The Misadventures of a Playground Mother (22 page)

I
was standing patiently
in the queue at the Doctor's surgery waiting to check in with the receptionist. Well, when I say queue, there was one patient in front of me. He was an elderly man who was wrapped up tightly in his grey duffle coat with a tartan scarf draped around his neck. The receptionist was in a battle of wits arguing over an appointment that he appeared to have missed. He wasn't going to budge until she allocated him a further appointment and preferably one today. She led him into the nurses' waiting room out of earshot of the onlooking, nosy patients, and calm was finally restored. I didn't like these places; I didn't like them one little bit.

‘'He needs sectioning,' one woman bristled. I tried to drown out the cries of a screaming baby with a raging temperature; the tired distraught mother rocked the baby incessantly while apologising profusely to the faces that were staring at her.

‘'Name,' the receptionist bellowed at me. She didn't even look up at me.

‘Rachel Young,' I replied politely. I smiled, but it was wasted on her; still not making any eye contact with me, she continued to tap on the keypad in front of her.

‘Take a seat,' she commanded.

Unwillingly, I plonked myself down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room, the furthest away from the artificial Japanese fruticosa tree and the man that was coughing profusely into an oversized hanky. Picking up a magazine from the pile on the table, I flicked through an ancient copy of Heat. I wondered how many thousands of hands it had passed through since its release back in 2007. A minute later, the double doors flew open and a couple emerged hand-in-hand from the doctor's room.

‘Rachel Young, you can go in now.' Thankfully, the doctor was only running half-an- hour late, which by any doctor's standards is a miracle in itself. All eyes in the waiting room watched me push open the double doors with force. Like an episode of ‘Stars in your Eyes', but lacking the drum roll, I disappeared through them without so much as a puff of smoke.

I knocked on the doctor's door, and he bellowed, ‘come in!'

I entered his room to find him looking up at me from behind his desk – smiling – which was more than I could say for his receptionist. Gesturing with his hand towards the seat, I sat down opposite him. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Young?' he enquired.

I didn't really know what he could do for me. The reason for my visit was one of gut instinct. Something inside me had been niggling away for a while and I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. My health, as far as I was concerned, was good. I rarely suffered from colds, chest infections, or even my water works, unlike Sue who struggled to hold onto the contents of her bladder every time we went running or she sneezed – we often joked she should seek shares in TENA Lady. Recently I had been feeling even more drained than usual, and remembering my mental note to myself I thought it was about time to find out if my body was lacking iron.

For a couple of months, I'd put it down to my increased activity on the running front; Sue and I had been pushing our running routine harder and faster each time we went out in preparation for our first race in February. On top of that, the mental exhaustion of having four children had tired me out completely even though I was lucky they were good kids, and no trouble at all. I was certain a bottle of iron capsules would put me right back on track. Explaining to the doctor I was probably wasting his time, it was more than likely down to the trials of family life, he suggested a couple of blood tests to see what they would discover. Flicking through my medical records he asked me a series of questions, the usual ones concerning my weight and did I smoke but the question I most dreaded was how many units of alcohol did I normally consume on a weekly basis.

‘Too many,' was my answer to that personal question; way too many. In my defence, I was thirty-five now and a few small glasses of wine each evening helped me to relax; well that was my story and I was sticking to it.

The only change in my body that I had recently noticed was a slight tenderness under my left arm at the side of my left breast when I pushed myself harder with the running. To be precise, it was more of an ache and on the odd occasion, it caused me slight discomfort. Sharing this information with the doctor, I assured him that I checked my breasts on a regular basis and there was nothing at all unusual. I'd never felt any lumps or bumps. All the same, erring on the side of caution he thought it was best to arrange a mammogram, which he scheduled for the following week.

Leaving the surgery, I sent Melanie a quick text to see if she was free for a cuppa. Smiling down at my phone, I laughed at her reply, ‘
only if you have cake!
'

Luckily for her, I hadn't been able to resist the magnificent Victoria sponge with oodles of cream oozing out of its sides that was screaming ‘eat me' when I cycled past the local bakery window that very morning.

‘I have cake! See you in five.'

