The Cyst that Stole Christmas

I’ve now been at the Workhardt Hospital in Goa for three weeks. In this time, I’ve been subjected to several sonograms, three CT scans and undergone two operations. I’ve spent six days in intensive care, where numerous blood transfusions and blood tests were performed and along the way, I’ve been forced to pee into a range of ridiculously tiny receptacles. I currently have the delightful pleasure of a plastic catheter tube stuffed up my va-jay-jay and I’m permanently attached to an intravenous drip, pouring a medley of medicines into my now inflamed veins.

But at least I now know that what caused all of this had nothing to do with yoga. In fact, Marichiasana D, the posture that made me go pop, pretty much saved my life. Well that – and my boyfriend. If it hadn’t been for him insisting on taking me to hospital, I would still be lying on the sofa, clutching my stomach, believing the pain I was in was just a pulled muscle.

Nevertheless, I’m still not entirely sure what it is exactly that is wrong with me. This is partly because my medical team and I don’t really have a common platform of understanding, owing to our language differences. And partly because my prognosis keeps changing as their medical investigations widen. After my initial scans, they were convinced that the rather large mass they’d detected in my lower abdomen was a haematoma.

But the first operation scotched that theory.

Upon draining this thing out of me, they discovered not blood, but a gooey, mucousy gunk filling up their syringes. They declared this to be some kind of supersized cyst that I’d most likely been walking around with for years. Still, at least they’d got the mucilaginous monster out.

But no. The cyst persisted.

Within hours, the pernicious fucker had refilled and returned with a vengeance. Further scans informed me that it was now on some kind of urological colonial crusade. It was growing into my pelvis, pushing into my bladder, it had taken hold of my left ovary and was now rapidly on its way to engulfing both my kidneys.

This beast was quite literally trying to possess me. I felt like the Linda Blair character from the Exorcist. I was quite certain that if this thing wasn’t gouged out of me soon I would be projectile vomiting while my head did a succession of full 360’s.

Cue surgery Number Two: The Exorcism.

This was going to be epic. Nothing like the neat little keyhole procedure I’d had previously. This time, the surgeons would be sawing my stomach in half to scoop the blood-sucking fuck monkey out of me. I would be like the magician’s assistant in some kind of twisted magic trick. Only without the magic. And no general anaesthetic either. Thanks to a congenital quirk that renders me completely inept when it comes to clotting blood, they decided that putting me under would be too much of a high risk. They didn’t want me bleeding out. I would be given an epidural to numb me from the waist down instead.

I’d become the unwitting subject of a Channel Five shock doc…and I had front row seats to the whole hideous horror show.

A flurry of frenzied activity then ensued as my doctors set about hunting down the gallon or so of extra blood they needed to staunch the impending haemorrhage, giving the nursing staff enough time to institute their own pre-op preparations. Most absurd of which included the shaving off of all my pubic hair and the rather half-arsed removal of my red toenail polish. By the time I was actually wheeled into the operating theatre, I had an extremely itchy six-o-clock shadow situation going on ‘downstairs’, while my feet looked like they’d just tap-danced their way through a murder scene.

And I was petrified.

I’d never had an open surgery before and as I lay on the operating table, squirming under the starkness of the bright theatre lights, I began to cry. Uncontrollably. I really wasn’t sure if I was going to make it out of there alive.

Still, at least the whole thing was going to be quick. No more than an hour, I was told.

Six hours later, I was finally wheeled out. Unconscious. Not one of the six epidurals they’d attempted had worked. I cannot even begin to describe the unconscionable pain I endured as they stuck the scalpel in and began slicing me apart. Suffice to say that once they were done peeling me off the ceiling, my surgeons had no choice but to knock me out cold.

And thank God for small mercies. Because aside from predictable blood bath, what they found when they finally got inside my stomach was so overgrown, odious and insidious, it prompted a riptide of shock throughout the hospital. This entity had engorged beyond all proportions and plugged its tendrils into the various vital organs of my lower body.

It was going to be a cluster-fucking nightmare to excavate.

