Love & The Goddess (16 page)

A dilemma occurred as vanity battled with common sense over the latter. How could I swap my lace-trimmed push-ups for a black nylon over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder? That would be an admission
that I was finally willing to let myself slide into middle-aged decay. But I supposed it wouldn’t kill me to wear the shapeless sports thing under loose t-shirts and save the under wires for
special occasions… would it? The advice I was following was what Trevor called “hippie stuff with no scientific data for back-up”. Never mind him, I was willing to try anything
and even believe in miracles.

There was one other issue I needed to resolve and for that reason my psychologist Aidan Whyte agreed to fit me in for an emergency appointment. After exchanging the initial
pleasantries and filling him in on what had happened since my last appointment, he leaned forward to peer at me from over his spectacles.

“Kate, you have always battled with the ‘God dilemma’. You are by nature a seeker and you crave a deep spiritual connection, but most of your life you’ve suffered from
what is known as ‘Catholic hyper-vigilance’. You’re so afraid of a judgemental God, you’ve trained yourself to be ever watchful of yourself for fear you could even slightly
transgress or sin unbeknown to yourself.”

“I know and it’s worse now I’ve started to think I could die.” Shivering, I pulled the blue pashmina from my lap to wrap tight around my shoulders. “I’ve been
writing in my feelings journal in an effort to make some sense of the emotions I’m going through because I have this terrible guilt around divorce being a mortal sin. Can I read what I wrote
to you?”

“Of course.”

I pulled my black hard-backed copy book from my handbag. “If I die, will I meet the loving presence Sean the Shaman talked about or will I meet the devil Aunt Marge warns of? The
judgemental God my mother and her sister refer to seems just as bad as his arch enemy Satan in his desire to punish me. I am equally afraid of both. I prefer to connect with a loving spirit –
the Holy Spirit or the angels.”

“Hmm … it’s good that you’ve touched on that. Good that you can relate to a more friendly aspect of the divine, Kate. Because at an early age, something or someone
convinced you that God was the scary old codger depicted in the Old Testament, mad to condemn us all to hellfire and brimstone. It’s one of the reasons you live with anxiety as your constant
companion. And it can take a long time to get rid of old beliefs established when you were a vulnerable child.”

“I don’t really believe that stuff on a logical level, yet it haunts me during sleepless nights.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat in an effort to relax my sudden tension.
“My mother’s family constantly talked about people and things in terms of good and evil. Thanks be to sweet Jesus, her sister Marge lives in Chicago because she talks about nothing else
and still sends packages of leaflets and books on biblical prophecies, Armageddon and Satan. Until recently my mother used to rant on about some of that stuff too.”

“And what do you think all that is about?”

Biting my lower lip, I chewed on his question before answering. “A projection of her own fears and a way to control other people?”

“Absolutely. And it’s a habit she is unaware of and unable to break. She’s probably just repeating stuff told to her as a child. The church and indeed society has always sought
to instill fear into people as a way of making them conform. Your mother never worked on her own self-awareness as you are doing. Did anything else come up for you around the subject of your own
mortality?”

“Yes. It hasn’t been all bad. I’ve been thinking about all the things I want to do before I die and that has given me a new zest for life. Isn’t that strange?” I
was suddenly aware I was twiddling my ring.

“No. In our culture, we usually shy away from thinking about death. It’s different in the east. In Tibet the symbol of a skull is a sacred reminder to live every day as if it were
your last.” Whyte slanted his head in a perky manner. “It sounds like you’re beginning to value life and find your own answers. You may be doing me out of a job, Kate.”

Buoyed by my enthusiastic therapy session, I went for a brisk walk on the windswept prom and thought about the many things I wanted to do. I’d been pleased that Whyte considered I was
making progress. I hadn’t told him that I was still taking sleeping tablets. First on my list of things was to try and wean myself off them. They did me no good, and I was worried about being
addicted.

As I took in the view of the sea, darkly rugged against the silvery blue mountains, I thought about the cookery book I had always dreamt of writing. I’d spent a lifetime collecting and
inventing recipes. I promised myself I would stop procrastinating and make a start on it soon.

My thoughts were interrupted by a small boy running smack into me, while his mother battled with another child screaming in a pushchair. I set the boy on his feet, and he ran back to his
exhausted-looking mother. It made me think – something else I’d always wanted to do was to help people less fortunate. If my book garnered success, I wanted to use some of the profits
to help other women, especially single mothers battling the recession. I’d only recently begun to realise how lonely it must be for some women raising kids without a partner.