Arriving back at the house, I kicked off my shoes and flung my coat and scarf over the banisters and went straight into the kitchen. Flicking the switch on the kettle and removing the cake from the fridge, I retrieved the mugs from the cupboard while pondering over my morning appointment at the doctor's. I debated discussing it with Melanie, but what was the point? I didn't really have anything to tell her. It was probably something or nothing and obviously, I hoped it was nothing. Before the water had come to the boil, Melanie flew through the kitchen door faster than a bird escaping the clutches of a ferocious cat.

‘Come in why don't you!' I laughed.

Melanie was looking frazzled which really wasn't like her and I could tell she had a bee in her bonnet about someone or something.

‘Have you seen this? The absolute cheek of the woman.' She thrusting a letter in my hand, and I glanced down to see what all the commotion was about.

‘It looks like a party invitation to me?'

‘Oh yes, it is that all right.'

I wasn't sure what I was missing, but I was missing something.

‘It's from that Charlene, her son is in Dotty's class, you know the one, the mother we joke about being Supermum.'

I knew exactly who she was talking about; the child spoke like Prince William with his very posh and proper accent, way too aristocratic for our local village school.

Charlene is the most prepared mum you would ever have the pleasure of meeting in the school playground, an extremely organised individual. She became worthy of her nickname ‘Supermum' the afternoon of bikeability. Supervising numerous kids wobbling on bikes down a main busy high street was enough for any teacher to consider phoning in sick for day. Bundled up in layers of clothes to keep warm, the children had faced the day being swayed by the high winds and dodging the scattered rain showers which for once was correctly predicted by the weatherman.

On this particular day, Melanie and I had passed the school gates at lunchtime while out for a stroll with the dog. We clocked Supermum running hell-bent towards the rows and rows of bikes that had been propped up or dropped in the school playground before the lunchtime bell. With the black clouds lingering above us, the raindrops had started to belt down heavily when we noticed her locate a bike and rest it up against the wall of the classroom. Whipping out a plastic carrier bag from her coat pocket she placed it neatly over the saddle and secured it with string, there was no way on this earth that she was going to let Frederick sit on a wet saddle when returning from his delicious packed lunch, which by the way, would also be fit for a prince.

I knew Melanie well, and she was still seething from the incident at the Easter Bonnet parade back in April. The school hall had been set out with long trestle tables covered in sugar pink paper tablecloths. Each class had been allocated their own stall of honour to show off their Easter extravaganza creations. There was a raised platform placed in the centre of each table where the winning bonnet from each class would be displayed with pride.

Melanie was a no-mess mother and by this I mean
no mess
. All gluing, painting and any cake baking, and other messy activities were on a permanent ban in their house – it was non-negotiable. I knew where she was coming from. The year before, I had the doubtful pleasure of opening the front door to a bunch of God-botherers; and while I was plotting a polite escape, my standard poodle bolted like the speed of light straight past us out of the front door with the contents of a whole packet of sanitary towels stuck down with superglue to the length of his curly back. It was at that point, that I realised I could not leave Samuel unattended for one minute.

On this occasion and after constant nagging from Dotty, Melanie had decided to throw caution to the wind or should I say chicks to the hat and Mission Easter Bonnet was underway. Braving the aisles of Home Bargains her shopping basket was overflowing with ‘anything Easter' that could be glued firmly to a pink straw bonnet. With the kitchen table laid out with newspaper and gluepots, Dotty was having a whale of a time decorating her bonnet. There wasn't any part of her hat left uncovered, without a doubt it was all her own work and Melanie was gushing with pride.

Carefully wrapping the Easter bonnet in a black bin bag, they had cautiously carried it to school the next morning, making sure none of the glued-on chicks flew the nest.

The Easter Eggstravaganza was always well received at school, when all the parents and even Grannies attended to view the children's wonderful creations of decorated bonnets and sample the delicious toasted hot cross buns while enjoying a cup of tea. This is when the tension began to surface, not from the kids I may add, but from the mothers. Once the toasted buns had been devoured a crowd of children, mothers and glamorous grannies quickly gathered at the front of the stage. Bridget, the headmistress, took the opportunity to announce the winning bonnet and present the child with a Cadbury's crème egg.

