and productive, whilst remaining reclined.

Unfortunately my attention span is shot along with my central nervous system so I can only do things in small bite-sized chunks. I've watched vast amounts of daytime TV and read so much Daily Beast and Mail Online that I'm starting to think in the same ADDT kind of way (10 Reasons Why You Should Never Get Sick).

I know full well that this is dumbed-down schlebby journalism, but what the hell - it's about my level at the moment, so here are my '5 Ways To Remain Sane Whilst Recovering from GBS' which may come in handy one day, you never know:

Make sure you are well looked after

1. Pick the Right Medical Team

I have four gorgeous boys looking after me. I would have had to have been at deaths door to have gone to hospital and being at home amongst my own things and family has been my secret recovery weapon. Tyler gets to play Doctor Doctor too.

2. Get a VPN

We have a virtual private network account (with My Expat Network.Com) and we have downloaded the BBC iPlayer which means we can stream 'real' BBC all day long and watch as much Master Chef and Graham Norton as we like.

3. Start Pinning

Pinterest has to be the Platinum Award-winning Vaporizer of All-Time as well as a really sad way to live vicariously. Since I've needed to do both lately, I've indulged my vice with alacrity and have reinvented my wardrobes as well as designed and furnished new houses around the world and planned enough dinner parties to last us into the next millennium. Handy.

4. Write a book. In fact write three

I cannot make up my mind which one to start first, so I'm writing all three together. I am a tiger after all. So there's 'Family Food' the cookery book, 'The Bucket List' which is my Chic Lit potboiler which is going to make us our millions and an autobiography called "Baking in the Tropics". I hope to finish all three by Christmas. Ha ha. Anyone know any publishers?

5. Being Happy

Recuperation Chic

I've had a lot of time to think. Priorities have become priorities again. Therefore I've worked out that just about the only things we can control in life are (1) ones weight - so I'm going on a diet (2) fitness levels - so I'm taking up Pilates, Yoga, Running and now that I've seen that underwater iPods are available, swimming

Clearly recovery is also linked to emotional well-being and  I'm feeling strangely calm and quite happy really. I suspect it's all the rest.

I'd be even happier though if I could have a bed-jacket made out of pale pink ostrich feathers and some satin slippers.

A Teenager plus Zombie vs Anaconda

James, our eldest child has turned 13 today. He was the most beautiful baby (and I know we all say that, but he really was) but he also had ghastly colic and used to scream relentlessly between 2 and 4am every morning. Nothing would calm him down and so to prevent infanticide Tyler used to stick him in the car and drive round and round the block until he eventually fell asleep. 

Things have improved a bit since then and he's turned out to be a fine young man. He's an innate gentleman with a gentle sense of humour, but he's also fiercely competitive with a steely determination which will take him far. We're very proud of him.  

It's Easter weekend. We'll have a braai/barbecue tonight for James, some paschal lamb at some stage tomorrow and hopefully some warm sea and fun on Monday. We all need some lightness and air at the moment. It's been a tough few weeks.

I still remember the Christmas cards my mother used to order from the Foot & Mouth Artists every year. The inscriptions which accompanied the slightly garish paintings of poinsettia’s and nativity scenes always fascinated me as I marveled at how people had the fortitude to paint with their mouths and feet. My mother also never failed to remind me  'There By the Grace of God' and I always had a slight chill as I imagined it to be my worst nightmare.

So here I am with Guillain Barre Syndrome.  The acid test this week, to prevent the $24,000 (yes I havn't got a zero wrong) iv IG treatment, was whether I could walk across a room unassisted. I managed although I did look like a drunken Charlie Chaplin, thus saving the children's future school fees and putting me at the lower end of the GBS spectrum. 

I'm now into the first phase of recovery (hopefully) which is characterized by less pain but greater fatigue, as the body starts to repair the destroyed myelin sheaves around the nerve ends. I've basically spent most of the week either sleeping or navigating staircases, but have also enjoyed a good Jack Reacher novel and lots more Masterchef and Great British Menu. 

The medication I've been on is so strong that I've honestly felt like a Zombie wading through fog. I quietly stopped taking the Pregabilin to see what happened and after about 6 hours I felt like a big, fat Anaconda was slowly wrapping itself around my body and squeezing the hell out of me. Must have slithered up somewhere through the mists (POSTSCRIPT: The numbness had extended to my diaphragm after I started taking the painkillers, so I hadn't experienced it yet). However, apart from the Anaconda, the pain has receded dramatically - which is such a relief. The choice therefore of Zombie vs Anaconda is a no contest. Give me Anaconda anyday. The drugs have been chucked.

Since this is all going to take a rather long and tedious time to recover, I might as well embrace it all and order myself a chic walking stick for my upcoming birthday and start writing that book I've been thinking so long about. I'm also dabbling in expanding our website into more of an island foodie blog too, as well as starting the planning for our Christmas bakery and our upcoming Trans-Atlantic lives, leaving very little time to feel sorry for myself.

Plus we now have a teenager to contend with too.

Curved ball

I'm sitting here in bed two weeks after I wrote my last blog. In that short space of time, a lot has happened.

I'd already noticed that I had a numbness in my feet and hands even before the boys went away, which got progressively worse as the week wore on. I also noticed that I seemed to be walking peculiarly and every bone in my body ached, which frankly is no longer that unusual. 

The only thing that seemed to help the pain was to lie in a very hot bath, and so I spent 7 nights sleeping in the bath as I struggled to keep going with the bakery. By Thursday I had to concede that something was very wrong  and 'Googled' all my symptoms. I could immediately see that whatever I had was neurological, which in itself is pretty scary. By this stage the pain was phosphorescent and the numbness had become all encompassing and I was struggling to walk or lift my arms. Poor William the 8 year old, who was fortunately on holiday, was helping me up and down the stairs and doing all the cooking and Cessie the Wonder Woman was keeping me and the house going.

William and I snuggled up on the sofa and watched more television in those 3 days whilst we waited for the boys to come back, than we've done in the past 3 years. Thank goodness for our BBC iPlayer. I do think it kept me this side of sane, as my body burned up, turned to jelly and stopped moving. 

Long story short, after various trips to St Thomas, spinal taps and pints of blood removed - I've been diagnosed with Guillain - Barre Syndrome (GBS) which is a fairly rare autoimmune disorder in which the body's immune system attacks the peripheral nervous system. It certainly ain't a picnic, but it's curable and I start IV immoglobulin treatment next week. I'm already through the worst of it and plateauing out now, but recovery is a long process (months) and I'm left pretty weak and unable to walk unassisted although I'm getting quite good with a stick already. 

It's obviously a set-back but also life changing in a positive way, as I've been ordered to have 100% rest. "What's that?' I asked myself and nearly had to 'Google' that too.

Thing is that now that the pain is being managed with some Schedule A opiates and we have some sense of where we are going with this, I intend to make the most of all this mandatory rest. There's a lot I can do from our beautiful home here in Carrot Bay and I will slowly start picking up on my bakery work as I begin to feel stronger and get a bit more movement back. 

What a thing, eh?