I have an article in the Daily Telegraph about early empty nest syndrome. You can read it here.....http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/main.jhtml?xml=/education/2008/02/23/fanest123.xml
Or here:
Empty nest: mothership lost in space
Sarah Ebner knew empty nest syndrome would strike one day - but wasn't expecting it when her youngest was just two
I feel bereft. My son has left me. My cheerful, gorgeous, golden boy has moved on, with barely a thought for how I will cope. He talks now of other women and has become so secretive that I have no idea what he's up to ("I don't know," he repeats firmly). He's only two and a half, but it'll never be the same again.
If I'm honest, I can't believe it. I had no fears about my son starting nursery. I thought that as long as he was happy, I would be. But I was wrong. As Robbie skipped away merrily, I felt ridiculously emotional. While the staff were thrilled that he was so happy and un-clingy, I felt an almost irresistible urge to rush into the nursery, grab him and bring him back home with me.
He's only at pre-school for three hours a day, so could I really be suffering from empty nest syndrome?
"Yes," says Jacqui Marson, a chartered counselling psychologist who specialises in motherhood. "It's a definite loss and reacting to it is completely normal."
I have to admit that I'm feeling pretty silly. When my elder daughter began at the same nursery, I waved her off with none of the same emotions. But perhaps that was because I still had a baby at home with me. Now that he has bounced off into the (beginning of the) adult world, I am strangely lost. The time, which is only relevant on the two days I don't work, seems so vast that I worry about how best to fill it. How did he grow up so quickly? It's as if he doesn't need me any more.
That's a feeling Jeannie Ford can certainly relate to. Her younger son, Oliver, joined reception class last September but still doesn't spend every day at school.
"There's a very long settling-in and assessment process and we're now at the stage where Ollie does four days until 3.20," she says. "His teacher has said that he can now do that on the other day as well, but I don't want him to. He's my baby and I can't face losing him for that fifth day too. Then it'll be forever."
Empty nest syndrome was so termed to explain the loss and sadness that many parents experience when their children no longer live with them or need day-to-day care. It's very common, usually when children leave home for university. But it can strike, as I now know, at any age. Parent coach Sue Atkins says that a recent client was worried about her 25-year-old son, who was getting married. She felt she was losing him to his wife.
"Parenting is a constant letting-go," says Atkins. "From the moment you play peek-a-boo with your child, you've started them off being independent and letting them know that you won't always be there. Feeling sad is common at any stage. There's no right and wrong about it." I know I should be thrilled that my son's so settled and secure but a hint of clinginess from him would, secretly, be nice. Maybe that's selfish. But losing your baby to the growing up process is always hard.
Alison Dishington would agree with that. Her youngest child, Grace, began school last year.
"I was very emotional and cried when I got home. I actually felt a little sick," she says. "I was sad when each of my four children started but it got stronger with each one. With Grace, it was the end of an era and the house seemed so empty and quiet. I still find it terribly quiet and always have the radio on."
But Alison says that the feelings of sadness didn't last. "I felt very morbid at the loss for a short while, but then I felt some relief too. After all, I now had time to empty those cupboards I'd been meaning to do for months and space to do some things for me, too. I began swimming again and took up yoga, which I love. So I have to say there is a positive side and you can certainly fill the gap."
Jacqui Marson agrees that the key is not to panic desperately about filling the time with more work, as I have done, but to take it slowly and decide what's best for you.
"We all neglect ourselves when we have young children. So, with the realisation that you are beginning not to be the centre of your child's universe, you have to work out how to be the centre of your own universe again. It might be that you turn back to your career but it might also be that you decide to take up pottery." Sue Atkins suggests that the key is to try to relax and to celebrate the start of nursery, school or university as a step forward for your child and for you.
"Focus on the plus points," she says. "Be delighted that your child is happy, having fun and learning new things. You can't live your life through your children and when your last one goes, they do leave a gap. You have to decide how to fill it." My new life has begun. What do I do now?
Ends
Monday, 25 February 2008
Saturday, 15 September 2007
The mother-in-law of all battles.....
Today I have a piece in the Telegraph about the problems that some women have with their mothers-in-law. Many people will be able to empathise!
Here is the link: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/main.jhtml?xml=/education/2007/09/15/famother115.xml
Or you can read on here....
The mother-in-law of all battles
Last Updated: 12:01am BST 15/09/2007
Dare to marry another woman's son? That's just asking for trouble, says Sarah Ebner
When Tania Harper's mother-in-law came to visit her, she brought with her two bibs, presents for Tania's baby son, Paul. One bib announced: "I love my Daddy." The other proclaimed: "I love my cat." Mummy, it was clear, did not merit a mention.
"It's absolutely typical," fumes Tania. "She's made it clear that I am surplus to requirements. When we see her friends, she tells them: 'This is my little boy.' Or: 'This is my son's little boy.' I feel like the invisible woman."
Tania's experiences will be familiar to millions of women. For want of a better name, we can call it "mother-in-law syndrome". It's what happens to so many innocent souls when they marry another woman's son.
"By the way I love Paul, I can already appreciate that there's something very special between boys and their mothers," says Tania. "Maybe mothers-in-law are so awful because we've stolen their sons."
Mums-in-law don't always get a great press, but it's often men who moan about them. Les Dawson and Bernard Manning weren't the only comedians to profit from mother-in-law jokes. But research suggests that men actually get off lightly. It's daughters-in-law who suffer.
"Studies show that the mother-in-law, daughter-in-law relationship is the trickiest," says Terri Apter, a psychologist who's writing a book about the subject.
"Men simply aren't as involved," she adds. "They can take a low profile."
Apter says that daughters-in-law feel judged and pressured by their mothers-in-law. She's also found that even modern mothers-in-law disregard feminist sympathies when it comes to their boys.
"They want what's best for their son. If that means suppressing their daughter-in-law's career, they think that's okay."
Lorraine Gibb can echo that: "When I met my mother-in-law, I quickly discovered we had nothing in common except that we both loved her son. Now what really irritates me is the way she discounts anything which contradicts her view that I am an ambitious career woman who doesn't put her darling boy first. This is despite the fact that I do all the cooking, organise the household and, having produced two children, gave up my high-flying job to work part-time. She still seems to think that I could look after her beloved child better."
When you marry, you often don't realise that you're not just marrying the man you love, but also his mother. Many in-laws are paragons of virtue and a joy to know. This article, however, isn't about them.
"I went out of my way to be nice to her," says Gillian Campbell of her mother-in-law. "But she just never made the effort with me. She doesn't ask me anything about myself and always expects me to run around after her. She visited four days after I gave birth and still expected me to make her a cup of tea. She told me it would 'do me good' to get up and about. I'd had a caesarean."
But Gillian knew from her wedding day what she was in for. "My sister went in to see that everything was ready in the church and saw Ian's mum. She introduced herself, saying: 'Gillian looks lovely. Isn't it a wonderful day?' Ian's mum - who was dressed all in black - just looked at her and said: 'Well, I think it's a very sad day.'
"My sister rushed out to tell me not to get married because my mother-in-law-to-be was so awful."
Problems with in-laws can veer from the foolish ("She hates the fact that I'm from London," says Celia Sharman, whose husband is from Nottingham) to the ridiculous ("She couldn't believe that I had a daughter when she'd always wanted one," says Lorraine Gibb). One woman even put a private detective on t her potential daughter-in-law. Amazingly, the couple went on to marry. Less surprisingly, they have now divorced.
Gillian Campbell admits she was so innocent when she got engaged that she didn't think it mattered what her mother-in-law was like. "But she made it obvious that Ian could have done so much better. She's always thought I wasn't good enough."
It's strange how all the women I spoke to, bar one, had mothers-in-law who didn't have daughters of their own. The one who did have a daughter (Celia Sharman's) didn't get on with her. Also, none of the mothers had sisters and none had got on with their mothers. This may be entirely anecdotal but it does suggest difficulty relating to other women.
But perhaps the real problem with mothers-in-law is the very name. It sounds like your own mother, someone you love, who's brought you up and knows you. Mothers-in-law, however, are thrust upon you.
"My mother-in-law has only ever bought me one present," says Tania Harper. "She arrived at our house smiling, and I was really touched, because she'd never got me anything before. Then she opened her bag and got out a T-shirt. It said: 'My mother-in-law went to Crete and all she bought me was this lousy T-shirt.' I was stunned. Then she said: 'You are going to wear it, aren't you?' "
Names have been changed.
DOS AND DON'TS
Be realistic. High expectations are bound to be dashed. Why should you expect a close and fulfilling relationship when you haven't chosen each other?
Remember she is not your mother, which means she isn't, necessarily, on your side. Watch who you complain about her to. Sympathetic female friends are probably better than husbands. You don't want your marriage affected.
Damage limitation may be the wisest option. It could be that a slightly cooler relationship is the best you can do.
Don't think that children will make you bond with your mother-in-law. They just offer lots more opportunities for conflict.
Here is the link: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/main.jhtml?xml=/education/2007/09/15/famother115.xml
Or you can read on here....
The mother-in-law of all battles
Last Updated: 12:01am BST 15/09/2007
Dare to marry another woman's son? That's just asking for trouble, says Sarah Ebner
When Tania Harper's mother-in-law came to visit her, she brought with her two bibs, presents for Tania's baby son, Paul. One bib announced: "I love my Daddy." The other proclaimed: "I love my cat." Mummy, it was clear, did not merit a mention.
"It's absolutely typical," fumes Tania. "She's made it clear that I am surplus to requirements. When we see her friends, she tells them: 'This is my little boy.' Or: 'This is my son's little boy.' I feel like the invisible woman."
Tania's experiences will be familiar to millions of women. For want of a better name, we can call it "mother-in-law syndrome". It's what happens to so many innocent souls when they marry another woman's son.
"By the way I love Paul, I can already appreciate that there's something very special between boys and their mothers," says Tania. "Maybe mothers-in-law are so awful because we've stolen their sons."
Mums-in-law don't always get a great press, but it's often men who moan about them. Les Dawson and Bernard Manning weren't the only comedians to profit from mother-in-law jokes. But research suggests that men actually get off lightly. It's daughters-in-law who suffer.
"Studies show that the mother-in-law, daughter-in-law relationship is the trickiest," says Terri Apter, a psychologist who's writing a book about the subject.
"Men simply aren't as involved," she adds. "They can take a low profile."
Apter says that daughters-in-law feel judged and pressured by their mothers-in-law. She's also found that even modern mothers-in-law disregard feminist sympathies when it comes to their boys.
"They want what's best for their son. If that means suppressing their daughter-in-law's career, they think that's okay."
Lorraine Gibb can echo that: "When I met my mother-in-law, I quickly discovered we had nothing in common except that we both loved her son. Now what really irritates me is the way she discounts anything which contradicts her view that I am an ambitious career woman who doesn't put her darling boy first. This is despite the fact that I do all the cooking, organise the household and, having produced two children, gave up my high-flying job to work part-time. She still seems to think that I could look after her beloved child better."
When you marry, you often don't realise that you're not just marrying the man you love, but also his mother. Many in-laws are paragons of virtue and a joy to know. This article, however, isn't about them.
"I went out of my way to be nice to her," says Gillian Campbell of her mother-in-law. "But she just never made the effort with me. She doesn't ask me anything about myself and always expects me to run around after her. She visited four days after I gave birth and still expected me to make her a cup of tea. She told me it would 'do me good' to get up and about. I'd had a caesarean."
But Gillian knew from her wedding day what she was in for. "My sister went in to see that everything was ready in the church and saw Ian's mum. She introduced herself, saying: 'Gillian looks lovely. Isn't it a wonderful day?' Ian's mum - who was dressed all in black - just looked at her and said: 'Well, I think it's a very sad day.'
"My sister rushed out to tell me not to get married because my mother-in-law-to-be was so awful."
Problems with in-laws can veer from the foolish ("She hates the fact that I'm from London," says Celia Sharman, whose husband is from Nottingham) to the ridiculous ("She couldn't believe that I had a daughter when she'd always wanted one," says Lorraine Gibb). One woman even put a private detective on t her potential daughter-in-law. Amazingly, the couple went on to marry. Less surprisingly, they have now divorced.
Gillian Campbell admits she was so innocent when she got engaged that she didn't think it mattered what her mother-in-law was like. "But she made it obvious that Ian could have done so much better. She's always thought I wasn't good enough."
It's strange how all the women I spoke to, bar one, had mothers-in-law who didn't have daughters of their own. The one who did have a daughter (Celia Sharman's) didn't get on with her. Also, none of the mothers had sisters and none had got on with their mothers. This may be entirely anecdotal but it does suggest difficulty relating to other women.
But perhaps the real problem with mothers-in-law is the very name. It sounds like your own mother, someone you love, who's brought you up and knows you. Mothers-in-law, however, are thrust upon you.