When the surgeons finally emerged to showcase the mug shots of this monster to my now supremely concerned boyfriend – they were calling it a tumour. When I eventually came round, my man filled me in, conjuring a living, breathing being from what he witnessed of this angry looking, watermelon sized mass with pulsating veins, coated in viscousy goo. To me, it sounded like Captain Caveman. Less the hair. And if given half the chance, I’m quite sure it would have sprouted fangs, horns and a psychopathic Cyclops eye.

The good news is that I’m going home tomorrow. Two days before Christmas. And while this cyst/tumour/whatever-the-fuck-it-is may have stolen my left ovary, robbed me of my dignity and stopped me from doing any form of exercise for the next 6 weeks, I am pathetically grateful it’s out of me.

Whether there’s a sequel to this ghastly horror story, I won’t know until I get the results of the biopsy next week. But for now, while my Christmas may be spent in a horizontal position, at least I won’t be lying in hospital feeling desperate and alone. I’ll be in my own bed, with the one I love. And for me, that’s a gift that not even Santa can surpass.

The Cow that Jumped Over the Moon

Miracles had happened. I’d high-tailed it out of Blighty. Moved in with with the man of my dreams. And returned to a land that nourished my soul and filled my heart with joy.  I’d hit the jackpot. Scored a hat trick. I felt unstoppable. Indefatigable.

I was the cow who’d jumped over the moon.

And there was no way I was going to let this rare interval of serendipity go to waste. I had Lady Luck’s nipple in my craw and I was going to suck the milk of her good fortune…‘til that bitch’s tit ran dry.

So my first few weeks were a tsunami of activity. I was excited. Optimistic. Rabidly gung-ho. I was a maniac on a mission. And like it or not, my man was joining me for the ride. Stage One was launched - our domestic set-up required immediate attention. Now, don’t get me wrong, my guy’s gaff is certainly very plush and palatial. And most people would have been deemed it a paragon of hygiene. But I’m not most people. I’m an obsessive, compulsive freak of nature. To my intolerant eye, it had issues. It needed to be cleaned - forensically. And the macho décor required a significant dial down. Then – and only then – could we begin the process of feathering our looming love nest.

So together we set about stripping, scouring, and scrubbing the place, before feverishly redecorating, refitting and refurnishing. Out went the old and after a steady succession of avaricious shopping trips, in came the new. Bed linen and bath towels; cookers, crockery and cupboards, saucepans, side tables and soap dishes - within a matter of days this one time lad’s pad had been utterly emasculated. We now had ourselves a fully-fledged, super-soft furnished, jasmine-scented, candlelit palace of passion.

Home was sorted.

With the wind beneath my wings I then soared straight on to the next major item on my agenda…

Me.

I was a fucking mess.

When I’d stepped off the plane I was pallid, puffy-eyed and porky. Nonetheless, I’d hoped that after a hot shower, a good night’s sleep and a few days of soaking up some rays I’d be right back on track. But two weeks on and I still looked pasty and felt positively rotundrahedral. I needed to shape up. My guy deserved a goddess for a girlfriend, not someone with the sex appeal of a swollen slug. However, unlike our home, a fresh coat of paint and a few scatter cushions simply weren’t going to cut it. What I needed was a full body overhaul.

So in came the draconian diet whereupon all foodstuffs verging anywhere near the colour beige were promptly banished. Chips, cheese naan and channa masala were dead to me. It was strictly fruit and veg all the way. Then began the extreme fitness regime.

Fortunately for me, my boyfriend takes his physique super-seriously. He has an entire room dedicated to the matter of exercise. A chamber of sheer physical torture – wall-to-wall weights, punch bags and various cardiovascular contraptions of terror. I wanted a washboard stomach. And he knew how to could get it. So together we fashioned a get-fit programme which included my usual 2-hours of ashtanga home practice, followed by an hour of press-ups, planks and weight lifting with him; a mid-morning Vinyasa yoga class and a late afternoon hour-and-a-half bout of light Hatha.

Day one went incredibly well. Day two was an unmitigated disaster.

I was halfway through my Vinyasa class, straining to get into a posture called Marichiasana D – an extreme abdominal twist which combined a half lotus with a contortionate hand bind – when it happened. Something inside of me snapped. It felt like my bladder. And it was accompanied by waves of sharp, shooting pain. It wasn’t good news. I wasn’t going to be able to finish that class. Nevertheless, I thought I’d just pulled a muscle. Overdone it a tad on all this newfound exertion. My boyfriend agreed. So I took a few days off.

