Samuel’s move to the hospice

Our youngest son Samuel was diagnosed with an unfixable congenital heart defect when I was 20 weeks pregnant, in December 2018. He was born on 1 May 2019.

We had a lovely first day with Samuel and some close family and friends. I was still confined to a bed, having had a planned c-section. That night, a fabulous senior nurse offered to hold Samuel for a few hours, after her long shift, so that Mike and I could get some sleep. I wasn’t able to get out of bed yet, so couldn’t pick Samuel up from his cot or change his nappy. Mike and I were staying in a suite that we had to ourselves, with a lounge, kitchenette, double bedroom and en-suite. It is tucked away from the delivery suite, and used for families who have lost their baby during or soon after labour.

After the nurse had gone, Mike had been sitting in the lounge for a while, and was knackered. I said that I could hold him for a while, so that Mike could get some more sleep. I didn’t think that it would be for long, as I couldn’t walk him round the room, make up a bottle, or anything like that. I think it was about 2 hours in the end, that I held him. He was so settled, that although he was awake a lot of that time, he didn’t cry once. He just seemed to peaceful. Anyone who knows me, knows that this would have been a very different experience for me after my two older kids! I never knew that a newborn could be so content.

At about 5:30 that morning, I texted my Mom, who was staying with Dad and my sister Laura a few minutes away. I asked her if she could come round soon to help with Samuel. About half and hour later she was there.

A nurse came to our room soon after breakfast and said that she was going to remove my catheter, and I needed to get up and have a shower. They wanted me to be able to be discharged as soon as possible, so that we could get Samuel to the hospice. We wanted to make some memories with him, without his whole life being lived in a hospital. The average time to stay in hospital is 3-4 days after a cesarian section.

I had a shower and got dressed without any help. I was very proud of myself. It was painful, but managable. I hadn’t realised that my painkillers from the day before hadn’t worn off yet. I was discharged soon after lunch.

Samuel and I were being transported by the ambulance, so we said goodbye to Mike at the ambulance door, and climbed in the back with a paramedic and a nurse from the hospital. Samuel was in a little baby pod, which they use for transporting little ones. He seemed quite happy for his first and last journey by car. We went over the Clifton Suspension Bridge, which gives great views over Bristol. It was the first time on that bridge for both of us. Soon we arrived at Charlton Farm Hospice. Mike was already there.

The hospice is a precious place, set in countryside outside of Bristol, and just what families need who have a child with serious illness or disabilitiy and a short life expectancy. The nurses, (well) sibling team, volunteers, food, bedrooms, garden and communal areas are just amazing. It really was the lovliest place for us as a family to live for Samuel’s short but sweet life. It is a charity, set up by a couple called Eddie and Jill Farwell, who had two children with life-limiting illnesses.

Here is a link if you would like to donate directly to Charlton Farm, in memory of Samuel:

Donate to Charlton Farm Hospice

We unpacked our bags in the family accommodation upstairs; bustled around the huge estate, met some staff and said hello again to others we had already met, and introduced them to Samuel. Connor and Bethany arrived, as well as our parents, and siblings Laura, Phil, Vince and Anna. And then my body decided that enough was enough. I was in so much pain that I could only curl up in a ball in a chair and whimper. It’s a bit of a blur, but the nurses were great and I got painkillers soon enough. My family enjoyed the privilege of changing Samuel’s nappy as a team task.

Our friends Ryo and James visited us that night. We wanted as many people as possible to visit him, so that they would have memories too. Later, Samuel went a little blue and I thought that he was going to go downhill fast. I was relieved that we had been able to spend a day with him at the hospice, but it felt too soon. He started to get better after a while though, thankfully.

That night was hard: Mike, me, Connor and Bethany were sleeping upstairs, while Samuel was in the poorly kids’ accomodation downstairs.