"My mother-in-law has only ever bought me one present," says Tania Harper. "She arrived at our house smiling, and I was really touched, because she'd never got me anything before. Then she opened her bag and got out a T-shirt. It said: 'My mother-in-law went to Crete and all she bought me was this lousy T-shirt.' I was stunned. Then she said: 'You are going to wear it, aren't you?' "
Names have been changed.
DOS AND DON'TS
Be realistic. High expectations are bound to be dashed. Why should you expect a close and fulfilling relationship when you haven't chosen each other?
Remember she is not your mother, which means she isn't, necessarily, on your side. Watch who you complain about her to. Sympathetic female friends are probably better than husbands. You don't want your marriage affected.
Damage limitation may be the wisest option. It could be that a slightly cooler relationship is the best you can do.
Don't think that children will make you bond with your mother-in-law. They just offer lots more opportunities for conflict.
Friday, 31 August 2007
Hallam Foe - how the original writer feels!
Please read my article about turning books into films. I interviewed Peter Jinks, author of the much acclaimed Hallam Foe, for it. The film - which stars Jamie Bell and Sophia Myles - is out today. The book is excellent by the way..
Having your book turned into a film, says Peter Jinks, author of Hallam Foe, is like “handing over your baby for a medical experiment.”
“You have to be aware that it’s going to be changed,” adds Jinks. “You can’t be surprised if it comes back with limbs in different places.”
Hallam Foe, an unusual coming of age tale about voyeurism and a boy’s tense relationship with his new stepmother, was Jinks’ first novel. It was critically acclaimed on publication, but not a huge best-seller, and Jinks admits that he was surprised when Scottish director David McKenzie (a former flat-mate of his) wanted to adapt it for the big screen.
“Everyone who writes a book hopes it will get optioned and made into a film,” says Jinks. “But I didn’t have any idea how it would work with my book. I knew that I liked Dave’s films and that he understood the underlying idea of the novel, but the book was just source material. They’ve been making their own piece of art.”
Hallam Foe – which stars Jamie Bell and Sophia Myles – is released today. But what made this particular book ripe for a film translation? And why are so many novels turned into films anyway?
“A book is something that actually exists,” says director McKenzie, whose two previous films, Young Adam and Asylum, were also based on novels. “It’s easier to galvanise people around a book than a screenplay, because it’s a tangible thing.
“Books are objects and people need objects to take hold of in the film business because there’s so much talk,” he adds. “It also means there’s a narrative there. With this book, I really liked the idea. It wasn’t your average coming of age stuff.”
But moving from the written word to the big screen is not always the easiest thing to do. Books are constantly turned into films, but for every big commercial and critical success – the Lord of the Rings films or The English Patient, for example - there are others which do not reach the heights they aspire to. The Da Vinci Code is one current case in point, but it joins many others including Captain Corelli’s Mandolin and Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything is Illuminated.
“A good book does not necessarily make a good film,” says Nick Marston, who runs the film and television department at literary agents Curtis Brown. “It’s such a combination of different talents, a translation into a totally different medium and a genuinely collaborative procedure.”
Almost every week it seems as if a book is either being turned into a screenplay (recent examples include Lionel Shriver’s award winning We Need to Talk about Kevin, Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, and Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials) or actually being released. Many of th4em are award-winning, from Rebecca to Brokeback Mountain.
“What we want is a really good story and a richness of character,” says Amelia Granger from film producers Working Title. “But what everyone is looking for is the holy grail – a manuscript that is brilliantly written, commercially appealing and yet prize winning!”
Granger is constantly on the look-out for new material, whether fiction or non-fiction. “True-life is often more exciting,” she says. “It all depends on the story and how good it is. If it’s original and feels like a world that hasn’t been seen before, then it may well be inspirational for a film.”
It’s true that film-makers don’t limit themselves simply to fiction. Fast Food Nation, Syriana and Munich are all based on non-fiction work, and in many ways, it’s the success of a book which helps to get it made.
“If a book has done well, it does give it a head start in terms of brand identity,” admits Nick Marston.
Last year, Marston set up a new in-house development and production arm at Curtis Brown. Its very existence demonstrates how many authors and agents have become more demanding when it comes to optioning their work.
“We did it because we felt that material wasn’t being fully developed and that there wasn’t enough imaginative twinning of writers and material,” says Marston. “It’s still the case that more things get optioned than get made, but some companies have really wised up and I don’t think we’re going to see such huge money coming out of the studios anymore.”
Amelia Granger agrees that in the past, “the creative process was being stifled,” by huge options on books which were then left languishing in development. She says that what authors and agents want now is an assurance that a film version of their book will actually get made.
“For example, we took on Ian McEwen’s Atonement for a director, Joe Wright (who made Pride and Prejudice) and a screenwriter, Christopher Hampton,” she says. “A creative approach was what was wanted and that was what we provided.”
For Peter Jinks the whole experience has been a delight, although he’s still overwhelmed by his visit to the set.
“I felt a bit like a ghost drifting around, but it was really emotional, a nice feeling,” he says. “It was a bit like seeing a dream become flesh.” And he adds that, although he’s currently writing a third novel, he has another ambition.
“I would like to write my own original screenplay,” he says.
Ends
Having your book turned into a film, says Peter Jinks, author of Hallam Foe, is like “handing over your baby for a medical experiment.”
“You have to be aware that it’s going to be changed,” adds Jinks. “You can’t be surprised if it comes back with limbs in different places.”
Hallam Foe, an unusual coming of age tale about voyeurism and a boy’s tense relationship with his new stepmother, was Jinks’ first novel. It was critically acclaimed on publication, but not a huge best-seller, and Jinks admits that he was surprised when Scottish director David McKenzie (a former flat-mate of his) wanted to adapt it for the big screen.
“Everyone who writes a book hopes it will get optioned and made into a film,” says Jinks. “But I didn’t have any idea how it would work with my book. I knew that I liked Dave’s films and that he understood the underlying idea of the novel, but the book was just source material. They’ve been making their own piece of art.”
Hallam Foe – which stars Jamie Bell and Sophia Myles – is released today. But what made this particular book ripe for a film translation? And why are so many novels turned into films anyway?
“A book is something that actually exists,” says director McKenzie, whose two previous films, Young Adam and Asylum, were also based on novels. “It’s easier to galvanise people around a book than a screenplay, because it’s a tangible thing.
“Books are objects and people need objects to take hold of in the film business because there’s so much talk,” he adds. “It also means there’s a narrative there. With this book, I really liked the idea. It wasn’t your average coming of age stuff.”
But moving from the written word to the big screen is not always the easiest thing to do. Books are constantly turned into films, but for every big commercial and critical success – the Lord of the Rings films or The English Patient, for example - there are others which do not reach the heights they aspire to. The Da Vinci Code is one current case in point, but it joins many others including Captain Corelli’s Mandolin and Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything is Illuminated.
“A good book does not necessarily make a good film,” says Nick Marston, who runs the film and television department at literary agents Curtis Brown. “It’s such a combination of different talents, a translation into a totally different medium and a genuinely collaborative procedure.”
Almost every week it seems as if a book is either being turned into a screenplay (recent examples include Lionel Shriver’s award winning We Need to Talk about Kevin, Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, and Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials) or actually being released. Many of th4em are award-winning, from Rebecca to Brokeback Mountain.
“What we want is a really good story and a richness of character,” says Amelia Granger from film producers Working Title. “But what everyone is looking for is the holy grail – a manuscript that is brilliantly written, commercially appealing and yet prize winning!”
Granger is constantly on the look-out for new material, whether fiction or non-fiction. “True-life is often more exciting,” she says. “It all depends on the story and how good it is. If it’s original and feels like a world that hasn’t been seen before, then it may well be inspirational for a film.”
It’s true that film-makers don’t limit themselves simply to fiction. Fast Food Nation, Syriana and Munich are all based on non-fiction work, and in many ways, it’s the success of a book which helps to get it made.
“If a book has done well, it does give it a head start in terms of brand identity,” admits Nick Marston.
Last year, Marston set up a new in-house development and production arm at Curtis Brown. Its very existence demonstrates how many authors and agents have become more demanding when it comes to optioning their work.
“We did it because we felt that material wasn’t being fully developed and that there wasn’t enough imaginative twinning of writers and material,” says Marston. “It’s still the case that more things get optioned than get made, but some companies have really wised up and I don’t think we’re going to see such huge money coming out of the studios anymore.”
Amelia Granger agrees that in the past, “the creative process was being stifled,” by huge options on books which were then left languishing in development. She says that what authors and agents want now is an assurance that a film version of their book will actually get made.
“For example, we took on Ian McEwen’s Atonement for a director, Joe Wright (who made Pride and Prejudice) and a screenwriter, Christopher Hampton,” she says. “A creative approach was what was wanted and that was what we provided.”
For Peter Jinks the whole experience has been a delight, although he’s still overwhelmed by his visit to the set.
“I felt a bit like a ghost drifting around, but it was really emotional, a nice feeling,” he says. “It was a bit like seeing a dream become flesh.” And he adds that, although he’s currently writing a third novel, he has another ambition.
“I would like to write my own original screenplay,” he says.
Ends
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
My son reeled into the room and I knew something was horribly wrong...
Today I have a very sad article in the Daily Mail about a boy who died, suddenly, leaving his family devastated. They chose to donate his organs - helping many other people.
Here is the link to the article, http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/health/healthmain.html?in_article_id=478232&in_page_id=1774&in_a_source=
Or here is it in full...
My son reeled into the room and I knew something was horribly wrong...
On this day four years ago, 16-year-old Martin Burton died suddenly from a brain haemorrhage. His parents, Nigel, 48, and Sue, 47, donated his organs for transplantation, saving one boy's life and helping many others. Here, Sue tells SARAH EBNER the tragic story of what happened to her son...
"Martin was hooked up to tubes and monitoring equipment, but he seemed peaceful. I couldn't believe we had lost him, even though I knew he was brain dead.
He was pink and warm, and looked as if he were asleep. I sat and held his hand for hours and hours.
We had decided to donate Martin's organs and were asked if we wanted to take him into theatre. I declined. I'd been there for 36 hours and at some point we had to make a break. But the hardest moment for me was walking out of that hospital. I knew I was leaving my son behind.
Martin's death was the most profound loss, something you cannot imagine until it happens. Losing a child is the wrong order of things. All your hopes, your plans, your dreams of their future and your future are shattered.
You have to get used to a new life with a big part missing for ever. And that's the hard part to accept: that it is for ever.
Immediately after Martin died, I was too upset to think about the boy who received Martin's heart. Now I do think about him, particularly on days like today, the anniversary of Martin's death. It's as important a day for his family as ours, and I don't doubt that his parents give thanks every day for our decision.
It was the school holidays. Martin was his usual boisterous self. He'd gone to bed fine, but in the early hours of August 27, I heard a thud. It sounded like he had fallen out of bed.
Martin was often noisy, so I didn't thud. It sounded like he had fallen out Martin was often noisy, so I didn't worry. But the noise continued, like a banging. I realise now he was probably staggering and hitting the walls and furniture.
I sat up in bed and shouted: 'Martin, what are you doing?' The banging continued, so I called out: 'Are you all right?' He appeared in my bedroom doorway. 'Are you all right?' I repeated.
He looked at me with a glazed, confused expression. I realise now his brain was shutting down; he probably couldn't see or hear me, and he certainly couldn't speak. I've re-lived the expression on his face millions of times.
Martin staggered towards the bed and collapsed on it. I thought it was concussion, so I shook him.
He then rolled over and fell on the floor. I didn't realise it at the time, but he was in a deep coma.
I now feel naïve that I didn't realise how serious it was, but he seemed fine when he went to bed.
When I couldn't wake Martin up, I rang for an ambulance and it took us straight to Grantham Hospital. Nigel, my husband, was working in the RAF in Las Vegas when this happened, while my elder son Chris was staying with his girlfriend. When we got to the hospital, Martin was whisked away and I was left in reception.
I was in a daze - it seemed unreal. After a while, a nurse told me Martin was really ill and suggested I phone somebody. I rang my parents.
When they arrived, we were taken to see Martin, who was on a life support machine. We were told he'd had a brain haemorrhage (bleeding in the brain) and were advised to tell Nigel to come home.
Martin was transferred to the Queen's Medical Centre in Nottingham at 5am. Three hours later, the consultant said the extent of the bleeding was so great that there was nothing they could do. He then asked if I would consider donating Martin's organs.
I immediately said yes. Although we had never discussed it, I was sure Nigel would agree. I think Martin would have wanted it, too.
He was young and healthy. He'd had no illness, no medication and no injuries. The only part of him that was damaged was his brain. I thought that if I could save one mother from going through the nightmare of losing someone, it was worth it.
And I did save a family from that hell because Martin's heart went to a 15-year-old boy who'd had only hours to live. Hopefully he will now live a long, healthy life.
But while I do think about that boy, there's no comfort for me in the donation. Maybe there is consolation in knowing Martin did not die in vain. But at the moment I still see it as them having what I want: they've got a healthy son.