And then I did something really stupid. I signed up for a weeklong ashtanga intensive, which involved 6 hours of practice a day. I thought I’d recovered. I thought I could hack it. I was that cow. Jumping over that moon.

Problem was, I hadn’t quite thought through the landing aspect to this lunar leap. So when I came down, I did so with one almighty thud…and I was promptly rushed into hospital.

Weigh To Go

I should have known when I busted the zip trying to do up the first suitcase that I’d overdone it on the packing front. But no. I just dragged a bigger version out of the attic and found even more crap to fill that with.

I’m not naturally one to travel light.

That said, the preparations for this trip have been a particular nightmare. With so many different eventualities to plan for, I’ve found the whole thing an exercise in torture. Firstly, there’s the whole hair mousse situation. I’m away for six months and frankly I’d rather die than spend a single day sporting a ‘do reminiscent of a circa 1970’s Michael Jackson. So that’s 15 or so bottles of product - around 10kg’s - right there.

Then there’s all my yoga paraphernalia. I plan to practice twice daily while I’m in Goa – and pick up a bit of teaching work while I’m at it – so I need a variety of options. Add to that bikinis, sarongs, sundresses, a few smart outfits and a couple of pairs of heels for business meetings, trainers, flip flops, some colder climate clothing (just in case), medical supplies, a few books, a couple of handbags and the full spectrum of underwear – for everyday, fat days, period days and those times when I’d like my man to know that I’m sluttishly available – and all of a sudden, I’m packing some serious poundage. I nearly broke a toe hoiking this little lot down the stairs last night.

But it was only when I arrived at check-in this morning that I discovered just how ludicrously over-bloated my load really was. For a start, I had to recruit the help of a porter and a nice American chap checking in at the counter next to mine just to lift the damn case on to the scales. It came in at 40 kilos…almost the same weight as me. No worries I thought. Only double the allowance. Perhaps a small excess baggage charge to pay.

But the jaw-on-the-floor expression I got from ‘Anne’, my check-in lady, told me otherwise. Apparently, my suitcase had cruised way beyond the limit of excess baggage, past the territory of ‘heavy load’ and had veered into the arena of health and safety regulations contravention. My case had been grounded.

But Anne - God love her -had a plan.

I needed to get myself a second case. Anne suggested a carry-on as I was allowed to take two of those on board. She just needed me to jettison 15 kilos to get my big case down to into the respectable heavy load bracket, which she said she’d waive the charge on. Then I was good to go.

Sadly, this was not as straightforward as Anne had made it seem. The only place that was selling luggage that morning was a store located at the farthest end of the terminal. A twenty-minute trek away. No mean feat when you have a two-ton travelling tumour to tow behind you. Nevertheless, I did manage to find a nice compact wheelie companion for it, before setting off on the long haul back to Anne’s loving bosom.

Only by the time I got back, Anne wasn’t there. She’d finished her shift. Some woman named Sinead was now in her hot seat. Sinead had a face like a sucked mango and the swagger of a person who thoroughly despised life. Needless to say she made me feel about as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit. I tried to explain my situation, bring her up to speed on Anne’s plan, but she remained hell-bent on slapping me with an extortionate £160 charge. As far as she was concerned I was some kind of travelling imbecile. And I was now cluttering up her check-in desk.

I, on the other hand, was reaching the point of a full body meltdown.

And that’s when Frank stepped in. Frank was the porter who’d assisted me during my first check-in phase. He was well versed in my plight. And like Anne, he seemed to be some kind of check-in guru, who took great pleasure in finding ways to beat the system. He immediately took me under his wing, escorted me to an area where I could reconfigure my cases, then dispatched me back to Sinead with instructions to waive me through, free of charge.

Sinead had no other option but to comply and within moments, I had my boarding card. I was finally on my way. I just had the small matter of getting through security.

Except that security, as it turned out, was no small matter…

As painful as modern airport security channels can be, I have to say I usually have the system pegged and can generally clear them without much of a kerfuffle. Transparent bag for liquids and laptop are normally at the top of my carry-on. Shoes and jacket are off well in advance. I don’t wear any jewellery to avoid setting off the detectors and I always leave the drugs and guns at home. I’m never frisked and my belongings are never subjected to a second check.

