Take a breath

A few weeks’ ago I found myself hunched by my front door, gasping for air – alone. I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t talk. And I couldn’t look after myself. Just thinking about it makes my heart beat a little quicker. As the emergency operator encouraged me through each attempted breath, I grasped every particle of energy I had to stay conscious. I needed to let the approaching paramedics in. I worried they’d have to break down my door which would be: 1) inconvenient to fix, and 2) could injure me further.

In the midst of this experience I did the stupidest thing anyone experiencing terrifying symptoms should do – I Googled them. Why? Well, I was trying to convince myself that I was fine, that I was being a hypochondriac. A GP had visited me just three hours earlier (at 3am in the morning) and I’d been ‘fine’ when he left. Now my lungs were shut tight – no air was going in or out. I was projectile coughing mysterious, white foam all over myself, all over the floor.

My doorbell buzzed after what felt like an hour (it can’t have been longer than 10 minutes). I was greeted by the most attractive human I’ve seen in a long time. Seriously!?! I was in my pyjamas, covered in gross foamy stuff, a weird shade of blue and gaunt, getting rescued by McFreakingSteamy. It was all very dramatic and rather unnecessary.

As we sped along in the bumpy ambulance, I still didn’t realise how serious my condition was. I teased McSteamy as he stumbled a little, trying to sort out my nebuliser (so I could breathe) – yes, I am that shade of arsehole. I chatted with another paramedic who was born in Joburg and raised in New Zealand. I scoffed when we got to the hospital and they brought me a wheelchair, saying “you guys are all going to be very embarrassed when you realise I’m actually really not that bad”. But when I stood up I toppled over and lost my breath.

I was taken into A&E, checked and immediately moved into resuscitation. I had my own personal doctor (well, technically I had three) and two nurses working for some time to get oxygen back into my body, while (apparently) preventing my heart from crashing. I had no idea what was going on but it all felt unnecessarily theatrical.

I always thought being a paramedic was a bit of a gross job. People bleed and vomit on you and you have to jump on top of people to work at their stopped hearts. You work awful hours too. But when McSteamy popped past my bed and gave me a little nod on his way out of the hospital, I realised how cool his job is. He wore a look of humility-mixed-with-pride on his face that I’ll never forget. He knew he’d saved my life that morning and he was so very elegantly-smug about it.

As vial after vial of magnesium were pumped through my veins I felt incredible waves of warmth. As the warmth subsided and I began to feel stable, I felt alone. I dived deep into a moment of self-pity. Then I took another moment and realised that I hadn’t actually told anyone I was in hospital. I pulled out my phone and sent a few texts and immediately I had friends on the way and others calling through. I was on my own, I was not alone. I am never alone. I just needed to ask for help. And in the following days I’d have so many visitors that I’d have to stop them from coming so I could get some rest.

I’ve learnt a few lessons from losing my breath. Firstly, I’m learning to ask for help when I need it. I should have called for emergency help MUCH sooner (I was appropriately told off on my ambulance journey and later on by the doctors who likened the severity of my asthma attack to a heart attack). I should have called my family and friends when I was struggling in the night – not after I was admitted to hospital.

In the week that followed my escape from the respiratory ward, I stayed at a friend’s home, getting fed tea and snacks, while resting. I continue to accept that sometimes we need to let others look after us. As a tough, independent, don’t-need-anyone lady, I will continue to struggle with this concept. The amazing people who’ve cared for me, from my friend who flew from the States to move into my home and support me, to my friends and family who travelled and took time off to come see me, I’ve learnt that people really care – but they can’t care if they don’t know. We’re built for community, we’re designed to look after each.

Most poignantly, I’ve learnt to appreciate the life I have and the beautiful details around me – the kind you only notice when you slow down and dump perfection. How wonderful it is to take in a deep breath and feel my lungs fill with air – who cares about the unwashed plates in the sink? As I recall moving my bottles of gin from my ‘exposed’ butler’s tray into my kitchen cupboard at 3am, while gasping for air before my GP visit, I wonder why I was so worried about his perception of me.