Martin was kept alive on life support until Nigel got home. It took him three flights and he arrived at 9.30am the next day.
I sat by Martin's bedside for all that time. Apart from a dressing over the pressure gauge which had been inserted into his brain, he had no injuries to his face or body, so didn't look any different. It was as if he was still alive.
When Nigel and I saw each other, we were in floods of tears.
You have to sign an agreement for each individual organ. You can say yes to some and no to others, and you also decide, if the organs aren't fit to be used, whether you want them to be left in the body or taken for research.
We said yes to everything, but no to the research. I've never seen the donation as a violation of Martin's body, but I think I felt giving his organs for research would be.
Because he was a multiple organ donor, we had to wait until all the doctors were ready, which wasn't until 8pm that night. I didn't want to see Martin go, so the transplant co-ordinator accompanied him to theatre for me. Nigel and I then left the hospital. YOU choose if you want to know what happens to the organs and we decided we wanted information.
Martin's lungs, heart, liver, both kidneys and both corneas were donated. All the organs were used that night, or in the early hours of the following morning, apart from the corneas. They were frozen and I don't know if they've been used.
Except for his heart, Martin's other organs went to older people. His liver to a middle-aged man; his lungs to an elderly gentleman; one kidney to another elderly man; the other to an elderly woman.
I would have liked more of Martin's organs to have gone to children because I feel enormous empathy with the mother My Lifesaver of the boy who has Martin's heart.
But when we agreed to donate them we knew we had no say in what happened. They must go to the person who has the best chance of receiving them successfully and that's much more important than age.
Still, we would love to meet any of the recipients. It would be nice if the transplant teams around the country could encourage contact between the families by letter for a longer period of time - perhaps an exchange of photos to make it less anonymous for both families.
Currently, they can only send an anonymous thank-you letter, with transplant co-ordinators acting as go-betweens. But I do realise it must be hard for the recipient families to know what to say.
At the time, we didn't know why Martin had collapsed. He'd always seemed healthy. We now know that he'd had a brain haemorrhage because of an arteriovenous malformation of the brain, or AVM, and that it could have happened at any time. AVMs occur when blood vessels develop in a malformed way.
Blood is normally pumped by the heart to the brain via arteries. When it's in the brain it's nourished by the capillaries before going back through the veins.
When you have an AVM, you don't have these capillaries. This means there's pressure on the blood vessels, which can rupture.
The consultant who looked after Martin described it to me as being like a twig - fine one minute, then snapping. The bleed would have been so catastrophic that Martin's brain would have started to shut down in a few minutes.
The brain haemorrhage caused Martin's death, but that was caused by the AVM, something he was born with. He could have collapsed at school or out with his friends, but he happened to be in bed. I'm grateful for that because I hope in his last thoughts, he knew I was there.
It's now four years since Martin died, but life never goes back to normal. The pain never goes away, but you learn to cope with it.
At first, I couldn't remember Martin's life; I could only remember the death.
It was a long time, maybe a year, before I could think back to the good times. But memories are there for ever. Now I remember Martin with a lot of smiles. He was that sort of a person."
For more details about the Donor Family Network - a charity run by donor families for other donor families - see www.donorfamilynetwork.co.uk.
Here is the link to the article, http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/health/healthmain.html?in_article_id=478232&in_page_id=1774&in_a_source=
Or here is it in full...
My son reeled into the room and I knew something was horribly wrong...
On this day four years ago, 16-year-old Martin Burton died suddenly from a brain haemorrhage. His parents, Nigel, 48, and Sue, 47, donated his organs for transplantation, saving one boy's life and helping many others. Here, Sue tells SARAH EBNER the tragic story of what happened to her son...
"Martin was hooked up to tubes and monitoring equipment, but he seemed peaceful. I couldn't believe we had lost him, even though I knew he was brain dead.
He was pink and warm, and looked as if he were asleep. I sat and held his hand for hours and hours.
We had decided to donate Martin's organs and were asked if we wanted to take him into theatre. I declined. I'd been there for 36 hours and at some point we had to make a break. But the hardest moment for me was walking out of that hospital. I knew I was leaving my son behind.
Martin's death was the most profound loss, something you cannot imagine until it happens. Losing a child is the wrong order of things. All your hopes, your plans, your dreams of their future and your future are shattered.
You have to get used to a new life with a big part missing for ever. And that's the hard part to accept: that it is for ever.
Immediately after Martin died, I was too upset to think about the boy who received Martin's heart. Now I do think about him, particularly on days like today, the anniversary of Martin's death. It's as important a day for his family as ours, and I don't doubt that his parents give thanks every day for our decision.
It was the school holidays. Martin was his usual boisterous self. He'd gone to bed fine, but in the early hours of August 27, I heard a thud. It sounded like he had fallen out of bed.
Martin was often noisy, so I didn't thud. It sounded like he had fallen out Martin was often noisy, so I didn't worry. But the noise continued, like a banging. I realise now he was probably staggering and hitting the walls and furniture.
I sat up in bed and shouted: 'Martin, what are you doing?' The banging continued, so I called out: 'Are you all right?' He appeared in my bedroom doorway. 'Are you all right?' I repeated.
He looked at me with a glazed, confused expression. I realise now his brain was shutting down; he probably couldn't see or hear me, and he certainly couldn't speak. I've re-lived the expression on his face millions of times.
Martin staggered towards the bed and collapsed on it. I thought it was concussion, so I shook him.
He then rolled over and fell on the floor. I didn't realise it at the time, but he was in a deep coma.
I now feel naïve that I didn't realise how serious it was, but he seemed fine when he went to bed.
When I couldn't wake Martin up, I rang for an ambulance and it took us straight to Grantham Hospital. Nigel, my husband, was working in the RAF in Las Vegas when this happened, while my elder son Chris was staying with his girlfriend. When we got to the hospital, Martin was whisked away and I was left in reception.
I was in a daze - it seemed unreal. After a while, a nurse told me Martin was really ill and suggested I phone somebody. I rang my parents.
When they arrived, we were taken to see Martin, who was on a life support machine. We were told he'd had a brain haemorrhage (bleeding in the brain) and were advised to tell Nigel to come home.
Martin was transferred to the Queen's Medical Centre in Nottingham at 5am. Three hours later, the consultant said the extent of the bleeding was so great that there was nothing they could do. He then asked if I would consider donating Martin's organs.
I immediately said yes. Although we had never discussed it, I was sure Nigel would agree. I think Martin would have wanted it, too.
He was young and healthy. He'd had no illness, no medication and no injuries. The only part of him that was damaged was his brain. I thought that if I could save one mother from going through the nightmare of losing someone, it was worth it.
And I did save a family from that hell because Martin's heart went to a 15-year-old boy who'd had only hours to live. Hopefully he will now live a long, healthy life.
But while I do think about that boy, there's no comfort for me in the donation. Maybe there is consolation in knowing Martin did not die in vain. But at the moment I still see it as them having what I want: they've got a healthy son.
Martin was kept alive on life support until Nigel got home. It took him three flights and he arrived at 9.30am the next day.
I sat by Martin's bedside for all that time. Apart from a dressing over the pressure gauge which had been inserted into his brain, he had no injuries to his face or body, so didn't look any different. It was as if he was still alive.
When Nigel and I saw each other, we were in floods of tears.
You have to sign an agreement for each individual organ. You can say yes to some and no to others, and you also decide, if the organs aren't fit to be used, whether you want them to be left in the body or taken for research.
We said yes to everything, but no to the research. I've never seen the donation as a violation of Martin's body, but I think I felt giving his organs for research would be.
Because he was a multiple organ donor, we had to wait until all the doctors were ready, which wasn't until 8pm that night. I didn't want to see Martin go, so the transplant co-ordinator accompanied him to theatre for me. Nigel and I then left the hospital. YOU choose if you want to know what happens to the organs and we decided we wanted information.
Martin's lungs, heart, liver, both kidneys and both corneas were donated. All the organs were used that night, or in the early hours of the following morning, apart from the corneas. They were frozen and I don't know if they've been used.
Except for his heart, Martin's other organs went to older people. His liver to a middle-aged man; his lungs to an elderly gentleman; one kidney to another elderly man; the other to an elderly woman.
I would have liked more of Martin's organs to have gone to children because I feel enormous empathy with the mother My Lifesaver of the boy who has Martin's heart.
But when we agreed to donate them we knew we had no say in what happened. They must go to the person who has the best chance of receiving them successfully and that's much more important than age.
Still, we would love to meet any of the recipients. It would be nice if the transplant teams around the country could encourage contact between the families by letter for a longer period of time - perhaps an exchange of photos to make it less anonymous for both families.
Currently, they can only send an anonymous thank-you letter, with transplant co-ordinators acting as go-betweens. But I do realise it must be hard for the recipient families to know what to say.
At the time, we didn't know why Martin had collapsed. He'd always seemed healthy. We now know that he'd had a brain haemorrhage because of an arteriovenous malformation of the brain, or AVM, and that it could have happened at any time. AVMs occur when blood vessels develop in a malformed way.
Blood is normally pumped by the heart to the brain via arteries. When it's in the brain it's nourished by the capillaries before going back through the veins.
When you have an AVM, you don't have these capillaries. This means there's pressure on the blood vessels, which can rupture.
The consultant who looked after Martin described it to me as being like a twig - fine one minute, then snapping. The bleed would have been so catastrophic that Martin's brain would have started to shut down in a few minutes.
The brain haemorrhage caused Martin's death, but that was caused by the AVM, something he was born with. He could have collapsed at school or out with his friends, but he happened to be in bed. I'm grateful for that because I hope in his last thoughts, he knew I was there.
It's now four years since Martin died, but life never goes back to normal. The pain never goes away, but you learn to cope with it.
At first, I couldn't remember Martin's life; I could only remember the death.
It was a long time, maybe a year, before I could think back to the good times. But memories are there for ever. Now I remember Martin with a lot of smiles. He was that sort of a person."
For more details about the Donor Family Network - a charity run by donor families for other donor families - see www.donorfamilynetwork.co.uk.
Saturday, 18 August 2007
‘My Scottish ancestors were heroes’
Hello
This weekend I have a "First person" article in the FT magazine. It is about a fascinating woman called Pearl Duncan, who has a great story to tell about her family history.
You can read it online here, http://www.ft.com/cms/s/6d4f7fc4-4a09-11dc-9ffe-0000779fd2ac.html
Or here....
‘My Scottish ancestors were heroes’
‘Many black Americans are afraid, as I was initially, of finding a slave trader in their family tree,’ says Pearl Duncan
First Person: Pearl Duncan
As told to Sarah Ebner
Published: August 18 2007 00:36
When I started to look into my family tree, I couldn’t have imagined the conflict it would cause. I spent 10 years researching my ancestors, and a lot of people didn’t like what I had to say at the end of it. I’d tracked the cultural history that shaped my DNA in America, Europe and Africa, and discovered that not all white men in the British colonies who fathered children with black women in the 18th century were evil slavers. I found at least one ancestor who was an abolitionist and who did not abandon his children.
My family emigrated from Jamaica to New York when I was young, and I was always fascinated by where I had come from. My parents told me we were descended from the Maroons, or runaway slaves. Years later, when I went to our old family graves just outside Kingston, Jamaica, I couldn’t believe it when I found our birth and baptismal records dating back to the 1700s.
I now know that my roots are incredibly diverse: I am descended from slaves; from free people who worked and bought their freedom; from Maroon warriors who waged military rebellions in Jamaica against slavery; also from British merchants, and European and African nobility.
My Jamaican grandmother’s name was Rebecca Smellie and her ancestor was John Smellie, a Scottish merchant. In 1726 in Jamaica he had a child, George, with a “free negro” whose name was Ann Roberts. Even though there were penalties at that time – huge fines, deportation, imprisonment – for keeping records of black children, John Smellie left birth and baptism records with George’s name on them.
Three of John Smellie’s Scottish descendants settled in Jamaica on land he left them. One of them was called William Smellie and he died in 1800. He was an abolitionist, and when I found his will it showed that he left the maximum amount allowed under the slavery laws to his mixed-race children and their mother. Finding out about both these men changed everything for me. I had thought I was learning about the awful people who owned slaves, but instead I was discovering heroism, and people who stood up for what they thought was right.
I followed up these discoveries with research in Scotland, hiring Scottish genealogists and local historians. It turned out that John Smellie was of noble birth. I sent the records to the Court of The Lord Lyon, the heraldic authority for Scotland, which said I qualified for a coat of arms. I now have one that reflects the diversity of my ancestry.
My research also took me to Ghana. I tracked down dozens of ancestors and collected DNA from Ghanaian families whose names matched nicknames still used in my family. I spent a lot of time on the linguistic research, and DNA confirmed the connection. As far as I know, I was one of the first people in the world to use DNA in this way.
I’ve written a book about my research but publishers seem to think it’s too contentious to publish. Talking about black ancestors who rebelled apparently goes against how Americans see these people – slaves were victims, not rebels. Editors are happy to accept stories about slaves who escaped one at a time, but they don’t like the idea that they grouped together and stood up for themselves. That’s too threatening.