Today, however, thanks to my two carry-on bags situation, I got well and truly snaffled. In my haste to off-load as much weight as I could from my check-in suitcase, I’d placed a range of taboo items in the new bag, which managed to set every security alarm ringing. I was consequently molested from top-to-toe by some uneducated goon; forced to unpack all my belongings so that they could be swabbed and had several bottles of hair mousse, shampoo and perfume confiscated.

I spent the remaining time before boarding inhaling wine just to recover from the whole ordeal.

Mercifully, the minute I got on the plane, all the stresses and woes of the morning seemed to disappear. While the aircraft was packed to the rafters, somehow, I’d managed to land an entire middle row to myself. I wondered whether my new check-in friends Anne or Frank had some part to play in this? Or maybe it was just a benevolent gift from the universe. A sign to say that I was now heading in the right direction. So shortly after take-off, I unbuckled my seatbelt, sprawled myself out across those four seats and slept like a child all the way to Bangalore.

Since arriving in India, everything seems easy. I still have another two hours to wait before I can complete the final leg of my journey – the one-hour flight to Goa. But having checked-in both my cases without so much as a raised eyebrow and with the welcoming arms of my beautiful boyfriend waiting to envelope me once I get there, I now feel considerably lighter.   

Truly, Madly, Deeply

I can’t sleep. I’m not sure if it’s nervousness or excitement that’s making me toss and turn tonight, but with just 24 hours to go before I set off on another Indian Slummer adventure, my head seems to be swirling.

You see, this time it’s different. This time I’m not running away from the shit-sandwich that typifies my life in London. I’ve actually learnt to tolerate the taste. And I’m not setting off on some kind of soul-searching quest for happiness. I’m pleased to say that I now have a few chinks of sunlight perforating my dark armour of woe. No, this trip promises to be something quite special. Something out of this world. This is why I’m in a 2am tailspin. Frankly, I’m bloody bricking it.

Let me explain…

Six weeks ago, I met this guy. A totally extraordinary, one in a million kind of guy. The moment I clapped eyes on him it was like – boom! Thunderbolts and lightening. He reduced me to rubble. A palpable, physical wreck. It was love at first sight. Not something I thought actually happened in real life. Much less happen to me.

I’d met him through work. He was the subject of a documentary I was keen to get my teeth into. He’d flown to London from India to meet with me and I was hoping he’d like me enough to sign up. Suffice to say, I pretty much had him at ‘hello’. Professionally and personally we just seemed to click. What followed was a high-speed romance. 48 hours of sheer, unadulterated bliss. And then he had to leave. On the morning of his departure we clung to each other like limpets, neither of us wanting to let the other go. It was then that he told me that he loved me. And for the first time in 6 years I found myself echoing those same words.

Since then, we’ve remained in constant contact. Surgically attached to our Skype. We speak at least a dozen times a day. We whisper sweet nothings, remotely canoodle and on occasion, have even attempted a dry hump. We’ve started to sketch out a shared future - marriage, babies…a small troop of Chihuahuas - the whole nine yards. And every day this man manages to delight, charm and surprise me in a colourful array of new ways.

But it was when he asked me to come out to India and move in with him that reality actually started to bite.

With only the briefest of courtships it seems like we’re lurching headlong into cohabitation and this concerns me on a number of levels. I mean, let’s face it - you really get to know a person when you live with them and I’m not sure I want to burst our beautiful love bubble so soon. What if I discover he’s an inveterate farter? Or has woefully bad taste in music?  Will I still find him as irresistible? And what will he think of me when my own mask of perfection starts to slip? Will he still love me when he comes across one of the rogue hairs that occasionally sprout out of my chin? Will an unforeseen and unprompted outbreak of spotty botty render me utterly charmless? And crucially, will this man be able to handle the pathological lunatic I morph into each month when a certain ‘red guest’ arrives for a visit?

Added to all of this is also the inescapable fact that I’m monumentally shit at relationships. My track record is really quite shocking. Pretty much every meaningful partnership I’ve ever had has dissolved into a baleful and toxic pool of disappointment. My marriage in particular being the most exemplary.  Since that crashed and burned, I’ve become quite deft at body swerving commitment. I neither need the headache nor the heartbreak.