I am blessed to be alive. I am blessed.

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Not sweating the big stuff

I was in central London on Wednesday, just a few days after the recent terror attack. As someone who’s been eye-to-barrel with a loaded gun, I’m understandably a little shaken when something violent like that happens. The sight of small children playing cowboys with water pistols can sometimes set me off. So before I ventured into the city I took a moment to prepare myself for the journey. I watched the news and focused on images of police officers and soldiers protecting the city – particularly the ones with guns.

I was really afraid of going in. Afraid to go on the underground. Afraid to travel on the buses. Afraid to be in busy areas filled with people, people who might be plotting something awful. Afraid to see a cloud of anxiety dampening the energy around one of the world’s most awesome cities. A city that represents the peaceful merging of multiple cultures.

When one of my colleagues suggested we meet on the platform in Guildford and head into Euston together as a team, I jumped at the opportunity. I usually avoid group activities. I’m vehemently independent, so much so that my actions can sometimes come across as rude. Though I’m an extrovert, I’m a little different to most. Sometimes I need more space to feel like I can breathe. Sometimes I need to think more than speak and listen. And often this means I don’t want to be in a group of people when I’m feeling uncomfortable.

After rushing around, believing I was late and had missed our train, I found myself on the designated platform half-an-hour early, mentally preparing for a challenging day. My colleagues found me in line desperately ordering coffee from a kiosk that didn’t accept cards (balls!) I then sent them scrambling for cash while all the suburb-to-city-caffeine-depraved commuters behind me made tut-tut noises under their breaths (yup – I was that asshole). I then took one sip of the murky, brown brew and then chucked it – it was truly terrible.

After all my rushing, squabbling and weirdness, I realised that I was the only person who was the slightest bit anxious. My colleagues were all cheery and completely relaxed; chatting about boring stuff like what new digital things they’ve tried recently. The voice in my head was screaming ‘Really? We’re going into a city where people died at the hands of terrorists four days ago and you’re chatting about memes and holidays and mundaneness? We could all die!’

That’s the thing about the English. They don’t panic. They don’t make a fuss. They go on. When their cities were bombed during the World Wars, they suited up, drank their tea, made biscuits from whatever rations they had and went about their daily lives like nothing of particular importance was happening. My granny sometimes spoke about calmly heading down into the underground when the sirens sounded. Those times must have been terrifying but they didn’t stop her from living her life. She fell in love, travelled, got married and ‘went on’ during the war.

More recently when a talented young, American pop star returned to head-up a benefit concert for fans injured in the Manchester Terror Attack, the English showed up in their masses and had a brilliant party. (btw I salute you Ariana.) When three idiots ran around Borough Market stabbing people in the name of religion (an act that seems far removed from the religious ideals they claim to uphold), Londoners banded together to help each other.

In my years in the UK, I’ve encountered only three things that can upset the English – obscure tea (anything that’s not English Breakfast, Ceylon or Earl Grey), bad biscuits and the weather. The first two are rather rectifiable and don’t cause too much offense. But the third is a bit of a pain – nothing brings the city of London to a standstill like three tiny flakes of snow falling on the train tracks. Nothing! This just goes to show that the despicable creatures who aimed to create havoc are weaker than a few flimsy flakes of frozen water.

My trip into London was almost-disappointingly uneventful on Wednesday. We even went ‘up the pub’ for a few pints and some Pimms after finishing our meeting a bit early – as you do. The city was its usual bustling, chaotic, orderly self. If anything, people on the tube were a little friendlier and slightly more polite than usual. I recognised the usual London I know and love.

In my initial months in the UK, I found the excessive, conversations around which tea biscuit is best and whether Jaffa Cakes are classified as cakes or biscuits (a conversation that starts politely but can set off rather vicious debate), and the lack of challenging views around politics and world affairs, rather frustrating. And I’ll probably never fully get it. But what I’m totally learning to subscribe to is the concept of not being flustered by anything that you can’t control.