I’ve also learned that many black Americans are afraid, as I was initially, of finding a slave trader in their family tree, so they don’t really want to talk about their European ancestors. I got into trouble with my black friends for saying that John Smellie was a more caring man than many other colonials because he left a record of his child.
When you start looking into your genealogy, you have to come to terms with admirable and despicable behaviour, and that’s what I’ve done.
This weekend I have a "First person" article in the FT magazine. It is about a fascinating woman called Pearl Duncan, who has a great story to tell about her family history.
You can read it online here, http://www.ft.com/cms/s/6d4f7fc4-4a09-11dc-9ffe-0000779fd2ac.html
Or here....
‘My Scottish ancestors were heroes’
‘Many black Americans are afraid, as I was initially, of finding a slave trader in their family tree,’ says Pearl Duncan
First Person: Pearl Duncan
As told to Sarah Ebner
Published: August 18 2007 00:36
When I started to look into my family tree, I couldn’t have imagined the conflict it would cause. I spent 10 years researching my ancestors, and a lot of people didn’t like what I had to say at the end of it. I’d tracked the cultural history that shaped my DNA in America, Europe and Africa, and discovered that not all white men in the British colonies who fathered children with black women in the 18th century were evil slavers. I found at least one ancestor who was an abolitionist and who did not abandon his children.
My family emigrated from Jamaica to New York when I was young, and I was always fascinated by where I had come from. My parents told me we were descended from the Maroons, or runaway slaves. Years later, when I went to our old family graves just outside Kingston, Jamaica, I couldn’t believe it when I found our birth and baptismal records dating back to the 1700s.
I now know that my roots are incredibly diverse: I am descended from slaves; from free people who worked and bought their freedom; from Maroon warriors who waged military rebellions in Jamaica against slavery; also from British merchants, and European and African nobility.
My Jamaican grandmother’s name was Rebecca Smellie and her ancestor was John Smellie, a Scottish merchant. In 1726 in Jamaica he had a child, George, with a “free negro” whose name was Ann Roberts. Even though there were penalties at that time – huge fines, deportation, imprisonment – for keeping records of black children, John Smellie left birth and baptism records with George’s name on them.
Three of John Smellie’s Scottish descendants settled in Jamaica on land he left them. One of them was called William Smellie and he died in 1800. He was an abolitionist, and when I found his will it showed that he left the maximum amount allowed under the slavery laws to his mixed-race children and their mother. Finding out about both these men changed everything for me. I had thought I was learning about the awful people who owned slaves, but instead I was discovering heroism, and people who stood up for what they thought was right.
I followed up these discoveries with research in Scotland, hiring Scottish genealogists and local historians. It turned out that John Smellie was of noble birth. I sent the records to the Court of The Lord Lyon, the heraldic authority for Scotland, which said I qualified for a coat of arms. I now have one that reflects the diversity of my ancestry.
My research also took me to Ghana. I tracked down dozens of ancestors and collected DNA from Ghanaian families whose names matched nicknames still used in my family. I spent a lot of time on the linguistic research, and DNA confirmed the connection. As far as I know, I was one of the first people in the world to use DNA in this way.
I’ve written a book about my research but publishers seem to think it’s too contentious to publish. Talking about black ancestors who rebelled apparently goes against how Americans see these people – slaves were victims, not rebels. Editors are happy to accept stories about slaves who escaped one at a time, but they don’t like the idea that they grouped together and stood up for themselves. That’s too threatening.
I’ve also learned that many black Americans are afraid, as I was initially, of finding a slave trader in their family tree, so they don’t really want to talk about their European ancestors. I got into trouble with my black friends for saying that John Smellie was a more caring man than many other colonials because he left a record of his child.
When you start looking into your genealogy, you have to come to terms with admirable and despicable behaviour, and that’s what I’ve done.
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
Who says single men can't adopt?
I have an article in the Times about single men who choose to adopt. It's really very interesting indeed (trust me!)
Here is the link...
Or here is the text.....
Who says lone men can’t adopt?
The number of single male adopters in Britain is small but growing. Sarah Ebner talks to three happy fathers
Last year 3,700 children were adopted from care. Many more, desperate for a family, were disappointed – but adoption agencies have begun to look farther afield. Unmarried heterosexual and gay couples can now adopt jointly, while another small but growing part of the adoptive parent network is single people. And while it’s true that most single adopters are female, there are some men, too.
Single men are probably the most maligned group of adoptive parents, and are subjected to intense questioning about why they want to become fathers.
Although it is not illegal for a single man to adopt a female child, it happens rarely. Single male adopters tend to adopt boys who are slightly older than the average. As in any adoption, the child’s needs must be paramount.
David Holmes, chief executive of the British Association for Adoption and Fostering (BAAF), says: “It is a myth that single men can’t adopt. The number of single male adopters is small but growing. What children need most is security and stability, and in most cases this is more important than the gender of the carer.
“We know that single people can do just as well as couples, and we encourage adoption agencies to think about what single men and women have to offer. The national minimum standards for adoption state that people who are interested in becoming adoptive parents will be welcomed without prejudice.”
Here, three single men recount how they became adoptive fathers.
— Richard Stuart, 42, lives in Sandhurst, Berkshire, with his two adopted sons, Paul, 18, and Aron, 12. Richard, who also fosters two teenage boys, looks after the children full-time.
“I thought I’d have all the normal things in life – kids, a wife and a dog – but it doesn’t always work out like that,” he says. “When I was 23, a close friend died. I took her loss badly. I got to 27 and hadn’t had any serious relationships since her death. But I’m an impatient person and wasn’t happy. I had always wanted to be a dad, and began to think that I would never have kids.
“I was surprised when I found out that single men could adopt. However, my local authority said that although they were legally obliged to carry out all the checks on me, they had never taken on a single male adopter before.
“It took me three years with different agencies to be approved. Eventually I went to an independent adoption service and they took me on. I had to be thoroughly checked, but that didn’t bother me. If you can’t put up with the checks and intrusiveness then you shouldn’t try to adopt in the first place. I’d have given everything I had to be a dad, so I was prepared to be harassed.
“Once I was approved, I went to a matching panel. Paul, who was nearly 10, had been in a care home and I was his last chance. He really wanted a family, and there was something about him that made me want him. We clicked.
“Everything changed after Paul came. I had no social life and couldn’t go anywhere without him following me. But it was what I wanted. I chose to do it. However, it was an issue that I was a single man. I ran a huge Cub pack, and once Paul came the numbers nosedived. People thought that I must be odd, or that Paul was potentially dangerous.
“I lost some friends when Paul arrived but made new ones, too. I didn’t really care what people thought of me but I did care what they thought of Paul.
“Two years later I got Aron, who was then 6, and I now sit on an adoption panel. I don’t have relationships because I don’t have time, but I don’t think the boys miss having a mum. I’d have liked to adopt a girl but it was difficult enough getting a boy as a single man.
“I’m exceptionally proud of the boys, even though they completely wind me up. They really do complete my life, and I have no regrets.”
— Thierry Lambert, 34, lives in Wiltshire with his adopted son, Liam, 8. He works for Wiltshire police. “I first met Liam in April last year. I walked into the room at his foster home and he looked up and said, ‘Hello Dad, I’m just having a sandwich, I’ll be there in a minute’. It felt incredible. When I left, I shed more tears than I’d ever done in my life. I was so happy.
“I had always wanted children and was in a seven-year relationship where we were planning to have them, but we broke up in 2003. I was just turning 30 and wasn’t keen to start over again. What if I met someone new, then waited more years to have a child, only for it not to happen again?
“I came across adoption on the internet and it seemed like a great idea. For me, the child was more important than the partner, and adoption cut out that relationship completely. I contacted Wiltshire social services and they didn’t think it was a problem. I went on a course which was very female-orientated (everything was about mothers), but I met nice people and no one was especially negative. However, some people did ask if I was gay.
“I also had an in-depth assessment. Every angle was covered – my social group, my work, what support I had, even how a child would cope with me being diabetic.
“It took nearly a year to get approval. I did have relationships during that time but they didn’t last. The adoption was my priority.
“Liam’s father had died and he hadn’t had a particularly good experience with his mother. Because of this he found it difficult to trust women. He needed a father.
“I was sent the forms of 20 possible children, and when I saw Liam I said, ‘That’s the one. That’s my son’.
“Liam moved in last May and I’ve had to adjust more than him – being more tired, more responsible, making sure that he gets fed and bathed and does his homework.
“But it’s completely worth it. Liam makes me laugh every day and I feel I’ve known him since he was born. I adopted him on October 10, 2006 and he says that I’m his real dad. I feel this was meant to be.”
— John Williams*, 47, lives on Anglesey in Wales with his two adopted sons, *Keith, 21, and *Jamie, 20. He also fosters two boys aged 11 and 12, and looks after the children full-time.
“When I was told that I would be adopting two brothers aged 9 and 10, I was concerned. They sounded so grown-up and I thought that they would have missed out on so much. But when I met the boys I couldn’t believe how small they were. I knew they were the ones for me.
“I’ve always loved children but although I was married briefly, we had no kids. After we broke up in 1992 I began thinking about adoption. I wanted a family but wasn’t keen on another relationship and didn’t want to risk getting hurt again.
“I contacted Barnardo’s, who gave me a very thorough assessment. It wasn’t easy but I don’t think that it should be easy. I told my social worker right from the start that I would be open and honest. I had nothing to hide, and wanted to be a father more than anything. However, it is hard when you read so much about male abusers. You want to say, ‘That’s not every man’.
“At that time I worked for the Ministry of Defence, and because I worked I was told that I would have to adopt school-age children. I was expecting a five-year-old!
“The boys had been in foster care for more than three years. They felt very much that they were treated differently from the foster carer’s children and wanted a family of their own. Keith had written a letter saying that he wanted to live in the country with animals, and I was delighted to read that. It was my situation exactly, and he has loved being outdoors from Day 1. Meanwhile, Jamie, who barely spoke when he was with the foster carer, hasn’t stopped talking since he came here! He knew immediately that he belonged.
“I told Jamie and Keith that there were lots of other children who would like to be adopted, but it was important to them that their adoption was special. They suggested fostering.
“I wouldn’t change what I have for the world. I think how empty my life was before and take great pleasure in my sons’ achievements. Yes, I would have liked to have met someone and had children, but that didn’t happen. I haven’t had relationships since getting the boys, but my life is full and we are happy. I definitely feel that the boys are mine.”
* Names have been changed.
Here is the link...
Or here is the text.....
Who says lone men can’t adopt?
The number of single male adopters in Britain is small but growing. Sarah Ebner talks to three happy fathers
Last year 3,700 children were adopted from care. Many more, desperate for a family, were disappointed – but adoption agencies have begun to look farther afield. Unmarried heterosexual and gay couples can now adopt jointly, while another small but growing part of the adoptive parent network is single people. And while it’s true that most single adopters are female, there are some men, too.
Single men are probably the most maligned group of adoptive parents, and are subjected to intense questioning about why they want to become fathers.
Although it is not illegal for a single man to adopt a female child, it happens rarely. Single male adopters tend to adopt boys who are slightly older than the average. As in any adoption, the child’s needs must be paramount.
David Holmes, chief executive of the British Association for Adoption and Fostering (BAAF), says: “It is a myth that single men can’t adopt. The number of single male adopters is small but growing. What children need most is security and stability, and in most cases this is more important than the gender of the carer.
“We know that single people can do just as well as couples, and we encourage adoption agencies to think about what single men and women have to offer. The national minimum standards for adoption state that people who are interested in becoming adoptive parents will be welcomed without prejudice.”
Here, three single men recount how they became adoptive fathers.
— Richard Stuart, 42, lives in Sandhurst, Berkshire, with his two adopted sons, Paul, 18, and Aron, 12. Richard, who also fosters two teenage boys, looks after the children full-time.
“I thought I’d have all the normal things in life – kids, a wife and a dog – but it doesn’t always work out like that,” he says. “When I was 23, a close friend died. I took her loss badly. I got to 27 and hadn’t had any serious relationships since her death. But I’m an impatient person and wasn’t happy. I had always wanted to be a dad, and began to think that I would never have kids.
“I was surprised when I found out that single men could adopt. However, my local authority said that although they were legally obliged to carry out all the checks on me, they had never taken on a single male adopter before.
“It took me three years with different agencies to be approved. Eventually I went to an independent adoption service and they took me on. I had to be thoroughly checked, but that didn’t bother me. If you can’t put up with the checks and intrusiveness then you shouldn’t try to adopt in the first place. I’d have given everything I had to be a dad, so I was prepared to be harassed.
“Once I was approved, I went to a matching panel. Paul, who was nearly 10, had been in a care home and I was his last chance. He really wanted a family, and there was something about him that made me want him. We clicked.