So as I lie here in these wee small hours churning over the enormity of what I’m about to do, I find myself wondering whether I should be chasing rainbows again, at my age. Whether this man is my pot of gold or just another regrettable crock of shit, who knows?

Nevertheless, I’m taking the plunge. One giant leap. Because my heart is telling me I’ve found something special, something truly, madly deep. 

Up In Smoke

I swore I’d never do it again. I really believed I’d kicked the habit for good. But in just under two months I’ve managed to completely unravel. My self-control is in tatters. My iron will? Melted to a pathetic puddle of disappointment.

I’ve started smoking again. I’m such a supreme anus.

Only a few weeks ago I had been in my element, glowing in the laminated glory of my Teacher Training Certificate. I hadn’t had so much as a snifter of a smoke; in fact I hadn’t been even the slightest bit tempted. So where did it all go wrong?

All that stretching, sweating and studying had certainly done me the world of good but the minute it stopped I realised I was completely burnt out. I needed a change of pace. Some relax and recline time. And since nowhere in India does ‘chill-out’ quite like Goa, I decided that’s exactly where I would direct my flip-flops. So I headed to Benaulim, a cosy little beach resort in the South, where I’d spent one of the best months of my trip last year.

At first, it felt great to be back. I found myself a fantastic place to stay in a small guesthouse run by Flora and Elias, an adorable Goan couple, who immediately adopted me as their own and ensconced me into the heart of their family. I was spoiled rotten – they lavished me daily with delicious home-cooked meals and treats, did my cleaning and laundry completely free of charge and were forever dishing out parental advice, whether I wanted it or not. That a ‘young lady’ like me was travelling all alone was unthinkable to them and I guess that’s why they rather sweetly wanted to compensate. I’d moved in with “Mum and Dad” and I have to say, after 4-weeks in Dunstan’s fleapit, it felt pretty great to be “home”.

Socially, I wasn’t doing too badly either. I’d made some good friends here last time around and I was delighted to discover that quite a few of them had returned; or in some cases, had just never bothered to leave. So I had a wail of a time in those first few weeks catching up on old times, often under the intoxicating influence of Goa’s famous (and dangerously potent) local hooch, Fenny. Cue some pretty outrageous behaviour on my part, although mercifully, I can’t actually recall many of the gory details, thanks to the level of my inebriation. Suffice to say, the hangover-cum-red-faced-shame condition I ended up in afterwards was not particularly pleasant and I would often find myself frozen in the recovery position for days.

But beyond the headaches and humiliation, I always had the beach. And I quickly found myself a nice little spot to sprawl out on, by one of the shacks that lined the 2km of coast. So my days were typically divided between sun-lounger and sea as I proudly showed-off my newly honed, bikini-ready body to the local beach boys who, I’m very flattered to say, regularly vied for my attention. I even rented myself a bike to wheel about on…although after realising just how much of an ordeal it was to actually ride, it was quickly relegated to a kind of cumbersome accessory that I just walked around with.

Still, life was good. I was living in a sun-shiney bubble of perfection. Paradise. But, as idyllic as this was, I soon became complacent. My daily routine of beach, booze and bed simply didn’t give me enough to do. I became incredibly bored. And that’s when I started smoking.

At first, it was just the odd cigarette here and there to fill a gaping moment of tedium in my day. But as these gaps expanded, so too did my habit.  And now, after 5 months of total sobriety I’m back to chuffing 20-plus-a-day. I’m not particularly proud about this, but at least the fags are cheap and I have to admit I do rather relish the 5-minutes of pleasure they bring. Nevertheless, they haven’t done much to spice up my life here in Benaulim. But I have found something else that has. Although, that’s a story for another time.