The winner from Dotty's class was about to be declared. Bridget, hushing the eagerly chatting mothers, was waiting to reveal the winning bonnet covered over with the cloth. Melanie knew it was in the bag. Scanning the table of hats, Dotty's was nowhere to be seen; it must be that hers was the winning creation – in pride of place – on the winners' podium.

‘The winner of the Easter bonnet is Frederick Pontington-Smythe; congratulations Frederick! Can we all give him a round of applause,' she announced.

‘Ta da!' She flung the cover off the concealed bonnet, and it was immediately apparent that no way a child in the infant school could have decorated that bonnet, unless he was child genius sculptor. Enraged, Melanie marched straight up to Bridget. Unable to control her anger and standing with her hands firmly on her hips, she spluttered out in front of a hall full of people, ‘Fix! It's a fix! I'd eat my hat if that entry has been decorated by a child.'

Melanie was correct; Supermum AKA Charlene was applauding her own work while Frederick shovelled his winning cream egg down his gullet. Glancing down at the floor, Melanie noticed Dotty's bonnet squashed on the floor underneath the metal legs of the trestle table.

‘Well?' said a breathless Melanie, back in my kitchen.

‘Well what? What am I looking for?' I replied. Puzzled, I flipped the party invite over to inspect the reverse.

‘Look at the small print underneath the RSVP telephone number,' she demanded, pointing to the bottom of the invitation.

Glancing down at the invite from Frederick Pontington-Smythe I focussed on the minute writing and then laughing, sprayed my tea all over Melanie!

‘No way, that's ridiculous! Surely no mother could possibly get away with that?'

‘Told you so; she has a cheek!' ‘She can't do that!'

‘Well she has, and I shouldn't mind as they must be the richest family in the school.'

There in black and white it read, ‘Frederick would like to invite his classmates to dine with him on 1st November at 5 p.m. sharp. The venue – Quince Kids … decadently delicious. Please dress to impress! Boys are to wear dinner suits and girls party dresses. Your meal will be at the cost of £15 per child, please pay me direct into my PayPal account before 25th October, details below. Kind Regards Charlene.

‘That is absolutely bonkers, the world has gone mad! Can you really invite a child to a birthday party and demand they pay for themselves?' I blurted.

‘No you bloody can't! Next she will be demanding money for the present because I bet Frederick is saving up for his first Porsche and will be collecting donations in the playground no doubt!'

‘Whatever ever happened to good old parties at home with pass the parcel and egg sandwiches?'

‘Charlene Pontington-Smythe is what happened!'

‘I take it you won't be lining Charlene's PayPal account with £15?'

‘Damn right I won't! The absolute brass neck of that woman, who does she think she is, a Hollywood superstar?' We both laughed and bit into the large slices of Victoria sponge. There was only one thing I would ever have in common with the likes of Charlene Pontington-Smythe and that was we gave birth to a child in the same class, but knowing her, she would have been too posh to push.

Melanie was comical with all her huffing and puffing through the scoffing of the cake. The hilarity of the situation was just what the doctor had ordered. It had taken my mind off my morning appointment at the surgery, well for the time being any way, but there was still a niggle in the back of my mind that just wouldn't go away.

T
he year was flying
by and I couldn't quite believe we were near the end of October already. The temperature had dropped sharply and the bleak mid-winter was upon us once again. I did quite like winter, and the dreary state of it all; it was a time of slow-cooked stews, homemade bread and oversized sloppy jumpers to snuggle up in and of course, X-factor was back on the television every Saturday night, which meant the run up to Christmas was well and truly underway. Each afternoon I would hurl the logs from the woodshed, pack the fire full of kindling and logs and toss in a firelighter. Watching the flames ignite, I would leave it burning furiously, ready and warming on our return from the school run. Once I'd collected the children from their tiring day, we would batten down the hatches; kick off our shoes, hang up our coats and make ourselves comfortable in our toasty living room while supping hot chocolate.

On the first of November, the letter from the hospital confirming my appointment dropped through the letter flap onto the mat. Not ready to read it, I scooped it up and hid it carefully behind the kitchen telly. Although extremely tired, I had a restless night and could not sleep. Trying not to wake anyone at two in the morning, I tiptoed downstairs to make myself a cup of milky tea. I retrieved the letter, and sank down quietly into the chair trying not to scrape the legs across the floor or make any kind of sound. Luckily, for me the dog didn't wake and the only noise I could hear was the soft sound of him snoring from his basket.