“Everything changed after Paul came. I had no social life and couldn’t go anywhere without him following me. But it was what I wanted. I chose to do it. However, it was an issue that I was a single man. I ran a huge Cub pack, and once Paul came the numbers nosedived. People thought that I must be odd, or that Paul was potentially dangerous.
“I lost some friends when Paul arrived but made new ones, too. I didn’t really care what people thought of me but I did care what they thought of Paul.
“Two years later I got Aron, who was then 6, and I now sit on an adoption panel. I don’t have relationships because I don’t have time, but I don’t think the boys miss having a mum. I’d have liked to adopt a girl but it was difficult enough getting a boy as a single man.
“I’m exceptionally proud of the boys, even though they completely wind me up. They really do complete my life, and I have no regrets.”
— Thierry Lambert, 34, lives in Wiltshire with his adopted son, Liam, 8. He works for Wiltshire police. “I first met Liam in April last year. I walked into the room at his foster home and he looked up and said, ‘Hello Dad, I’m just having a sandwich, I’ll be there in a minute’. It felt incredible. When I left, I shed more tears than I’d ever done in my life. I was so happy.
“I had always wanted children and was in a seven-year relationship where we were planning to have them, but we broke up in 2003. I was just turning 30 and wasn’t keen to start over again. What if I met someone new, then waited more years to have a child, only for it not to happen again?
“I came across adoption on the internet and it seemed like a great idea. For me, the child was more important than the partner, and adoption cut out that relationship completely. I contacted Wiltshire social services and they didn’t think it was a problem. I went on a course which was very female-orientated (everything was about mothers), but I met nice people and no one was especially negative. However, some people did ask if I was gay.
“I also had an in-depth assessment. Every angle was covered – my social group, my work, what support I had, even how a child would cope with me being diabetic.
“It took nearly a year to get approval. I did have relationships during that time but they didn’t last. The adoption was my priority.
“Liam’s father had died and he hadn’t had a particularly good experience with his mother. Because of this he found it difficult to trust women. He needed a father.
“I was sent the forms of 20 possible children, and when I saw Liam I said, ‘That’s the one. That’s my son’.
“Liam moved in last May and I’ve had to adjust more than him – being more tired, more responsible, making sure that he gets fed and bathed and does his homework.
“But it’s completely worth it. Liam makes me laugh every day and I feel I’ve known him since he was born. I adopted him on October 10, 2006 and he says that I’m his real dad. I feel this was meant to be.”
— John Williams*, 47, lives on Anglesey in Wales with his two adopted sons, *Keith, 21, and *Jamie, 20. He also fosters two boys aged 11 and 12, and looks after the children full-time.
“When I was told that I would be adopting two brothers aged 9 and 10, I was concerned. They sounded so grown-up and I thought that they would have missed out on so much. But when I met the boys I couldn’t believe how small they were. I knew they were the ones for me.
“I’ve always loved children but although I was married briefly, we had no kids. After we broke up in 1992 I began thinking about adoption. I wanted a family but wasn’t keen on another relationship and didn’t want to risk getting hurt again.
“I contacted Barnardo’s, who gave me a very thorough assessment. It wasn’t easy but I don’t think that it should be easy. I told my social worker right from the start that I would be open and honest. I had nothing to hide, and wanted to be a father more than anything. However, it is hard when you read so much about male abusers. You want to say, ‘That’s not every man’.
“At that time I worked for the Ministry of Defence, and because I worked I was told that I would have to adopt school-age children. I was expecting a five-year-old!
“The boys had been in foster care for more than three years. They felt very much that they were treated differently from the foster carer’s children and wanted a family of their own. Keith had written a letter saying that he wanted to live in the country with animals, and I was delighted to read that. It was my situation exactly, and he has loved being outdoors from Day 1. Meanwhile, Jamie, who barely spoke when he was with the foster carer, hasn’t stopped talking since he came here! He knew immediately that he belonged.
“I told Jamie and Keith that there were lots of other children who would like to be adopted, but it was important to them that their adoption was special. They suggested fostering.
“I wouldn’t change what I have for the world. I think how empty my life was before and take great pleasure in my sons’ achievements. Yes, I would have liked to have met someone and had children, but that didn’t happen. I haven’t had relationships since getting the boys, but my life is full and we are happy. I definitely feel that the boys are mine.”
* Names have been changed.
Wednesday, 6 June 2007
Hired Gunn
Today I have an interview with Ali Gunn in the Guardian. She is the literary agent who now advises the Tories on lifestyle and women's issues. We met up a few weeks ago, and although I was expecting her to be very scary, she actually wasn't! I think that might be because she was worried about how she came across. She told me a few times that she didn't like talking about herself. "I like talking about other people," she said. "That's what I do."
Anyway, here is the interview...(or to see it online, cut and paste this link:
http://politics.guardian.co.uk/conservatives/story/0,,2096420,00.html)
Hired Gunn
One of London's leading literary agents, Ali Gunn has been advising the Conservative party on 'lifestyle' issues for the past year. Sarah Ebner hears her views on class, Cameron and the women's vote
Sarah Ebner
Wednesday June 6, 2007
Guardian
Ali Gunn is a reluctant interviewee. It has taken months of cajoling to persuade the Tories' first "Head of lifestyle and features" to talk, and she is visibly uncomfortable. "This whole thing is terrifying me," she says, with only a half smile. "In 20 years of dealing with the media, I have only ever done one other interview, and that was for Publishing News. Now I won't give one for another 20 years."
Gunn has long been known in the publishing world as a tough literary agent, noted for the huge advances she negotiates for her clients. She represents celebrities such as Nancy Dell'Olio and Carol Thatcher, as well as best-selling novelists including Jenny Colgan (who recently landed a £1m advance to write two new novels).
Almost a year ago, Gunn was asked to lend her expertise to the Conservative party, after a mutual acquaintance set up a meeting between her and David Cameron's closest adviser, Steve Hilton. She is now an important part of Cameron's coterie, working for the party "at least" one day a week.
It has been said that her key responsibility is to persuade women to vote Tory, but Gunn says her remit is wider than that, explaining, "What I'm actually doing is looking, overall, at what we're doing with all our people in all our areas. It's much more about engaging the media and the electorate in our key personalities and our policies and not just about women. It never has been."
But it is also true that now, more than ever, the Conservative Party is frantically reaching out to women. The Tories' dismal electoral outings over the past 10 years haven't been helped by their dearth of women MPs (at the last election, just 9% of Tory MPs were women, compared to Labour's 27.5%). Cameron has therefore been making changes, with women now accounting for around 33% of the Tory candidates selected for the next election. Whether they are in winnable seats remains to be seen. They certainly need to be - as Theresa May has pointed out, there are fewer women in the shadow cabinet than men with the name of David.
While her remit may extend beyond the women's vote, Gunn notes that she is "working on a big new campaign about equal pay ... It's a cause that's very close to my heart, having worked over the years for many organisations where, not necessarily me, but other women were woefully underpaid. It all goes back to being a working mother as well. It is very hard to juggle your life and get childcare at the right times. What do you do in school holidays and at half-term? Your life is a constant negotiation.
"David and his team believe in women. He knows that women make up over half the workforce. He is not a traditionalist. He believes in flexible working hours. He believes that if you want to stay at home, that's fine, but if you want to go to work, that's absolutely fine as well. I think he is probably the most modern leader the Tories have had in 30 years."
Warming to her theme, Gunn dismisses the Lib Dems as being a "busted flush" and is openly hostile to Labour's new leader. "I think life under Gordon Brown is going to be pretty miserable," she says, and, when I ask if Cameron is better for women than Brown, she nods vigorously. "Sans doute," she says, "for women and men."
She is married to Nick Pople, head of an investment fund involved with environmental technology businesses and the couple have a four-year-old son, Jack. Gunn says, strikingly, that she suffers from none of the guilt that consumes many working mothers. "For me - and this is purely for me - I believe I am a better example for my son, as a mother and as a woman who works incredibly hard and wants to be there for him as much as I can. That's my choice."
Indeed, her personal philosophy appears to be perfect for the Cameron-led Tories. She insists that, although she had a private education, she doesn't believe in class. "I was brought up to believe in meritocracy, I wasn't brought up to believe in class," she says. "I was brought up to believe that if you work hard, hopefully you will get to be where you want to be and what you want to be."
Now 38, Gunn grew up in London's Notting Hill and attended Haberdashers' Aske's School for Girls, then boarded at Repton. But she won't be drawn on the current grammar school debate ("I'm not going to comment on that, because it's not my area of expertise"). However, she says she has always been interested in politics, and turned down a place to read law at Cambridge in order to read politics at Bristol.
Her father, John, is one of Britain's leading investors in smaller businesses, but she says her parents were not interested in politics. She notes, though, that her mother's experience of growing up in and leaving communist East Germany was a major influence in her decision to vote Conservative. "My mother escaped from the Berlin wall three days before it was finished, and left her whole family behind. We used to go through Checkpoint Charlie like other people go to Bognor Regis on holiday, and we used to try and help them as much as we could, emotionally and fiscally.
"With what my mother went through, under the thumb of communism, it would have been very strange for me not to have believed in the free market economy and the right of free speech. I always used to call myself a Whig actually. I believed in being strong on law and order without being fascistic, but also liberal on the social agenda, women's rights, that sort of thing."
Gunn made her name in publishing while working at the big literary agency Curtis Brown. She admits that being a Tory in the traditionally left-of-centre publishing world has not always been easy. "You absolutely did not declare your political affiliation," she says of the early days of her career.
When she left Curtis Brown to set up on her own 18 months ago, rumours abounded. Gunn initially insists that it was to "pursue my own opportunities". Later, however, she explains that "one of the major reasons for leaving a big agency which was run by men ... was to get more control over my life. I can take my son to school, and sometimes pick him up, and that makes me happier than anything."
She is also extremely happy to have become involved with the Busoga Trust (busogatrust.co.uk), a charity which seeks to provide clean water in rural Uganda. "What attracted me," she says, "was that in some small way it was helping to empower women in Uganda, whose lives were hitherto spent fetching and carrying water. Women are the mainstay of family society in Uganda, and if, through water, we can help them to help themselves, that has to be good, right?"
Gunn says she "decided what my priorities were in my life a couple of years ago. Trying to get the Tories elected would be one of them, definitely, and trying to get our message across, not just to women, but to everybody. Another would obviously be looking after my son, and also Chelsea winning the league next season. I am driven - yes, very - by the fact that I don't want to fail," she adds. "And also by the fact that I want to provide a good future for Jack."
Gunn is something of a contradiction. She is articulate but appears hesitant; and while she is clearly tough, she appears worried about how she is going to come across during the interview - she has a crib sheet with her, and ponders each answer carefully. Although she has a reputation for negotiating the biggest possible deals for her clients, she is charging the Tories far less than her usual rate. "Sometimes you have to do things because you really believe in them," she says firmly, "not for the money."
Anyway, here is the interview...(or to see it online, cut and paste this link:
http://politics.guardian.co.uk/conservatives/story/0,,2096420,00.html)
Hired Gunn
One of London's leading literary agents, Ali Gunn has been advising the Conservative party on 'lifestyle' issues for the past year. Sarah Ebner hears her views on class, Cameron and the women's vote
Sarah Ebner
Wednesday June 6, 2007
Guardian
Ali Gunn is a reluctant interviewee. It has taken months of cajoling to persuade the Tories' first "Head of lifestyle and features" to talk, and she is visibly uncomfortable. "This whole thing is terrifying me," she says, with only a half smile. "In 20 years of dealing with the media, I have only ever done one other interview, and that was for Publishing News. Now I won't give one for another 20 years."
Gunn has long been known in the publishing world as a tough literary agent, noted for the huge advances she negotiates for her clients. She represents celebrities such as Nancy Dell'Olio and Carol Thatcher, as well as best-selling novelists including Jenny Colgan (who recently landed a £1m advance to write two new novels).
Almost a year ago, Gunn was asked to lend her expertise to the Conservative party, after a mutual acquaintance set up a meeting between her and David Cameron's closest adviser, Steve Hilton. She is now an important part of Cameron's coterie, working for the party "at least" one day a week.
It has been said that her key responsibility is to persuade women to vote Tory, but Gunn says her remit is wider than that, explaining, "What I'm actually doing is looking, overall, at what we're doing with all our people in all our areas. It's much more about engaging the media and the electorate in our key personalities and our policies and not just about women. It never has been."
But it is also true that now, more than ever, the Conservative Party is frantically reaching out to women. The Tories' dismal electoral outings over the past 10 years haven't been helped by their dearth of women MPs (at the last election, just 9% of Tory MPs were women, compared to Labour's 27.5%). Cameron has therefore been making changes, with women now accounting for around 33% of the Tory candidates selected for the next election. Whether they are in winnable seats remains to be seen. They certainly need to be - as Theresa May has pointed out, there are fewer women in the shadow cabinet than men with the name of David.