Every ill child has a large room with en-suite bathroom downstairs. The rooms have CCTV, which is monitored by at least two nurses all through the night, in a comfy area called the Meadow. They are on hand to make sure that the children are looked after while their families get some much-needed rest. For many parents of disabled children, the respite care offered by the hospice is more valauble than gold. It’s the only time they get to sleep through the night, have a stress-free meal, and spend quality time with their well children. The parents can watch a movie in the cinema room without constantly worrying about their child. The siblings can have fun going out on day trips or doing art with the sibling team, while the disabled child is cared for. I can see how it must be a precious thing for every family who has a child with a life-limiting condition.

Anyway, the reality of having had major abdominal surgery the day before, and then rushing around all day pretending that it was ‘just a scratch’ hit home that night. Trying to get out of bed to go to the toilet in the middle of the night was agony. I needed Mike to help me, but didn’t want to wake him up. A couple of hours later, I did anyway as I had a panic and needed to see Samuel right away. I wasn’t physically strong enough to walk all the way downstairs by myself, and knew that I would collapse in pain if I did. So I woke Mike up, feeling pretty guilty. We knew that the kids were safe, so we went to  Meadow to visit our baby.

He was happy, with four nurses seeing to his every wish and taking turns to hold and feed him. He was treated like a little prince: everyone wanted a cuddle. I sat with him for a while, gazing at his gorgeous face and watching him practise his facial expressions. He especially liked to pout. A nurse made me a hot chocolate and gave me a biscuit. I felt much better.

Samuel’s birth

I said that Samuel would be born in May, and I was right.

My induction was scheduled for Monday 29 April in Bristol, but the hospital was too busy that day to fit me in. They called to ask me if I would be happy to get a call sometime overnight to go in. I didn’t want to wait longer than necessary, so I agreed. We thought that it would make more sense to already be in Bristol for if I did get the call at 1am; rather than trying to wake up properly before heading down the motorway.

So Mike and I stayed at a holiday home on Monday night, one that his parents had rented for the week, in order to be close to the hospital when I got the call. My parents were staying in Bristol too, and my sister flew down from Scotland to be near.

We didn’t sleep much that night. Waiting for a life-changing call is not conducive to a good night’s sleep.

Anyway, the place was nice. And we did not get a call in the night. The delivery suite called at 9:00 to ask me to go in to be induced after lunch that day, Tuesday. It was scary, but I was glad to have a time. We had a little walk around and enjoyed a snack at a coffee shop that was too ‘woke’ for us. But the food was good. Later, we had lunch at a lovely pancake/ waffle restaurant near the university.

It was a nice day out with a massive looming event that got closer every minute. Desperate to meet our baby boy that I was, the birth was something that I had been extremely worried about since the formal diagnosis in January.

I just couldn’t picture how I could have a calm natural birth when I knew that Samuel may well die in the first few minutes after birth. Having had two natural labours, I knew that my body could do it. My mind was the problem. If I could have left my brain at the hospital door before going in, I knew that I would probably be fine. But there you go. Brain-removal wasn’t an option.

After lunch, we made our way to the hospital. We sat in a soulless side room for a few hours, waiting for an induction room. This was the low point of the day: a mixture of boredom, discomfort and worry. Finally, a nurse came and spoke to us. She told us that she had arranged for us to go to a suite that is reserved for patients whose babies have died. Although windowless, it was a much nicer place to be. You could make your own drinks or toast in the kitchen, and had a small lounge area as well as a double bedroom and ensuite bathroom.

Samuel had been breech (bum down) the previous week, and had been easily turned. The doctor who turned him said that there was only a 5%  chance of him turning into the breech position again. I remember thinking that he probably would take that 5% and turn it into 100%. So I asked for a scan  before being induced. It is possible to give birth naturally with a breech baby, but there are risks. I couldn’t deal with any more risks.

The doctor brought the scanner to my suite. It confirmed that Samuel was not head-down and ready for birth. He wasn’t breech either; he was transverse, which means that he was lying sideways. Transverse position is dangerous for the baby and the mum, and you can’t have a natural labour because the baby would get stuck and/or suffer from cord prolapse, putting its life and its Mum’s life in danger. I was told that because of the risks, I wouldn’t be able to leave the hospital. Not really what I was hoping for!

