High Heels and History

I am packing for an adventure; we are off to the 'Centenary Chelsea Flower Show', My last visit was five years ago before BT, this visit I have a wheelchair on standby. I search among my shoes for Converse and flat boots as distant memories of high heels stamp into my mind.

My first recollection is of clip clopping around our Cul-de-sac dragging a pair of Moms' winkle pickers along on my tiny feet as I pushed my dolls pram. I stood tall as my clip clop, scrape, clip clop, scrape made the pavements tremble. I couldn't chase the boys when they stole my pram, the shoes were my jewels.

As I grew up I wore flatties from Clarkes; comfort was my game. Frustrated with my individual style my sister, an avid follower of fashion, insisted my new school shoes had heels. We walked into the shoe shop and Mandy took charge:

Try these on

No I don't like them 

TRRRRY them on

Shoes shoved onto my feet, Mandy insisted I have them, even though I was like the leaning tower of Pisa. My eyes lingered on the rail of flat shoes; as an inexperienced stilt walker I peered down at the two inch heeled brown shoes. I stumbled out and like a circus clown clung onto the window ledge of Woolworths as I shuffled along sidewards, snarling at Mandy:

I hate them, I hate them

Back in control I wore flat shoes on the wards, but off duty my heels got higher and higher, in 1982 a black pair of winkle pickers became the centre of my world. 

After the brain surgery my neighbour bought me a pair of ugly, functional navy lace ups to wear over my foot splints. My high heels were redundant but I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be clip clopping again.

At home I worked my lazy foot and ankle, I shouted at them, willed them to move, pulled  them with a scarf, drove Mr H bonkers each evening when I squealed:

Look I think it moved; watch me, WATCH me...

Eighteen months later I dragged all my heels out onto the floor, staring longingly at each pair I slowly dropped them into a black bin bag. Like a sad pass the parcel the shoe bag was offered to the girls next door then Mandy and Lois; the remaining pairs were re-homed in St. Peter's hospice charity shop.

 
As we plan for Chelsea my collection of shoes has re-grown and like the flowers we will see, I have shoes of every colour. 

I hope my 'Hotters' and 'Converse' attract a Gold Medal and Best in Show! 

Gawping at Brain Scans; Some News

As I wait for brain scan results, time flows like treacle.  I tell myself it will be fine and part of me believes it, after all, it will grow if it grows, like my addiction to chocolate I can do nothing to change things. 

I applied for copies of my brain scans last year, I wanted to scrutinise my brain, the tumour and its effects. I have spent many happy hours poring over the pictures, some may think I am strange but as a nurse I need a scientific approach to come to terms with the changes in my life. Detailed analysis, explanations with no knowledge assumed and understanding provide the key to my coping strategy. 

Scan Picture 2012. The black hole mid right (left as you look at the picture) was the tumour site

Today is the day, I tuck my list of questions and scan pictures into my pocket; like a quiz master I want to know what things mean on the scans; why does my head still feel heavy when I try and read sitting up; why do I get pains along the left side of my head, why is my epilepsy so hard to control.  My ever patient Consultant, listens and explains.

My fourth annual scan brings good news. No signs of growth. Those four simple words are like daffodils slowly opening in the sun to reveal their splendour.

Good news or bad, retail therapy is always the solution, my footsteps are as light as the wind as Mr H and I hit the shops.  I plan to trip into summer with trendy footwear, Mr H raises his eyebrows when I show him what I want, he patiently watches while I try them for size. High heels are history but Cinderella Dawn is never too old to go to the ball.

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