While her remit may extend beyond the women's vote, Gunn notes that she is "working on a big new campaign about equal pay ... It's a cause that's very close to my heart, having worked over the years for many organisations where, not necessarily me, but other women were woefully underpaid. It all goes back to being a working mother as well. It is very hard to juggle your life and get childcare at the right times. What do you do in school holidays and at half-term? Your life is a constant negotiation.
"David and his team believe in women. He knows that women make up over half the workforce. He is not a traditionalist. He believes in flexible working hours. He believes that if you want to stay at home, that's fine, but if you want to go to work, that's absolutely fine as well. I think he is probably the most modern leader the Tories have had in 30 years."
Warming to her theme, Gunn dismisses the Lib Dems as being a "busted flush" and is openly hostile to Labour's new leader. "I think life under Gordon Brown is going to be pretty miserable," she says, and, when I ask if Cameron is better for women than Brown, she nods vigorously. "Sans doute," she says, "for women and men."
She is married to Nick Pople, head of an investment fund involved with environmental technology businesses and the couple have a four-year-old son, Jack. Gunn says, strikingly, that she suffers from none of the guilt that consumes many working mothers. "For me - and this is purely for me - I believe I am a better example for my son, as a mother and as a woman who works incredibly hard and wants to be there for him as much as I can. That's my choice."
Indeed, her personal philosophy appears to be perfect for the Cameron-led Tories. She insists that, although she had a private education, she doesn't believe in class. "I was brought up to believe in meritocracy, I wasn't brought up to believe in class," she says. "I was brought up to believe that if you work hard, hopefully you will get to be where you want to be and what you want to be."
Now 38, Gunn grew up in London's Notting Hill and attended Haberdashers' Aske's School for Girls, then boarded at Repton. But she won't be drawn on the current grammar school debate ("I'm not going to comment on that, because it's not my area of expertise"). However, she says she has always been interested in politics, and turned down a place to read law at Cambridge in order to read politics at Bristol.
Her father, John, is one of Britain's leading investors in smaller businesses, but she says her parents were not interested in politics. She notes, though, that her mother's experience of growing up in and leaving communist East Germany was a major influence in her decision to vote Conservative. "My mother escaped from the Berlin wall three days before it was finished, and left her whole family behind. We used to go through Checkpoint Charlie like other people go to Bognor Regis on holiday, and we used to try and help them as much as we could, emotionally and fiscally.
"With what my mother went through, under the thumb of communism, it would have been very strange for me not to have believed in the free market economy and the right of free speech. I always used to call myself a Whig actually. I believed in being strong on law and order without being fascistic, but also liberal on the social agenda, women's rights, that sort of thing."
Gunn made her name in publishing while working at the big literary agency Curtis Brown. She admits that being a Tory in the traditionally left-of-centre publishing world has not always been easy. "You absolutely did not declare your political affiliation," she says of the early days of her career.
When she left Curtis Brown to set up on her own 18 months ago, rumours abounded. Gunn initially insists that it was to "pursue my own opportunities". Later, however, she explains that "one of the major reasons for leaving a big agency which was run by men ... was to get more control over my life. I can take my son to school, and sometimes pick him up, and that makes me happier than anything."
She is also extremely happy to have become involved with the Busoga Trust (busogatrust.co.uk), a charity which seeks to provide clean water in rural Uganda. "What attracted me," she says, "was that in some small way it was helping to empower women in Uganda, whose lives were hitherto spent fetching and carrying water. Women are the mainstay of family society in Uganda, and if, through water, we can help them to help themselves, that has to be good, right?"
Gunn says she "decided what my priorities were in my life a couple of years ago. Trying to get the Tories elected would be one of them, definitely, and trying to get our message across, not just to women, but to everybody. Another would obviously be looking after my son, and also Chelsea winning the league next season. I am driven - yes, very - by the fact that I don't want to fail," she adds. "And also by the fact that I want to provide a good future for Jack."
Gunn is something of a contradiction. She is articulate but appears hesitant; and while she is clearly tough, she appears worried about how she is going to come across during the interview - she has a crib sheet with her, and ponders each answer carefully. Although she has a reputation for negotiating the biggest possible deals for her clients, she is charging the Tories far less than her usual rate. "Sometimes you have to do things because you really believe in them," she says firmly, "not for the money."
Saturday, 2 June 2007
It’s only make-believe...
Today I have an article in the Times about the phenomenon that is Rainbow Magic (huge for girls aged between 5-8). The books are "created" by a company which comes up with series to order......Read more here, http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article1869918.ece
or below
It’s only make-believe
Sarah Ebner looks at the bestselling children’s writers who don’t actually exist
YOUNG READERS CAN’T GET enough of Daisy Meadows. Her Rainbow Magic books have sold ten million copies and girls aged between 5 and 8 are enraptured by the tales of Kirsty, Rachel and their fairy friends.
Ms Meadows should be a happy soul. Except that she doesn’t exist.
“It is unusual for children’s books to be written under a pseudonym,” Penny Morris, a director of Orchard, which publishes Rainbow Magic, agrees. “But it needed to happen in this case because there is more than one writer. Ownership remains with Working Partners, not the authors.”
Daisy is actually three people – and most people outside publishing will never have heard of Working Partners, who are responsible for her, and a huge number of other books. As well as Rainbow Magic, their creations include the Animal Ark series (“by” the equally nonexistent Lucy Daniels), the Lady Grace Mysteries and Warriors series. A series for boys aged 7-9 entitled Beast Quest is now in development. The company has deals with almost every big British children’s publisher, and is moving into the adult market (its first novel is out next year).
“I am surprised that they are the only company of their kind in Britain,” Ms Morris says. “But it would be difficult to match them. They now cover all the bases with their ideas.”
The company, set up 12 years ago, aims its books at specific audiences. “We want projects that are going to run for a very long time,” Chris Snowdon, the managing director, says. But he bridles at suggestions that the formula destroys the magic of being a writer. “A lot of people in books try to create a cult of the author, but a lot of demystification can be done.”
All Working Partners’ ideas come from its editorial team – not authors – and are developed in meetings. Once a story has been created, two people build it up, and authors compete to write it. “The storyline can be up to 2,500 words,” Snowdon says. “Rainbow Magicbooks are only 4,500 words long, so that’s a lot of detail. But it can be liberating because the writer is free to focus on the voice.”
Some writers might be aghast at idea, plot and structure being taken away, and Snowdon agrees that it’s a precise way to work. “We tell new writers our rules and that they shouldn’t deviate from the story,” he says. “If they have their own ideas, that’s fine, but they should tell us. Our integrity as a business is the ownership of the idea.”
Narinder Dhami, a children’s writer in her own right, is also one of Working Partners’ most prolific authors. She wrote Ruby the Red Fairy, the first Rainbow Magic adventure. “I prefer coming up with my own ideas,” she says, “but when those aren’t flowing very well, it’s a nice change to have someone send you a synopsis and tell you what to do.”
Many parents and teachers argue that the books are not great literature. Snowdon agrees, but adds: “I don’t know what great literature is, and I’d be interested to ask these people what they think it is. In this country there’s a huge snobbery about books, but we’re creating a reading habit.”
In fact, Working Partners no longer own Rainbow Magic (although they are working on the next two series). Ruby, and her fairy companions grew too big and were sold to HIT Entertainment last month. HIT, whose stable includes Thomas the Tank Engine and Bob the Builder, promises to build the fairies into a “global brand”.
Working Partners will focus on other titles. And while they may have “lost” Daisy Meadows, they haven’t lost the writers behind her. Children might not know their real names, but they’ll soon have more of their stories.
or below
It’s only make-believe
Sarah Ebner looks at the bestselling children’s writers who don’t actually exist
YOUNG READERS CAN’T GET enough of Daisy Meadows. Her Rainbow Magic books have sold ten million copies and girls aged between 5 and 8 are enraptured by the tales of Kirsty, Rachel and their fairy friends.
Ms Meadows should be a happy soul. Except that she doesn’t exist.
“It is unusual for children’s books to be written under a pseudonym,” Penny Morris, a director of Orchard, which publishes Rainbow Magic, agrees. “But it needed to happen in this case because there is more than one writer. Ownership remains with Working Partners, not the authors.”
Daisy is actually three people – and most people outside publishing will never have heard of Working Partners, who are responsible for her, and a huge number of other books. As well as Rainbow Magic, their creations include the Animal Ark series (“by” the equally nonexistent Lucy Daniels), the Lady Grace Mysteries and Warriors series. A series for boys aged 7-9 entitled Beast Quest is now in development. The company has deals with almost every big British children’s publisher, and is moving into the adult market (its first novel is out next year).
“I am surprised that they are the only company of their kind in Britain,” Ms Morris says. “But it would be difficult to match them. They now cover all the bases with their ideas.”
The company, set up 12 years ago, aims its books at specific audiences. “We want projects that are going to run for a very long time,” Chris Snowdon, the managing director, says. But he bridles at suggestions that the formula destroys the magic of being a writer. “A lot of people in books try to create a cult of the author, but a lot of demystification can be done.”
All Working Partners’ ideas come from its editorial team – not authors – and are developed in meetings. Once a story has been created, two people build it up, and authors compete to write it. “The storyline can be up to 2,500 words,” Snowdon says. “Rainbow Magicbooks are only 4,500 words long, so that’s a lot of detail. But it can be liberating because the writer is free to focus on the voice.”
Some writers might be aghast at idea, plot and structure being taken away, and Snowdon agrees that it’s a precise way to work. “We tell new writers our rules and that they shouldn’t deviate from the story,” he says. “If they have their own ideas, that’s fine, but they should tell us. Our integrity as a business is the ownership of the idea.”
Narinder Dhami, a children’s writer in her own right, is also one of Working Partners’ most prolific authors. She wrote Ruby the Red Fairy, the first Rainbow Magic adventure. “I prefer coming up with my own ideas,” she says, “but when those aren’t flowing very well, it’s a nice change to have someone send you a synopsis and tell you what to do.”
Many parents and teachers argue that the books are not great literature. Snowdon agrees, but adds: “I don’t know what great literature is, and I’d be interested to ask these people what they think it is. In this country there’s a huge snobbery about books, but we’re creating a reading habit.”
In fact, Working Partners no longer own Rainbow Magic (although they are working on the next two series). Ruby, and her fairy companions grew too big and were sold to HIT Entertainment last month. HIT, whose stable includes Thomas the Tank Engine and Bob the Builder, promises to build the fairies into a “global brand”.
Working Partners will focus on other titles. And while they may have “lost” Daisy Meadows, they haven’t lost the writers behind her. Children might not know their real names, but they’ll soon have more of their stories.
Friday, 1 June 2007
Turning out to be Jewish - what is it like to find out that you're not what you think you were?
Today I have an article in the Jewish Chronicle.
Here it is....
Roderick Young was 23 when he found out that he was Jewish. It completely changed his life.
“I knew I was home”, he says of his first Friday night dinner. “It felt completely comfortable and right. I can’t say more than that. You can’t explain the inexplicable.”
Young, now 47, had no idea of his Jewish roots. He was christened at three weeks old and attended chapel twice a week at his public school. But discovering his Jewishness was a clearly an enriching experience. Eight years ago, he became a rabbi.
Barbara Kessel is the author of Suddenly Jewish, a book which tells the stories of Jews raised as gentiles, who discover their roots. She was prompted to write it by the experience of former US Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, who found out she was Jewish at the age of 59.
“I was so shocked and intrigued,” says Kessel. “I just wondered what it was like to find out that you’re not who you think you are.”
Kessel says that Young’s response, of feeling comfortable or “home”, is common. “It isn’t so much that they found out they were Jewish, but that they had been given an explanation of why they didn’t feel whole,” she says. “Some had even converted to Judaism before finding out.”
Rabbi Young’s Jewishness was hidden away from him on purpose (even his name was his mother’s attempt to situate him firmly in “English” society). His grandmother had been embarrassed by her East-End Jewish roots, and, when her observant husband died, decided to cover them up completely. Young even grew up thinking that his grandmother, Julia Stewart, was descended from King Charles II, Charles Stuart. It was not until he found her wedding certificate that he discovered she was actually named Julia Siegenberg.
“Being Jewish was often seen as something that could hinder your professional advancement, so it would get lost along the way,” says Barbara Kessel. Often it was also seen as dangerous.
That is certainly true of Zoltan Boros’s family, who turned their back on their religion after the horrors of the Second World War. Boros, 30, (who works as a security guard at a Jewish school in London) grew up Christian in a small town in Hungary. He knew little about the Holocaust, and nothing at all about Jews. But after the collapse of Communism, he started to travel, and at the age of 20 went to Israel. “I loved it there,” he says. “I loved the people, the weather, the fact that everyone was smiling, not like at home.”
Keen to stay in the country, Boros asked his mother if there might just be some Jewish connection in the family. This, he thought, could enable him to make aliyah. “My mother told me, over the phone, that when I came home, we would talk,” he says. “I felt there was something she was going to tell me.”