I said that my worst fear about giving birth was that I would have an awful long labour, and then Samuel would die before being born. The obstetrician said that her worst fear was that I would have to have an emergency caesarean section involving a general anaesthetic (sometimes these are required), and then if Samuel didn’t live for long, I may sleep through his entire life,  only waking after he had died.

It was then that I realised that having a planned (and therefore calm and non-dramatic and less stressful) c-section was the best option. The doctor agreed, and she said that they would be able to do it first thing the following morning.

I felt peace as soon as the decision was made. I ‘knew’ that it would be a longer recovery for me, but also that a calm swift birth was the best thing for the start to Samuel’s short life. That said, I totally underestimated how painful a recovery from major abdominal surgery would be.

A kind nurse organised for us to sleep in the suite that night, which was a relief as otherwise Mike would have had an uncomfortable night trying to sleep in an armchair next to my bed, in a small sideroom. Usually the suite is only reserved for families post-birth. This was one of many examples of NHS employees going out of their way to get the best possible care for us, above and beyond their job description or pay scale. I hate to think how much all of my and Samuel’s care would have cost in a country like the US, where the medical system  seems to be ‘provide the best for the richest, and everyone else can sod off.’

I went into theatre as planned, at about 9:00 on Wednesday 1 May. The doctor and anaesthetist had already visited to introduce themselves to me, explain the procedure and answer any questions that I had. The room was full of doctors and nurses, and everyone was nice. A screen was placed across my chest to reduce infection risks, and also stop me and Mike from seeing my insides. I think that I would have enjoyed seeing my insides tbh; I find surgery fascinating. I was rolled slightly onto my left side, while on my back, prepped and anesthetised (by spinal block, similar to an epidural). I have since found out that the angle is so that the prolific waters, when the incision is made, flow out onto the less experienced doctor. The lead obstetrician stands on the drier right side of the patient.

I felt calm.

After a few minutes, the lead doctor took Samuel from the warmth and security of my womb into the loud, brightly lit world. The time was 9:59. Samuel was born. He gave a gentle cry.

He was handed to me, to lie across my chest for some skin-to-skin cuddles. I looked down at his squishy little face and smiled. I noticed that he was turning dark purple. Loads of froth started to pour out of his nose and mouth after only a few seconds. I knew then that he may well die, after only a very few minutes of life.

We had been warned by his cardiologist that he may live between a few minutes and a few weeks. There was no way of telling how long we would have with him.

He was whisked away. Our carciac nurse Jess, who has been amazing throughout, from when we first met her after my diagnosis, was in theatre too, at our request. She took some beautiful photos of Samuel being born, from the active side of the screen. She told us that she didn’t think Samuel would live for much longer. I tried to reconcile myself to this, while feeling extremely disappointed that it seemed our baby would never get to meet his brother and sister, this side of Heaven.

Two things that we were desperate to achieve during Samuel’s life was for our older kids to meet him, and for us to have a photograph of us together as a family of five. Other events were important too, like meeting his grandparents and getting to the hospice, but we knew that he may not live long enough to reach these goals.

It took about 10 minutes for the doctors to attempt to revive Samuel. I couldn’t see him, but the room was very quiet. Apparently he changed colour from  purple to blue to white during this time. I think that he was pretty much dead, or very close to it. I knew that he would have a tragically short life; I just wanted a little longer.

He was resuscitated and handed to Mike. He started to cough. This was a good thing, as it cleared his airways and allowed him to breathe more freely. After a while, he was given back to me to cuddle. I kissed him and said

“Hello Samuel, I am your Mummy.”

Soon after the doctors had finished sewing me up, we were taken to the recovery room. When a woman has a caesarean, she is given some time in the room with her baby, away from the busy maternity ward. Usually her partner isn’t allowed in there. This recovery room had space for two patient beds, with a curtain between them for privacy. The second bed had been cleared out, and a comfy sofa put there instead. There were drinks and snacks on hand. A plastic hospital cot sat in the corner, unnecessarily. Our children, Connor and Bethany were sitting on the sofa, waiting to meet their baby brother.