We can’t control the attempts by some to diminish our order, our happiness and our democracy. So any attack on us will be brushed off. It will not stop me and others from embracing our cities and enjoying their energy, beauty and soulfulness. I can control the biscuits I eat and the ‘stupid, milky’ tea I choose to drink, so I will fight off anyone who dares to insult my snacks of choice.

I’m learning that sometimes it’s better to sweat the small stuff so you can manage the situation and get what you want (like complaining to the bank and getting £50 as an apology), and stick your chin up through the big stuff that can’t be controlled – like a Brit. Life goes on… we should go on too. Now just to get the railways to see snowflakes as the ‘small stuff’.          

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Plan B and beyond

I must confess, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m completely and utterly winging this adult thing. One day, people are going to find out that I’m really a 22-year-old living in a 35-year-old’s body (that day might just be today). Most of my friends are off celebrating their anniversaries and having more babies while I’m just hanging out working, travelling, writing and drinking all the gin – which makes me rather happy, really. 

When I think about Plan A, I realise how much I completely and utterly messed that up. My plan was to be an adult. Set up a picket fence. Change nappies. Arrange PTA fundraisers. Make homemade jam. Run marathons every now and then. Contribute to the world by being responsible and a good role model and stuff. Yet here I am. On a path so far away from Plan A that it’s impossible to even imagine what the plan was at the beginning. In fact, I’m not even living my Plan B. I’m on like Plan F.

Mysteriously my exercise app reached 10,000 steps yesterday and pinged ‘congratulations’ while I was shlumfing on the couch, with a sore head, shoving Ben and Jerry’s in my face, directly from the tub. I think, in reality, I’d done about 300 steps. To the bathroom. The kitchen. And to the front door to accept my food delivery. I was meant to go for a walk in the countryside. And for a drive around my new town to plan my future. Or alternatively head back into the city to visit the Tower of London with a friend from home. Instead I spent the whole day recovering from two straight days of wine, margaritas, GnTs and loads of fun.    

I was a calm twenty-year-old. I did a bunch of the usual privileged-brat things. But mostly I was a grown up. I didn’t drink too much. Or swear. I stayed away from drugs and experimentation. I was nice to my parents – most of the time. I went to church every Sunday and served in the greeting team. I spent a year volunteering at a male, juvenile prison over  weekends. I gave to the less fortunate. I had a long term boyfriend who I was completely faithful and committed to. I got a job reasonably soon out of uni and worked really hard. Despite being in advertising I avoided putting white powders up my nose – or anywhere else. All things considered, I was a saint.    

Fast forward to my thirties and I’m doing twenty better. I’m still fairly geeky (I’m not exactly experimenting with narcotics or prostituting myself - which is slightly disappointing, I know). A few months ago I met some colleagues for ‘a drink’ around 5pm on a Friday. I woke up the following morning with a whopping headache, feeling dazed and confused. I spent some time looking through my mobile phone photos to understand the timeline from the evening before. It involved four fabulous women, 11 bottles of bubbles (according to the receipt in my bag), pulling on the flat shoes, leaving my car somewhere in town and getting dropped off by a colleague’s boyfriend at 3am. I awoke with a careful sigh, mindful of re-drunking myself from the alcohol fumes. I felt a marvellous sense of achievement. I 22'ed myself. How completely irresponsible.

Despite the fact that it’s all gone wrong. That my plans have unravelled one by one. It’s all been quite perfect. I’m intolerably happy. I’ve learnt to let my hair down. But hold onto my values. Be a bit of a disaster. While keeping it together (mostly). Go on some terrible dates. Pick up the pieces. Go on more. Find myself living in a new country. Allowing my career to unfold in ways I never planned, or expected. And drink all the margaritas.

My inner control freak has moments of panic. When I take second to internalise that I’m not on script. That my narrative is completely upside down and inside out. That there’s no one waiting in the wings to support. That I used the picket fence as firewood. And the jam bottles for cocktails. I’m on my own in ways that many will never understand. There’s nothing quite like settling 10,000kms away from your family and friends to show you things about yourself that you never knew.      