When Boros came home, his mother told him the truth — at least as far as she knew it. “She said that our family was Jewish, that we originally had a different name, and that my great-grandmother, who was no longer alive, had been in Auschwitz. She also said that her mother, my grandma, didn’t like to talk about it, so I should leave her alone.” However, Boros immediately went to his grandmother. “I asked if she could tell me more, but she didn’t want to,” he says. “She was still scared, and said she didn’t want me to be Jewish. She has numbers on her arm, and perhaps they are from Auschwitz. I would like to know more, but she’s the only one who knows.”
Boros’s grandmother told him nothing, instead asking him to do something for her. “She asked me not to do aliyah and I promised her I wouldn’t,” he says. “I love and respect her.
“I don’t feel I am Jewish or Christian. For the last 10 years I’ve been around Jewish people, here and in Israel, so maybe in some way I’m Jewish. But I can’t say I feel it. I know who I am, but if I look back at the past, then I’m not so sure.”
Boros’s experience is not entirely unusual. Some of the people in Suddenly Jewish talk about feeling “nothing”, even though they accept that they are “biologically Jewish”. Many also find it hard to deal with the deception involved.
“It seems so hypocritical that their parents — the people who are supposed to teach you right from wrong — have lied and manipulated reality,” says Barbara Kessel. “Sometimes, it’s the actual revelation that’s extremely painful. One man was training in a Lutheran seminary. The day his mother told him, he was livid. He told her it had ruined his life, and that he never wanted to speak to her again. They have not spoken since.”
When Roderick Young’s elderly aunt told him that she and his mother had been born Jewish, his immediate reaction was anger. “I said I was never going to speak to my mother again and it took me a long time to understand,” he says. “I certainly felt I’d missed out on things, and that I should have been told.”
American journalist Stephen Dubner had been told, but did not understand. The best-selling author (he co-wrote Freakonomics) was the eighth child born to religious Catholic parents. But his parents had not hidden their Jewishness because of fear of persecution. Instead they had both, separately, converted. “I didn’t know what a Jew was when I was growing up,” says Dubner, 43. “Even though I knew on some level that my parents had once been Jewish, I didn’t connect that with me.”
It was not until Dubner moved to New York that he became more interested in Judaism. He was 23 when a friend told him that if his parents were Jewish, then he was too. “When I learned that I was halachically Jewish, that was very jarring to me,” he says. “It made me think, what kind of religion would claim me as a member even though I had never set foot in a synagogue or uttered a word of Hebrew? I didn’t think I was Jewish at all until then — I was a contentedly lapsed Catholic. But the curiosity made me want to be Jewish, and so did the move to New York, where being Jewish is a state of mind.”
Dubner — whose sisters and brothers remain Catholic — has made his Jewishness a major part of his life. His wife is Jewish, and they are bringing up their two children as practising Jews. But his relationship with his mother did suffer — although the pair were reunited before her death in 1999. “She saw my decision as a kind of naïve one, and a rejection of her faith,” he says. “She also saw a problem that when she died and was sent to heaven, it would be a heaven for Catholics, and forbidden for us ever to reunite. As a mother, that was a very painful thought.”
Dubner sat shivah when his mother died, and seems happy with his new faith, but it is Roderick Young — now principal rabbi at Finchley Reform Synagogue in London — whose life has changed beyond recognition. “Ma used to be worried about what I wanted to do with my life and I told her that when it happened, I would know. Well, it happened and I love it. I feel 125 per cent Jewish.”
The first female American Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright, is one of the most high-profile adults to suddenly discover that she was Jewish. Born in Czechoslovakia to a Catholic family, she left as a child in 1939, coming first to Britain and then to the US. As an adult, she became an Episcopalian. However, in 1997, Albright discovered that she had had three Jewish grandparents (they died in Auschwitz). Her parents had converted to Catholicism. “All this was a major surprise for me,” Albright said. “I have said many times my life was a reflection of the turbulence of the 20th century.”
Oscar-nominated film-maker Stephen Frears did not find out he was Jewish until his late twenties — and is not sure why the fact was hidden from him. The director of The Queen has described how he regularly attended Church of England services when he grew up in Leicester. It was not until his grandmother’s 90th birthday party, that his brother divulged the news.
“He said how pleased our grandmother was that I had married a Jewish girl — and that our mother was Jewish. Of course I was surprised that something like this had been concealed for so long.”
Playwright Sir Tom Stoppard, whose original name was Tomas Straussler, always knew there was Jewish blood in his family. But it was not until he was an adult that he discovered both of his parents were Jewish. Sir Tom’s father died when he was still a young child. After his Czech mother remarried the very English Kenneth Stoppard, she was keen to hide her Jewish origins. “It was protection for me, mainly,” Stoppard has said, adding that he does not consider himself Jewish or Christian. However, in an article published in 1999, “On Turning Out To be Jewish” he wrote about his state of mind “now that I’m Jewish”.
Here it is....
Roderick Young was 23 when he found out that he was Jewish. It completely changed his life.
“I knew I was home”, he says of his first Friday night dinner. “It felt completely comfortable and right. I can’t say more than that. You can’t explain the inexplicable.”
Young, now 47, had no idea of his Jewish roots. He was christened at three weeks old and attended chapel twice a week at his public school. But discovering his Jewishness was a clearly an enriching experience. Eight years ago, he became a rabbi.
Barbara Kessel is the author of Suddenly Jewish, a book which tells the stories of Jews raised as gentiles, who discover their roots. She was prompted to write it by the experience of former US Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, who found out she was Jewish at the age of 59.
“I was so shocked and intrigued,” says Kessel. “I just wondered what it was like to find out that you’re not who you think you are.”
Kessel says that Young’s response, of feeling comfortable or “home”, is common. “It isn’t so much that they found out they were Jewish, but that they had been given an explanation of why they didn’t feel whole,” she says. “Some had even converted to Judaism before finding out.”
Rabbi Young’s Jewishness was hidden away from him on purpose (even his name was his mother’s attempt to situate him firmly in “English” society). His grandmother had been embarrassed by her East-End Jewish roots, and, when her observant husband died, decided to cover them up completely. Young even grew up thinking that his grandmother, Julia Stewart, was descended from King Charles II, Charles Stuart. It was not until he found her wedding certificate that he discovered she was actually named Julia Siegenberg.
“Being Jewish was often seen as something that could hinder your professional advancement, so it would get lost along the way,” says Barbara Kessel. Often it was also seen as dangerous.
That is certainly true of Zoltan Boros’s family, who turned their back on their religion after the horrors of the Second World War. Boros, 30, (who works as a security guard at a Jewish school in London) grew up Christian in a small town in Hungary. He knew little about the Holocaust, and nothing at all about Jews. But after the collapse of Communism, he started to travel, and at the age of 20 went to Israel. “I loved it there,” he says. “I loved the people, the weather, the fact that everyone was smiling, not like at home.”
Keen to stay in the country, Boros asked his mother if there might just be some Jewish connection in the family. This, he thought, could enable him to make aliyah. “My mother told me, over the phone, that when I came home, we would talk,” he says. “I felt there was something she was going to tell me.”
When Boros came home, his mother told him the truth — at least as far as she knew it. “She said that our family was Jewish, that we originally had a different name, and that my great-grandmother, who was no longer alive, had been in Auschwitz. She also said that her mother, my grandma, didn’t like to talk about it, so I should leave her alone.” However, Boros immediately went to his grandmother. “I asked if she could tell me more, but she didn’t want to,” he says. “She was still scared, and said she didn’t want me to be Jewish. She has numbers on her arm, and perhaps they are from Auschwitz. I would like to know more, but she’s the only one who knows.”
Boros’s grandmother told him nothing, instead asking him to do something for her. “She asked me not to do aliyah and I promised her I wouldn’t,” he says. “I love and respect her.
“I don’t feel I am Jewish or Christian. For the last 10 years I’ve been around Jewish people, here and in Israel, so maybe in some way I’m Jewish. But I can’t say I feel it. I know who I am, but if I look back at the past, then I’m not so sure.”
Boros’s experience is not entirely unusual. Some of the people in Suddenly Jewish talk about feeling “nothing”, even though they accept that they are “biologically Jewish”. Many also find it hard to deal with the deception involved.
“It seems so hypocritical that their parents — the people who are supposed to teach you right from wrong — have lied and manipulated reality,” says Barbara Kessel. “Sometimes, it’s the actual revelation that’s extremely painful. One man was training in a Lutheran seminary. The day his mother told him, he was livid. He told her it had ruined his life, and that he never wanted to speak to her again. They have not spoken since.”
When Roderick Young’s elderly aunt told him that she and his mother had been born Jewish, his immediate reaction was anger. “I said I was never going to speak to my mother again and it took me a long time to understand,” he says. “I certainly felt I’d missed out on things, and that I should have been told.”
American journalist Stephen Dubner had been told, but did not understand. The best-selling author (he co-wrote Freakonomics) was the eighth child born to religious Catholic parents. But his parents had not hidden their Jewishness because of fear of persecution. Instead they had both, separately, converted. “I didn’t know what a Jew was when I was growing up,” says Dubner, 43. “Even though I knew on some level that my parents had once been Jewish, I didn’t connect that with me.”
It was not until Dubner moved to New York that he became more interested in Judaism. He was 23 when a friend told him that if his parents were Jewish, then he was too. “When I learned that I was halachically Jewish, that was very jarring to me,” he says. “It made me think, what kind of religion would claim me as a member even though I had never set foot in a synagogue or uttered a word of Hebrew? I didn’t think I was Jewish at all until then — I was a contentedly lapsed Catholic. But the curiosity made me want to be Jewish, and so did the move to New York, where being Jewish is a state of mind.”
Dubner — whose sisters and brothers remain Catholic — has made his Jewishness a major part of his life. His wife is Jewish, and they are bringing up their two children as practising Jews. But his relationship with his mother did suffer — although the pair were reunited before her death in 1999. “She saw my decision as a kind of naïve one, and a rejection of her faith,” he says. “She also saw a problem that when she died and was sent to heaven, it would be a heaven for Catholics, and forbidden for us ever to reunite. As a mother, that was a very painful thought.”
Dubner sat shivah when his mother died, and seems happy with his new faith, but it is Roderick Young — now principal rabbi at Finchley Reform Synagogue in London — whose life has changed beyond recognition. “Ma used to be worried about what I wanted to do with my life and I told her that when it happened, I would know. Well, it happened and I love it. I feel 125 per cent Jewish.”
The first female American Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright, is one of the most high-profile adults to suddenly discover that she was Jewish. Born in Czechoslovakia to a Catholic family, she left as a child in 1939, coming first to Britain and then to the US. As an adult, she became an Episcopalian. However, in 1997, Albright discovered that she had had three Jewish grandparents (they died in Auschwitz). Her parents had converted to Catholicism. “All this was a major surprise for me,” Albright said. “I have said many times my life was a reflection of the turbulence of the 20th century.”
Oscar-nominated film-maker Stephen Frears did not find out he was Jewish until his late twenties — and is not sure why the fact was hidden from him. The director of The Queen has described how he regularly attended Church of England services when he grew up in Leicester. It was not until his grandmother’s 90th birthday party, that his brother divulged the news.
“He said how pleased our grandmother was that I had married a Jewish girl — and that our mother was Jewish. Of course I was surprised that something like this had been concealed for so long.”
Playwright Sir Tom Stoppard, whose original name was Tomas Straussler, always knew there was Jewish blood in his family. But it was not until he was an adult that he discovered both of his parents were Jewish. Sir Tom’s father died when he was still a young child. After his Czech mother remarried the very English Kenneth Stoppard, she was keen to hide her Jewish origins. “It was protection for me, mainly,” Stoppard has said, adding that he does not consider himself Jewish or Christian. However, in an article published in 1999, “On Turning Out To be Jewish” he wrote about his state of mind “now that I’m Jewish”.
Tuesday, 8 May 2007
The operation that can make breast cancer surgery less painful
Today I have a health piece in the Daily Mail. Here is the link:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/health/healthmain.html?in_article_id=453402&in_page_id=1774
It is about a new procedure used to treat women with breast cancer. It's a procedure which is now being used more and more widely - which can only be a good thing.
Here is the piece......
Breast cancer surgery usually involves removing the lump and up to 30 of the lymph nodes under the arm — often causing painful chronic swelling.
With a new technique, only one or two lymph nodes have to be removed — an operation which is set to become more widely available now that 80 per cent of the UK's breast surgeons have signed up for training.
Victoria Yeates, 49, was one of the first to undergo the procedure.
Here, the law lecturer, who lives in Cardiff with her husband Philip, 55, tells SARAH EBNER her story.
The patient
When I discovered a tiny lump in my right breast, I was very blase about it. I'd had another one ten years before which had just disappeared on its own accord.
When I felt the new lump, I thought it would be the same.
It was my sister, who is a pharmacist, who persuaded me to get it investigated. I went to the GP several weeks later and was referred to the University Hospital of Wales.