We got our much-wanted photo of our family of five. 🙂

Both sets of grandparents also got to visit and cuddle their youngest grandchild, as well as my sister Laura, who flew down from Scotland to meet her nephew.

We got many photos. The nurses were lovely and made us all teas and coffees. I was stuck in the bed of course, but the painkillers hadn’t worn off yet. We had lots of cuddles. Some friends from church visited. After the initial scare, Samuel was well and happy. It was a wonderful, peaceful day.

That night, after all visitors had left, we returned to our suite. A senior nurse who works in the neonatal ICU at the hospital, offered to come and sit with Samuel for a few hours after her 12 hour shift had finished, so that we could get some sleep. This is what the NHS runs on, the goodwill and kindness of staff who who stay after their shifts finish; who go out of their way to help; who don’t expect any financial benefit in return.

We got a few hours sleep, and my Mom arrived at 6:00 the next morning to help some more.

We were eager to get to Charlton Farm Hospice as soon as possible, so that Samuel’s entire life wouldn’t be in a hospital. We had visited it a couple of times when I was pregnant, and knew that it would be the perfect place for us to live as a family during Samuel’s life. It is an amazing place.

To be discharged from hospital, I had to show that I could get out of my bed, use the toilet and wash and dress myself.

So at about 8:30, a nurse came to encourage me to get up. I managed to shower and dress without any help, and then, feeling pleased with myself, set about busily packing our numerous bags and so on, naively forgetting that I had undergone major surgery only 24 hours before. I was to pay for that later.

Mike’s parents brought Connor and Bethany back for a visit, and Mike’s brother Phil came too. I was given the good news that I was going to be discharged soon after lunch. Soon, after a few more special visitors, Samuel and I headed off to the hospice in an ambulance, while Mike drove himself and met us there. I worried that Samuel would become ill or distressed during the journey, but he was fine in his little baby pod. We drove over the Clifton Suspension Bridge, which I thought was cool. Samuel was unimpressed.

Another big target achieved: we got to Charlton Farm. Samuel was 28 hours old and doing well.

Waiting

Waiting for a baby to be born is an exciting, knackering and slightly scary time. Waiting for those first contractions is like being in an airport and wondering when your flight will be boarding. You are packed and as ready as you can be, and all that you can do is now is to grab something to eat and try to be patient.

I remember looking forward to meeting my two older children. I knew that labour would be the hardest thing that I had ever done (although the second one was much easier); but imagining holding your beautiful new baby in your arms can get you through many contractions and indignities.

I am also looking forward to meeting my youngest child, Samuel, who will be born soon. I imagine holding him in my arms for the first time. I picture the joy on my first two children’s faces as they meet their baby brother. I will love having photos of us as a family of five together.

But, the truth is that he may never get to meet his siblings and wider family. We have no idea how long he will live. Those first few cuddles as my husband and I hold him for the first time, may also be the last. That first photo of me holding him just after birth, when let’s face it, I will be far from photogenic, may be the only picture that I ever have of us.

I packed my hospital bag for myself and him, but he may never wear some of the nappies and clothes that we bought. I am preparing myself for labour, just as I have done before, but we are having to plan his funeral at the same time. Many people don’t even plan their funeral or think about their death even when they are old and ill. We are planning our son’s funeral even before he has left the womb.

Waiting for Samuel’s birth is like waiting for a flight, but this time it’s not to a destination that you ever wanted to visit. Although things look the same from the outside: I am well, he will look healthy when he is born, it will be a natural birth, we will still get to cuddle our baby; the place that we are travelling to looks dark, feels scary, isn’t normal.

…

I love Easter, and not just because of the chocolate eggs. Believing that Jesus chose to be born on Earth, with the intention to die as the sacrifice for the sins of all people, is the most important part of the Christian faith. That the son of God wanted to be born as a helpless human baby to then take the sins of all of us upon himself, and die; and therefore to save those who put their faith in him from eternal death, is a truly amazing thing. It’s so unfair and love-filled and seemingly crazy that many people can’t get their heads around it.