Finally having the courage to tear open the envelope, I noted the appointment was scheduled for the following Thursday. I pencilled in the ‘appointment' and the time on the family organiser pinned to the kitchen wall. I was beginning to feel apprehensive and I wasn't entirely sure why. Telling myself, I was being daft and there was absolutely nothing to worry about, I quickly drank my tea and returned to the warmth of my cosy bed. Snuggling back down into our bed and pulling up the duvet around my chin, I was positive that once Sue and I ran the race we were rigorously training for, my energy levels would slowly increase. I'd also put myself on a strict eating regime which included no alcohol, no chocolate and no crisps, which should help

I lay awake for a short time longer and watched the shadows of the trees dance across the bedroom ceiling, and then I finally closed my eyes.

I hadn't told Matt about my trip to the Doctor's. I didn't see the point, as there wasn't anything at this stage to tell, so there was no need to worry him. By the time I eventually drifted off to sleep, I'd convinced myself my increase in tiredness was down to a lack of iron and a surge in exercise.

Life in general at the moment was pretty damn good. There were no more trials or tribulations from Penelope or BB, and my friendship with Melanie and Sue was going from strength to strength; both friendships I treasured dearly.

The morning of my appointment I was in a complete flap, not only was I running late but also I'd forgotten to make the children's packed lunches. Matt, noticing how on edge I was, quickly gathered some change from his pocket. Dividing it up equally between the children, they each received a handful of coins so they could purchase a school dinner.

‘Are you OK? You didn't sleep last night; you spent the whole time tossing and turning,' he enquired, kissing my forehead before picking up his laptop and heading towards the door.‘No, not really,' I replied.

Matt turned swiftly and immediately placed his laptop bag down on the floor.

‘Why, what's up?' he asked eying me suspiciously.

‘Oh nothing, I'm just being silly it was probably one of those nights where my body is lacking in alcohol or something like that.' I laughed nervously.

‘You can't fool me Rachel Young, come on spit it out, I'm not moving until you tell me.'

‘You'll be late for work.'

‘And work can wait,' he replied firmly.

‘I've got an appointment, it's probably nothing, just a routine check-up at the hospital but I'm feeling a little nervous now.'

Matt's eyes widened, ‘at the hospital and you didn't think of telling me?'

‘I didn't want to worry anyone, its only routine, I've been feeling a little tired of late and had a small ache under my arm they are sending me for a scan this morning to make sure everything is just as it should be.'

‘This morning? You are going this morning?'

‘Yes, straight after the school run.'

‘Rach, why on earth didn't you tell me,' Matt replied rather annoyed. I knew he was annoyed because his cheeks began to redden, a sure sign he wasn't happy.

‘Please don't be angry with me, I'm feeling anxious enough.'

‘I'm coming with you.'

‘But ...'

‘No buts Rachel I'm not letting you go alone.'

‘Thank you,' I replied, relieved.

M
att accompanied
me on the school run and we didn't hang around once the children were safely in their lines. This morning I gave each of them an additional squeeze. After dropping Matilda and Daisy at preschool we began the journey to the hospital.

The drive was quite straightforward and we sailed through the rush-hour traffic with no delays whatsoever, and we arrived at the hospital twenty-five minutes later. Removing the ticket from the machine at the side of the barrier Matt pulled my car into a vacant space outside the hospital building.

We located the unit from the specifics in the letter, and headed off in the right direction, following the arrows on the signs down the long white corridors. I noticed numerous groups of people congregating around the coffee machines; this seemed to be the norm in hospitals. Whenever anyone didn't know what to do, they would go in search of a coffee machine. I was feeling slightly undressed It was silly really but the advice in the additional information stated to stay clear of all deodorant and perfume as they can play havoc with the mammogram, showing up as white spots if detected.

I handed my letter over the counter to the receptionist; she was extremely polite and put me at ease straight away. After confirming my personal details, a nurse took me through to a separate room. Matt waited patiently in the waiting room. My mind was elsewhere as I was trying to think of everything and anything that was positive. I filled my head with my children's faces, their smiles and their voices.