I was so relaxed about it that when the appointment coincided with a holiday to Egypt, I went to Egypt instead. I feel terrible about that now.
Two weeks later, under the care of Robert Mansel, professor of surgery at the University of Wales College of Medicine in Cardiff, I had a mammogram that came back normal.
I then had an ultrasound scan and was surprised when the radiographer said: "Oh dear, there's definitely abnormal tissue here."
They did a needle biopsy, in which a small piece of suspicious tissue was taken to be sent for analysis, and when I returned to the hospital a week later to find out the results, I knew it was bad news because I was accompanied by one of the breast care nurses.
Still, I felt very calm when they told me the lump was cancerous. My husband Philip, who had come with me, was ashen though. He went through hell.
I was told I had a small tumour which was not aggressive, and that a mastectomy (in which the whole breast is removed) would not be necessary.
They advised a lumpectomy — where only the cancerous tissue and a small area around it are removed — and then radiotherapy (they didn't know yet if I would need chemotherapy).
I came away feeling quite optimistic, but reality dawned over the next week.
I might face a disfiguring procedure and I learned that during the operation they would need to remove all of my lymph nodes in case the cancer had spread.
I was concerned about this and spoke to my breast nurse, who suggested discussing the options with Professor Mansel.
He said that of all tumours, mine was the best type to have — it was slow-growing and small.
He said he was working on a trial involving a technique called sentinel node biopsy, which might reduce the after-effects of having my lymph nodes removed.
The lymph nodes are part of the lymphatic system which draws lymph — fluid — from tissues all over the body back into the bloodstream.
If cancerous cells get into the lymph nodes, it can spread through the body.
Professor Mansel explained that 70 per cent of women with breast cancer have their lymph nodes removed unnecessarily, when they don't have cancer in them, and that lymph node removal can result in a serious complication called lymphoedema — chronic swelling — especially in the arms because lymph is no longer able to drain away.
This feels painful, and it is very hard to move the arm normally.
With sentinel node biopsy, only one or two nodes are removed. If no cancer is found, the rest of the lymph nodes can be retained.
Professor Mansel said the aim of the procedure was to check the first node the cancer would spread to — which is called the sentinel or guard node.
If there is no cancer present, it won't have gone to the other glands, so there is no point taking them out.
It made so much sense, and after meeting Professor Mansel, I went away feeling uplifted but also nervous that I wouldn't be selected for the trial.
I was attending an outpatient appointment in preparation for admission when the nurse told me I'd been selected.
On May 13, 2002, the night before the operation, I was seen by Professor Mansel and his registrar, who explained what would happen during the surgery.
When I was wheeled into theatre, I felt totally calm. The operation lasted two hours, during which time they took out the cancerous lump, removed the lymph nodes and put in a temporary drain.
When I came round, I felt marvellous. There was a tiny scar from where they had taken out the sentinel nodes and a neat line where the lump had been removed.
The side of my breast was a bit caved in because they had to take some tissue out, and I have since had two reconstructive operations.
I had full mobility in my arm afterwards and no swelling.
Ten days later, I went to get my test results and was told that the cancer hadn't gone to the sentinel nodes so I didn't need another operation. It was very good news.
I didn't need chemotherapy, although I did have radiotherapy to make sure no stray cancer cells remained.
I now have a mammogram every year. I consider myself very lucky to have benefited from this medical advance.
The surgeon
Professor Robert Mansel of University Hospital, Cardiff, says:
Sentinel node biopsy allows women who are undergoing breast surgery to have only one or two lymph nodes removed from under their arm, rather than the conventional 20 to 30.
The nodes are then checked in the laboratory for the presence of cancer cells.
If cancer gets into the lymphatic system, there is an increased risk of it spreading to the rest of the body.
Experts had thought that cancer cells spread to all lymph nodes equally — but in fact the cancer moves in a predictable pattern, going from node to node, starting with the sentinel.
If the sentinel node is found to have cancerous cells, then there is a possibility it may have spread to other lymph nodes.
In this case, the patient has to return to theatre for the remaining nodes to be removed.
But if there is no cancer in the sentinel node, then there will be no cancer in the others — and no need for further surgery.
The new technique not only reduces recovery time but also cuts down the number of patients who suffer long-term damage to their arms after the operation.
Removing all of the lymph glands can cause very painful after-effects, such as lymphoedema, where the arm swells up and feels heavy.
This affects around 20 per cent of women having full removal of the nodes and is incurable.
With the new technique, arm swelling is reduced by 80 per cent and numbness and tingling by 80 to 85 per cent.
I'm passionate about this procedure, which is now the standard operation in the U.S. and most of Europe.
I'd like to see it rolled out across the whole of the NHS because it has so many benefits for patients compared to conventional surgery.
When I first met Victoria, I was sure her tumour was non-aggressive and that she would be a good candidate for this operation.
A few hours before her operation, I injected a drop of fluid containing a tiny amount of a radioactive isotope into the skin at the edge of Victoria's areola (the area around the nipple).
The radioactivity travels from the skin to the lymph nodes, reaching the sentinel node first.
During the operation, the radioactivity guides me to this node.
Once in theatre, Victoria was given a general anaesthetic.
We also injected a blue dye under the skin around her breast.
Very occasionally, though not in Victoria's case, the radioactivity doesn't go to the lymph node, so we can then use the dye to guide us instead.
With Victoria asleep, we used the radioactive probe to find the sentinel node.
The probe is like a steel pen, and you point it at the area under the arm.
The nearer the probe gets to the sentinel node, the louder the noise it makes, until it sounds like a scream.
I made a small incision to let the probe in, and moved it around to find the exact position of the nodes.
The radioactivity had gone to five nodes, which I removed, before closing up the wound. (The nodes were sent off for tests — which later came back clear.)
I then made a two-inch incision on the breast to take out the tumour and a margin of tissue.
Once I was satisfied that all cancerous tissue had been removed, I stitched Victoria up.
Victoria recovered remarkably well. She was very positive about the whole thing and was up and about as if nothing had been done.
That's the great thing about this operation. It uses only small incisions and there's very little pain afterwards.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/health/healthmain.html?in_article_id=453402&in_page_id=1774
It is about a new procedure used to treat women with breast cancer. It's a procedure which is now being used more and more widely - which can only be a good thing.
Here is the piece......
Breast cancer surgery usually involves removing the lump and up to 30 of the lymph nodes under the arm — often causing painful chronic swelling.
With a new technique, only one or two lymph nodes have to be removed — an operation which is set to become more widely available now that 80 per cent of the UK's breast surgeons have signed up for training.
Victoria Yeates, 49, was one of the first to undergo the procedure.
Here, the law lecturer, who lives in Cardiff with her husband Philip, 55, tells SARAH EBNER her story.
The patient
When I discovered a tiny lump in my right breast, I was very blase about it. I'd had another one ten years before which had just disappeared on its own accord.
When I felt the new lump, I thought it would be the same.
It was my sister, who is a pharmacist, who persuaded me to get it investigated. I went to the GP several weeks later and was referred to the University Hospital of Wales.
I was so relaxed about it that when the appointment coincided with a holiday to Egypt, I went to Egypt instead. I feel terrible about that now.
Two weeks later, under the care of Robert Mansel, professor of surgery at the University of Wales College of Medicine in Cardiff, I had a mammogram that came back normal.
I then had an ultrasound scan and was surprised when the radiographer said: "Oh dear, there's definitely abnormal tissue here."
They did a needle biopsy, in which a small piece of suspicious tissue was taken to be sent for analysis, and when I returned to the hospital a week later to find out the results, I knew it was bad news because I was accompanied by one of the breast care nurses.
Still, I felt very calm when they told me the lump was cancerous. My husband Philip, who had come with me, was ashen though. He went through hell.
I was told I had a small tumour which was not aggressive, and that a mastectomy (in which the whole breast is removed) would not be necessary.
They advised a lumpectomy — where only the cancerous tissue and a small area around it are removed — and then radiotherapy (they didn't know yet if I would need chemotherapy).
I came away feeling quite optimistic, but reality dawned over the next week.
I might face a disfiguring procedure and I learned that during the operation they would need to remove all of my lymph nodes in case the cancer had spread.
I was concerned about this and spoke to my breast nurse, who suggested discussing the options with Professor Mansel.
He said that of all tumours, mine was the best type to have — it was slow-growing and small.
He said he was working on a trial involving a technique called sentinel node biopsy, which might reduce the after-effects of having my lymph nodes removed.
The lymph nodes are part of the lymphatic system which draws lymph — fluid — from tissues all over the body back into the bloodstream.
If cancerous cells get into the lymph nodes, it can spread through the body.
Professor Mansel explained that 70 per cent of women with breast cancer have their lymph nodes removed unnecessarily, when they don't have cancer in them, and that lymph node removal can result in a serious complication called lymphoedema — chronic swelling — especially in the arms because lymph is no longer able to drain away.
This feels painful, and it is very hard to move the arm normally.
With sentinel node biopsy, only one or two nodes are removed. If no cancer is found, the rest of the lymph nodes can be retained.
Professor Mansel said the aim of the procedure was to check the first node the cancer would spread to — which is called the sentinel or guard node.
If there is no cancer present, it won't have gone to the other glands, so there is no point taking them out.
It made so much sense, and after meeting Professor Mansel, I went away feeling uplifted but also nervous that I wouldn't be selected for the trial.
I was attending an outpatient appointment in preparation for admission when the nurse told me I'd been selected.
On May 13, 2002, the night before the operation, I was seen by Professor Mansel and his registrar, who explained what would happen during the surgery.
When I was wheeled into theatre, I felt totally calm. The operation lasted two hours, during which time they took out the cancerous lump, removed the lymph nodes and put in a temporary drain.
When I came round, I felt marvellous. There was a tiny scar from where they had taken out the sentinel nodes and a neat line where the lump had been removed.
The side of my breast was a bit caved in because they had to take some tissue out, and I have since had two reconstructive operations.
I had full mobility in my arm afterwards and no swelling.
Ten days later, I went to get my test results and was told that the cancer hadn't gone to the sentinel nodes so I didn't need another operation. It was very good news.
I didn't need chemotherapy, although I did have radiotherapy to make sure no stray cancer cells remained.
I now have a mammogram every year. I consider myself very lucky to have benefited from this medical advance.
The surgeon
Professor Robert Mansel of University Hospital, Cardiff, says:
Sentinel node biopsy allows women who are undergoing breast surgery to have only one or two lymph nodes removed from under their arm, rather than the conventional 20 to 30.
The nodes are then checked in the laboratory for the presence of cancer cells.
If cancer gets into the lymphatic system, there is an increased risk of it spreading to the rest of the body.
Experts had thought that cancer cells spread to all lymph nodes equally — but in fact the cancer moves in a predictable pattern, going from node to node, starting with the sentinel.
If the sentinel node is found to have cancerous cells, then there is a possibility it may have spread to other lymph nodes.
In this case, the patient has to return to theatre for the remaining nodes to be removed.
But if there is no cancer in the sentinel node, then there will be no cancer in the others — and no need for further surgery.
The new technique not only reduces recovery time but also cuts down the number of patients who suffer long-term damage to their arms after the operation.
Removing all of the lymph glands can cause very painful after-effects, such as lymphoedema, where the arm swells up and feels heavy.
This affects around 20 per cent of women having full removal of the nodes and is incurable.
With the new technique, arm swelling is reduced by 80 per cent and numbness and tingling by 80 to 85 per cent.
I'm passionate about this procedure, which is now the standard operation in the U.S. and most of Europe.
I'd like to see it rolled out across the whole of the NHS because it has so many benefits for patients compared to conventional surgery.
When I first met Victoria, I was sure her tumour was non-aggressive and that she would be a good candidate for this operation.
A few hours before her operation, I injected a drop of fluid containing a tiny amount of a radioactive isotope into the skin at the edge of Victoria's areola (the area around the nipple).
The radioactivity travels from the skin to the lymph nodes, reaching the sentinel node first.
During the operation, the radioactivity guides me to this node.
Once in theatre, Victoria was given a general anaesthetic.
We also injected a blue dye under the skin around her breast.
Very occasionally, though not in Victoria's case, the radioactivity doesn't go to the lymph node, so we can then use the dye to guide us instead.
With Victoria asleep, we used the radioactive probe to find the sentinel node.
The probe is like a steel pen, and you point it at the area under the arm.
The nearer the probe gets to the sentinel node, the louder the noise it makes, until it sounds like a scream.
I made a small incision to let the probe in, and moved it around to find the exact position of the nodes.
The radioactivity had gone to five nodes, which I removed, before closing up the wound. (The nodes were sent off for tests — which later came back clear.)
I then made a two-inch incision on the breast to take out the tumour and a margin of tissue.
Once I was satisfied that all cancerous tissue had been removed, I stitched Victoria up.
Victoria recovered remarkably well. She was very positive about the whole thing and was up and about as if nothing had been done.
That's the great thing about this operation. It uses only small incisions and there's very little pain afterwards.
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