By dying on the cross for me and everyone, Jesus has taken away my fear of death, because I know where I am going.

But does that take away death’s sting? No.

Does that mean that I don’t mourn loved ones when they die? No.

Does that mean that seeing Samuel die so young will be easy? Definitely not.

I am confident that we will meet Samuel again one day in Heaven. His heart will be perfect then. But that doesn’t mean that we won’t suffer when he dies; or that we’ll ever ‘get over’ his death.

God gives and he takes away. There will be no crying in Heaven, but there is plenty of it here on Earth.

This Mother’s Day

This Mother’s Day is

our first and last together.

Kicking my belly, so full of life,

You look perfect on the outside.
You’ll never walk,

Never learn to talk,

Not have a first day at school.

You won’t open Christmas presents,

Scrunching the crinkly paper in your little fists

and hiding in a box.

You won’t enjoy cake on your birthday,

Sing nursery rhymes,

Or have friends round to play.
But your life is full of meaning:

Bursting at the seams.

A lifetimes’ memories squeezed

Into a too-short time.

You won’t know fear,

Nor be lonely,

Never be forgotten.
I want you to know

That you are loved.

Our beautiful baby son.

I’m so grateful to be your Mum.

 

Broken-hearted

I wasn’t sure whether to write this blog, but I know that it will help me to process. I don’t feel strong enough for this. But, a few people have reminded me over the last few weeks just how strong I am. Even though I feel weak at the moment.
Every life is a miracle. Every baby that is born has won against the odds and is cause for celebration.
When I found out that I was pregnant, after the initial shock, I was happy that my body has recovered so beautifully after some nasty cancer treatments. As someone from my church said to me, this baby really is a miracle. I had been told by doctors that I wouldn’t conceive naturally. I was even offered fertility treatment, which I declined.
I did, however, say to my husband Mike fairly early on, that some people would judge us for daring to have another child after cancer. Some would think that having more than two is madness anyway; and if the baby was ill, they would be quick to blame the cancer or its treatments.
My pregnancy has been surprisingly easy: little sickness, little fatigue. I feel physically stronger than I have done for years. The 12 week scan showed no problems at all, and I was referred to an obstetrician due to my medical history. She asked about my cancer treatments, including which chemotherapies I was on (they are very diverse, and you get different chemos for the huge range of cancers); as well as other medications. She said that there are absolutely no concerns due to cancer. My having had treatments (a few years ago now) would not even slightly increase the risk of any illness or disability to my baby. One thing that she did mention was that I didn’t need to be referred for my medical history, but I should have been due to my daughter’s.
When my daughter was born (a long time before I had cancer), there was a valve that should have closed straight away at birth (the human body is very complex) but hadn’t. She went grey when she cried due to lack of oxygen getting around her body. She was resuscitated twice soon after birth, and then taken to Special Care Baby Unit. A cardiac consultant who happened to be visiting from Bristol at the time, did a thorough heart scan in SCBU while we watched. He said that she would need a heart operation in Bristol, in the next few days. Obviously this was a complete shock to us, as nothing had been picked up on any scans, and there is no family history of heart problems.