Though on the surface, it seems like everyone around me has it all figured out, I know that’s not the case. We’re all just shuffling through this thing called life, trying to understand our purpose, be good people and be happy. We’re all in it together. We all have our successes and our failures. We’ve all missed Plan A in some way or another. And it’s totally ok. Here’s to whatever plan iteration you’re on – it's yours, may it make you happy beyond your own belief. Cheers!

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Being kind to my crazy

I need to share my feelings for a moment. I have so many recently. I even have feelings about having feelings. It's like they all had a conference, put a surprise strategy together, snuck up on me and slapped me silly. Maybe it’s because it’s the last stretch of winter and I need some sunshine. Maybe it has something to do with transferring all my money into my conveyancer’s bank account. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl and I’m stupid sometimes. And, yes, I realise I just demolished 100 years of carefully constructed feminism with that comment. I’m suitably ashamed.
   

You know, it's really tough being a woman sometimes. We have feelings that can’t always be categorised. That can’t be neatly filed in one of our brain cabinets and closed after sign off. We get a hard time about this. But do you really think we want to have so many feelings? Do you really think we want to hang onto them rather than file them away and forget about them? I know it’s inconvenient and annoying that we can reference the seven ridiculous things our partner did before 9:00am on the 12^th of March, 2002. But it’s also kind of amazing, don’t you think? No? 

A while back, after travelling through Europe for some months, I found myself lost on the underground. I was homeless. Unemployed. Unwashed. Exhausted. Heart-broken. And infected with all the bugs that backpackers collect from grubby hostels. I had no idea where I was headed and I had no idea where I was going (which are two entirely different things). I’d been following my carefully hand-scribbled instructions, which hadn’t considered that the tube may be undergoing engineering works – rookie error! My line, the Northern line, was down. I was stuck in the dark, scary, smelly bowels of London. Dazed and directionless.

Looking around for an unsuspecting guide, I realised I was well and truly alone in the busiest city in the world. Great! Then it happened. I had a wonderful brainwave. I needed a moment. A moment would solve everything. So I threw all my luggage on the filthy floor, flung myself on top of it and let go. I had a delicious sob. The kind of sob that empties all your feelings of despair and hopelessness and gives you space to think again. The kind of sob that makes models look like Freddy Kruger. It was loud, messy and downright ugly.  

Mid-sob, I felt myself being lifted to my feet. To my horror I faced three beautiful, burly men from the BBC who were off to film a football game. They’d been yakking so much they’d failed to hear that the Northern line was down and they’d crossed my path – the path less travelled. I thanked them for their kindness and asked them to leave me there to finish my moment. They refused. They were worried about my safety. I was a quirky Kiwi girl lost in London. I needed help. I cried more. They apologised for mishearing my Australian accent. I wailed. They picked up my luggage and dragged me onto the Bakerloo line and to Waterloo Station.

From there they helped me onto the train and gently shoved me and my luggage off at Clapham Junction so I could find my way to my bestie’s home. Somewhere along the journey they’d finally guessed my correct nationality. And had successfully managed to stop the tears, without actually telling me to stop crying. They’d even induced an odd smile and a giggle or two. It was like they were seasoned pros at dealing with emotional outbursts. It was like they thought it was normal to break down every now and then.

This all made me realise that there’s really no shame in having a good 'releasing the feels' moment every now and then. People are kind to our crazy sometimes – because we all have a little crazy in us. I usually try to pack my feelings into an air-tight bomb disposal unit behind my ribs and take a psychological holiday. But the unit slowly fills up with unfiled thoughts from my brain. Then I overthink, which leads to even more feelings. Before I know it I’m about to go nuclear – and no one needs to see that.

You know… girl, woman, guy, dude or anything in-between, it’s ok to release the feels (preferably in a safe space - but, whatever, I don't judge.) It may mean looking like a hideous swamp-donkey from time to time, and perhaps feeling like an idiot. But that’s ok. We all have our moments. We all understand. We're all imperfectly made up of complexities and too many feels.  