Handing me a gown, the nurse asked me to undress from my waist up. Pulling the curtain around the rail, she asked me to let her know when I was ready. Feeling nervous, I disappeared behind the curtain; it was deadly silent except I could hear the nurse breathing whilst she waited patiently for me on the other side. Removing my blouse and bra and folding them neatly, I placed them on the chair at the side of me. Taking a deep breath I managed to call out, ‘I'm ready.' The nurse pulled the curtain back, and led me through another door into a room with a lot of machinery. There was another person present in the room, a technician who was colour co-ordinated with the bright white clean clinical room we were standing in, even down to her clogs. She looked over at me and gave me a reassuring smile, making me feel at ease, well as much as anyone could feel at ease in a situation like this. Signalling to me to come over, I stood next to her and the machine. Her voice was comforting and soothing while she explained clearly, what was going to happen next. There was nothing at all to worry about and it was simple.

‘You will stand in front of this special x-ray machine. Each breast will be placed onto a plastic platform and then pressed by another plastic plate. You may feel some pressure, but that's normal, do not worry and keep still. Pressing the breast in this way spreads the tissue and prevents any sort of movement; it helps to get a sharper image. The steps are then repeated to get a side view. The compression for each breast only lasts a few seconds and the overall procedure takes approximately fifteen minutes. Do you have any questions?'

My mind was whirling; there was only one thing I could honestly say about myself and that was Rachel Young doesn't do pain.

‘Is it painful?' I queried.

‘Most women feel uncomfortable when their breasts are being pressed and some women find it painful but the discomfort only lasts a few seconds each time. Once the mammogram is finished, some women feel sore; does that answer your question? Are you ready?'

‘Ready as I'll ever be.' I just wanted it to be over.

It was exactly how the nurse and technician had described it, and within fifteen minutes, I was relieved to be back behind the curtain and reunited with my bra and blouse. I felt a little sore, but I was thankful it was over. I was asked to return to the waiting room while the technician examined the x-rays to make sure none of the images needed retaking. Matt was still sitting patiently on his chair. I glanced round at a sea of women, their faces anxious, likely fearing the unknown. I sat in the chair next to him.

‘Everything OK?' He asked.

‘Yes, I've just got to wait until they tell me I can go.'

Hearing footsteps in the corridor, the technician popped her head around the waiting room door and gave me the thumbs up, ‘We have everything we need,' she confirmed. ‘We will be in touch as soon as the results become available,' she continued with a reassuring smile.

Matt and I decided not to tell a soul until there was anything to tell. Life went on as normal for the next two weeks. It was just a waiting game, a game I wasn't in control of and a game I didn't want to play, but wanted to win. I was occasionally worried but there was nothing I could do until the results were ready. Pushing it to the back of my mind, I tried to carry on as normal.

For the next week I put my heart and soul into training with Sue for our upcoming running race, we were covering a hell of a lot of kilometres on a daily basis. Running for an hour every morning provided me with headspace – time to myself and to relieve any stress and clear my mind. I didn't think about anything in particular when I was running, but enjoyed the wind rushing in my face and the scenery all around me. There was one thing I loved in particular about running with Sue was that we didn't talk. Sue provided enormous calm in my life and that was what I needed at this moment in time. It was great to know she was at my side but no forced conversation was needed.

We were running faster and stronger each day and this one morning in particular, we noticed the mothers' running brigade up in the distance. They were kitted out in new running outfits every day, and were still wearing their sun visors even though we were in the middle of November and hadn't seen any sun for a while.

Sue, winking at me, patted my back and said, ‘come on, let's leave them for dead.'

Powering our legs harder up the hill, they hadn't noticed us sneaking up behind them. They were too busy gossiping about a mother from school who was having a secret affair with her landscape gardener; according to them, there was something impressive about his enormous chopper. We were hot on their heels and caught them up in no time at all. Sue bellowed, ‘good morning ladies,' and we left them jumping out of their skins and gasping with fright.

‘You are terrible, you are,' I smirked at Sue. It was simple things like that, which helped me get through the days and made the waiting easier.