We told family and close friends, and spent the next few hours watching her connected to numerous cables and monitors, and praying for healing. Amazingly, by the next day her heart was perfect. There was no need for any operation or even follow-up, and we were never even told her actual diagnosis at the time. She is completely healthy and almost never ill.
When we saw the obstetrician, she said that sometimes there is a small risk of younger siblings having heart problems if an older one had. This was the first we’d heard of it. Any baby that is born, no matter how healthy, young and awesome its parents are, has a 1% chance of having a heart defect. Often these are minor. A baby who has had a sibling with any heart problem, generally has a 2-5% chance of having a heart defect: usually these are minor. These are fairly tiny percentages we are talking about. I doubt that many people deciding to have a baby find out what percentage chance there is of their baby having this, that or the other defect, illness, or disability. If they did, they would probably not take the risk, and get a puppy instead.
My obstetrician wasn’t concerned, but said I could have a 24 week scan, on top of the normal 20 week one, just in case. I went away feeling reassured.
So, besides a niggling feeling that something wasn’t right, I went fairly confidently to my 20 week scan. The sonographer was very thorough. Baby wasn’t in a good position, so I had to go and empty my bladder. She spent a while looking at the heart, and then asked about my daughter. I can’t remember her exact words, but they were something like:
“There is something wrong with your baby’s heart.”
That was the moment that everything changed. Any hopes of a healthy, happy pregnancy and baby were gone.
The sonographer would not talk about it anymore, understandably as she isn’t a cardiac doctor. She took another scan and some photos of the baby, and went off for a few minutes to complete a referral form for our nearest cardiac specialist hospital, in Bristol.
My husband and I were upset, but there was still a chance that the sonographer had got it wrong, or it was only a minor defect. But, having looked more carefully at the baby’s heart on the second scan that she did, I could see very clearly that the heart wasn’t right. A large part of it seemed to be missing, and although I am not medically trained, I knew that something was very wrong.
We were told that Bristol would contact us for a scan soon, and left the hospital, to go and tell our children and family some very bad news. We had an awful two week wait until we saw the foetal heart sonographer, consultant and obstetrician in Bristol. While others celebrated a ‘happy new year’, we knew that 2019 would be an incredibly difficult and horrible year, just when things had finally started to look up.
The foetal cardiac consultant confirmed soon after the very detailed scan that baby has the very worst type of heart defect. The heart can never be fixed, and baby will never be well. There was also concern about other organs’ functions. They told us that an option was to terminate. We didn’t have to decide then, but were sent away and told to get back to them. Mike and I had been worried before the scan that if the news was very bad, we may have different opinions on how to proceed.
Thankfully, we both quickly agreed that the best decision for our baby was to carry on with what would essentially be a ‘normal’ pregnancy (I am breathing for him at the moment), and allow the baby to be born. The doctors can’t tell us how long baby will live after birth, but it may be hours or days. This is called comfort care, where the specialist nurses and doctors ensure that the baby doesn’t suffer any pain, but that it will be allowed to die naturally, hopefully in our arms.
We decided to find out the baby’s sex, to help us think of it more as a little person. It is a boy. We wanted to name him before birth, to give us a chance to get used to his name. We asked our children if they had any suggestions, and our daughter said “Samuel.” This name was already on my short-list of boy’s names, so his name is Samuel. It means ‘heard by God’. In the Bible, Samuel’s parents dedicated him to God as a young child. When I read the Bible as a child, I was always in awe of his parents, who must have trusted God so much to let their son go. He audibly heard God talking to him, from a young age.

…
The NHS doctors, nurses and palliative care team are doing a wonderful job of looking after us and making sure that everything will be in place for the best possible birth experience for me, and the best care for our family once he is born. They will make sure that we have as calm and special a time together as a family of five, no matter how short Samuel’s life is. They will take photos and fingerprints and put together a memory box for us. They are trying to get us space at a hospice, for if he lives long enough for us to go there. I have a wonderful cardiac nurse who is keeping me updated on all of the meetings that the many teams are having about us, and the numerous appointments that I am having. She is an ex-South African too, and an absolute Godsend.
The palliative care team have told us that we are a very rare case, in that our baby isn’t born yet but that we know, barring a miracle, he will die. We have discovered that most people in our situation choose to terminate. They are making lots of plans for us, in case I or Samuel are ill after birth, that we are still cared for well. We will be meeting the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) team, and see the private suite where I will hopefully be able to give birth. We can also visit the hospice.
I have come to realise that, even though he may only live for a few hours, my youngest son’s life is just as valuable and precious as anyone else’s. People don’t like to talk about death, yet we all know that we are going to die one day. I am not worried for Samuel when he dies: he will be in Heaven, safe and free from pain.
…
Please don’t avoid or ignore us for the next few months in case you say the wrong thing. If you are a good friend or close family and genuinely care about us, your ‘wrong’ words will be much less painful than losing a relationship with you.
That being said, please don’t tell us that we should ‘have more faith’ or quote lots of Bible passages at us as though we haven’t read the Bible before; or that you know exactly how we feel because your cat died last week. Also, please do not tell us if you decide that you know why Samuel is ill. You don’t know why and would only be showing your ignorance. People often want something or someone to blame, but your opinions on the matter will not be helpful, now or in the future.
If you want to help, please feel free to pray for us. Also, send an occasional message to let us know that you are thinking of us, so that we don’t feel too isolated. If you have lost a child, please know that you are welcome to talk to me about them. Your story is valuable.