Now, however, I’m drawing this particular posting to a close. I believe I’ve well and truly earned myself a nice little smoke. And after that I’m going to accompany my bike as we saunter handlebar-in-hand back to the beach for another full day of doing sweet ‘eff all…

School of Hard Knocks

Oh happy days…

Today, I was awarded my Hatha Yoga Teacher Certificate, after passing both my practical and theory exams with flying colours. Pretty miraculous for a 40-year old klutz with the coordination of a baby elephant.  Stepping up to ceremoniously receive my certificate in front of all the people I’d sweated blood with this last month felt like winning an Oscar. So naturally I marked the occasion in grand, Gwyneth Paltrow style, complete with gushing speech and uncontrollable sobbing; which I then chased down with an irrational outbreak of perspiration. It was a highly charged moment. And although my teaching style may be more barmy than swami, I have to say I’m bloody proud of what I’ve achieved.

But if the road to success is paved with failures then mine has been peppered with more belly flops than overweight diving contest. Firstly, it took me a good few weeks to get up to speed on all the practical stuff. And I know yoga isn’t meant to be competitive, but there’s nothing more disconcerting than seeing your fellow classmates painlessly contorting themselves in to various shapes of pretzel while you continue to lose consciousness every time you so much as attempt a simple forward bend.

And if it wasn’t my body being pummelled then it was my brain, thanks to all the Sanskrit, mantras and sutras we were being force-fed. How I ever got my head around this little gem, for instance, is beyond me:

"Om purna mada purna midam, Purnaat purnam udachyate, Purnasya purnam adaaya, Purnam eva vasishyate”

…but I did and I even managed to memorise the translation:

"That is the whole, this is the whole; from the whole, the whole arises; taking away the whole from the whole, the whole remains"

…just don’t ask me to tell you what all that actually means.

On the plus side, I can now confidently instruct you to “Siras Moola Aswina Bandha” (stick your head up your arse and engage the sphincter lock), so every cloud has a silver lining.

However, the toughest part of it all for me wasn’t so much the punishing schedule as the playground politics and tacit power struggles that are common with being at school. Not that my classmates were a bad bunch, in fact I like pretty much liked all of them. But the little cabal of overly keen yoga bores who’d meet in secret to perfect their practice and swot up on all the theory – I knew about them. They were annoying. And then there was the outright lick-arse who had just two words to her vocabulary: “wooooooow” and “uh-maaaaazzzzzzinngggg” which she’d purr at our teachers with whenever she felt the need to score a few brownie points. Infuriating. But the one student who really made my blood boil was a bloke called “Xenius”. Or “X” as he liked to be known. Quite.

What made X particularly odious was that he really believed that he was some kind of enlightened guru. Which is fine if you can keep that kind of thing to yourself. But no. X liked to share his wisdom. Liberally. He would constantly interrupt our philosophy classes with insights and observations that he genuinely believed were prophetic and profound. But they weren’t. They were either idiotic, obnoxious or just downright pointless. The other day, for example he felt the need to pose this little scholarly nugget: “why is it that nice guys finish last?” I shit you not. I mean, he may as well have gone the whole hog and asked if “absence makes the heart grow fonder?” or whether “silence really is golden?” The truth is most of us have had hot baths deeper than him.

And while X made me want to punch myself in the face every time he so much as opened his mouth, even I could appreciate he was a fairly benign character.  Which is more than I can say for my philosophy and meditation teacher, Mahesh. Now that man was scarier than Stalin. Mahesh presided over our afternoon classes like an enlightened despot. And for a spiritual man, who is supposedly a lot further down the yogic path than most of us, he seemed to have one colossal ego. If you were an unquestioning, obsequious lick-arse, then he might be go easy on you; otherwise, he would be downright abusive. 

Except to me. Apparently I was so insignificant I didn’t actually register on his radar. In fact I don’t think he addressed me directly once during the entire course. If I had the temerity to ask him a question in class, he would look straight through me, like I wasn’t there. To him, I just didn’t exist. And I found this really unsettling. I mean, you can like me or loathe me – but regard me with stone cold indifference? Now that’s just cruel.

But while I’ve had my fair share of hard knocks these last four weeks, I have to say I’ve relished every second. I’ve seen myself grow and change in so many wonderful ways – I’m happier in my own skin, more at one with my body and I generally feel a lot more at peace. Sure, I may never be able to perform a “crow” without seriously hurting myself, or meditate for more than ten minutes without falling asleep; but I can now execute a perfect back flip from standing, touch my head with my feet while upside down in a headstand and have a fairly superficial conversation with you in Sanskrit.

So move over Madonna, there’s a new yoga babe on the block…