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A bit of a mess

I went away on a solo weekend recently. Because this year I’m going to visit the first ten places on my local travel list and two on the international. Well, at least try. On my first solo yolo I decided to head to Somerset. I splurged on a lovely little family-run, boutique hotel in Bath.

I was rather chuffed with my quirky little Victorian room. A four poster bed. Maroon velvet cushions. A bottle of South African merlot. And lots of other special touches. I felt like a princess. I quickly unpacked and prepared to head out into the city for the afternoon. Feeling rather parched after my drive up, I reached for my open orange juice with a little too much enthusiasm. Somehow I managed to knock it over and spill thick, sticky juice all over the cream carpet.

I acted quickly. I grabbed a toilet roll from the bathroom and used a good half of it to get the orange juice out of the carpet. Success! I was about to throw the orangey paper mess in the bin but then I realised it would look somewhat dodgy. And I didn’t want to cleaning staff to judge me. So, ingeniously, I threw it all in the loo and flushed. It took a few flushes to get the whole lot down. I felt a wonderful sense of achievement. Clean floor. Clear loo. Perfection restored.

Off I went on my adventure. I started at the Roman Baths and totally geeked out on swishing my hands around in the lovely, warm water that the Romans used to skinny dip in two thousand years ago. I stopped geeking out when I noticed the sign warning visitors that the water is ‘dangerous’ due to old, lead pipes and shouldn’t be touched. Oops. Next I headed to the abbey and then through the lovely city streets.  

After soaking up as much Bath, as I could in one afternoon and evening I stopped off for a curry. Then I headed back to my hotel, feeling smug. On getting back to my room I started to feel a little woozy. Possibly from the curry. Possibly from the lead poisoning. I made friends with the loo for some time. (Sorry). On flushing, the water began rising. I flushed more. Things rose more. Everything was coming up instead of going down. I desperately flushed repeatedly somehow making it worse. It was like being in a Ben Stiller movie.

Armageddon exploded in my bathroom. It was the end of my dignity. My germaphobia. My pride. And reception was shut. There was no one to help. I thought of calling 999, but quickly reconsidered when running through how I would explain my life-threatening emergency to the operator. I guess I could have called the hotel’s night line. Or a plumber. I could have packed my bags and headed to the nearest Holiday Inn. Most helpfully, I could have stopped flushing.

At some point, I gave up. I went to bed feeling very uneasy, hoping that when I woke up in the morning, the chaos would have sorted itself out. Because that kind of thing happens all the time. Because sometimes life sends you a ‘get out of jail free’ card. Guess what? That didn’t happen. I woke up to a half-flooded bathroom and all kinds of terror. I texted some friends that were staying nearby in an attempt to get help, advice or sympathy. I made a joke, suggesting switching hotels with them. They didn’t bite. I was on my own.

I somehow managed to shower and dress. Then I sheepishly crept down to reception to tell the owner that I’d destroyed his beautiful bathroom. Mortifying. I then disappeared for the day ensuring I wouldn’t have to face him ever again. I had a wonderful day and managed to forget the disaster I’d left in my wake. I avoided coming into contact with anything that could give me lead poisoning and I had a Subway for dinner, with no mayo, no chilli, no jalapenos. And when I made my way back to my hotel, I found my room fresh and perfect, as though nothing had happened.

On going to bed I couldn’t feel at ease thinking about how strangers had had to clean up behind me. I felt so weird about it that I struggled to sleep. I know it’s their job, but it’s still not fair. Passing the buck(et) after I caused chaos just felt wrong. The next morning I left an overly generous tip for the cleaning staff as I said goodbye to my room. It wasn’t enough, I should have left them the password to my bank account.

As I get through things that just aren’t fair and deal with the messes around me that I didn’t cause (on purpose) I will continue to remind myself that sometimes that’s just the way things are. We all have those days. We all cause those days (hopefully unintentionally). We learn the lessons. We take the hit. And we figure out to stop flushing.

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