We are all artists

Like many kids, I loved drawing. I would do it a lot: mostly portraits of my cats sleeping, and also making picture books. Once I made a little book called ‘The Woodland Folke’; it was about squirrels and other British animals in a very British setting, which is odd as I didn’t go anywhere near the UK or even Europe until I was 16.

I did art as a teenager too, but slowly grew out of it as I grew older. Nothing unusual there, sadly. As someone once said, every child is an artist, so why are so few adults? It’s so sad, because creativity is brilliant for stress relief and escaping the noise and screens of life.

As a 33 year-old cancer patient, my life suddenly got strangely quiet. Yes, I still had my family and kids and numerous hospital appointments, but there was a lot I couldn’t do. I had chemo fatigue, I was hugely restricted on socialising, and I was house-bound for much of the time. What I could easily do, without leaving the house or being subject to germs, was draw.

I found #shapechallenge (run by @StudioTeabreak )on Twitter, and started to draw small and umimpressive doodles most days. It didn’t tire me out, let me be creative, and gave me a sense that at least I had done something ‘useful’ that day. It also offered a sense of community which had suddenly slowed to a trickle once my treatment started.

It was wonderful.

Now, 3 years later, I can draw so much better, and still love the artistic community and support on Twitter. Now I regularly take part on #PortraitChallenge which I never thought I would be good enough to do. Novices, book illustators and all sorts of creative types take part, and it’s great.

I also do drawings just for the sheer pleasure, and as gifts for friends. I have also contributed to the #breastcancerart project, which recognises the theraputic value of art for those living with or after cancer.

I realised that every time I draw, I feel happier. Some of the chaos of life is silenced and I have a little more peace. If something causes so much joy and isn’t illegal or bad for me, I would be crazy not to do it!

I believe that we are all made to be creative, but adult life squeezes it out of us until we are fooled into thinking that we can’t make or do anything beautiful. For some it’s visual art, others music, others baking, writing, carpentry or dance, but I believe that there is an artist in all of us, desperate to get out there.

Sometimes, I think that my drawing isn’t good enough to share, or that because I’m not using paint that it’s not ‘real’ art, or that people will judge me for showing off; but I know that those are lies and I will never be fully the person who I am made to be if I allow myself to be silenced.

And actually, what other people think of my art isn’t important (although of course I want it to be liked); because drawing makes me happy, and therefore is of great value. What could be simpler that that? 😊

Go to

http://www.jabberworks.co.uk/virtual-studio/

For more info on #shapechallenge and #portraitchallenge

For more about the breast cancer art project, go to

https://breastcancerartproject.wordpress.com

 

 

 

Autumn returns

The leaves are turning yellow and orange again. The air feels cooler, and night falls more swiftly. I love Autumn because it is beautiful, but also because it reminds me about the briefness of life.

Summer seemed never-ending, and was it really that hot? But here we are at the start of a new season. And soon it will be winter, with its icy dark days and bleak trees. What could be good about winter, besides the first few hours of snow, and hot chocolate?

I think that without the reminder of our own mortality, life is all too easily taken for granted. Knowing that one day we will die, reminds us to enjoy what little time we have; to make the most of what we’ve been given; to hug our loved ones more tightly.

And after the emptiness of winter, we know that a new life awaits us. We look forward to it. Death and life are opposites, yet like two sides of the same coin. There is no need to fear winter, because one day spring will arrive.

For now, I will breathe in the scent of woodsmoke, delight in the colours, and be grateful that I am here to enjoy another Autumn.