Squawking gulls overhead flew in a V-shape, signalling the imminent arrival of rain. I ran for my car. Parked beside me was a red station wagon, and a dalmation dog had its head stuck out the
window. I paused to pat it. I hadn’t owned a dog since my beloved labrador had died, leaving me heartbroken at fifteen years of age. Maybe I could get a dog now. But how I would manage it, I
had no idea. Whatever about anything else, I was going to travel to exciting places – and the sooner the better. In many ways, my present predicament was opening my eyes. I was beginning to
see life as an adventure with me in the driving seat.

When the day for my biopsy arrived, I was feeling healthy and my breasts were considerably lighter, less engorged. I felt that I had begun to bring about very positive change,
not alone in my body but also in my over-anxious mind. The act of meditation had reminded me to breathe deeply and helped slow the racing thoughts. I still wasn’t sleeping soundly, but rather
than toss and turn I’d been getting up to write in my journal as a way of getting in touch with my feelings, hopes and wishes. I’d made a list of all the things I wanted to do, and I
held this list in my head like a light.

I was sitting up in the iron-framed hospital bed after my biopsy surgery when Ella and James arrived in to see me. “I wouldn’t take one doctor’s advice on it, Kate. It sounds
radical to whip out your breast just because of some calcium deposits,” Ella said firmly.

James chimed in, “I know he’s got a good reputation, Kate, but doctors have been known to whip out wombs in the past for no good reason. Now every second woman your age is having her
breasts removed.”

Listening to them, I was glad I’d told so few friends. They meant well, but I found it hard to listen to the endless debate and fussing which went on. Ella was propping my pillows up
behind me. “You need to take a holiday some time soon, after all you’ve been through …”

And James was nodding his agreement. “I keep asking her to meet me in Peru, after my month’s Club Med cooking stint in Mexico … I’m off there tomorrow.” He was
rubbing his hands together and smiling at the thought of it. “Come on, Kate, say you’ll join me …”

“Ah, I’ll miss you. But I’ll have to wait and learn what the outcome of this is before I make plans. I was watching that Brazilian healer on YouTube. If I’m desperate
enough I might just be game for trying him. I could meet you in Peru afterwards.”

“I thought you were too much of a doubting Thomas for psychic surgery?” James said.

“I know – but if other people can have blind faith and receive a miracle why not me? Oh, and remember to photograph the food when you’re away.”

A week after the biopsy, I was home and insisted on cooking for Ella. At four o’clock that afternoon, as I was unearthing fresh crabmeat from its shell, my phone rang.

“Munchkin man,” I thought, as I heard the voice of the consultant. My heart leapt into my mouth and a throbbing started in my left temple.

“Mrs Canavan, it’s good news. You’re totally clear. I can’t understand it to be quite honest with you, given how your mammogram looked. I need you to follow up with
annual visits to me, along with regular mammograms.”

Was that all he could say after putting me through hell? What a fool … he shouldn’t be let loose on the world until he gets a bit more experience!
Suddenly that thought was
replaced with intense relief. I couldn’t stop myself as I danced around my kitchen in ecstasy singing The Beatles:
“All you need is love”.
Then screaming,
“Whoopee!” as I jumped into the air. As soon as I calmed down, I rang Ella and told her we would be celebrating with shellfish, Kir royals and strawberries. While I’d been
recuperating I’d developed a new recipe for smoked salmon timbales. Definitely a substitute for sex: the sauce set with a little gelatine was rich in cream and homemade mayonnaise, flavoured
with brandy, garlic, thinly diced shallots and ginger – all these wonderful ingredients held the crabmeat together within the salmon mould.

“Kate, it’s divine but there must be ten thousand calories in it. It’s all right for you. You need to pile on a few pounds, but look!” She moved her chair back from the
table to pull up her double-layered aqua-coloured jersey tunic. Then she sat back in her chair, laughing. “You know I looked that healer up on YouTube. Are you still on to go?”

“Yes, I emailed James right after I got the all clear, and told him I was going there for the first fortnight and afterwards I’d join him in Peru.”

“I’d love to go to Brazil with you.”

“Really?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. I would have loved her to join me but I knew it wasn’t the type of holiday she was used to. “I’m not
sure if you’d like it, Ella. It will be very basic. You don’t have any reason to go to a healer.”

“I do! I suffer from gastritis and my back has been acting up. And I don’t always need five star accommodation, you know. I just feel as if I’m being called to go on this trip
with you. I don’t know what it is. Business has dried up and I’m stressed. Maybe a bit of spirituality will bring me luck.” Then suddenly, she added, “My grandmother always
said what you do for charity comes back to you ten-fold. I could help out over there, couldn’t I?”

“I suppose with the people in wheelchairs …”

“There’ll be people there who are that sick?” Ella scrunched up her nose in horror. “But will there be a spa, you know, for massages and pedicures?”

“Oh God, Ella! This doesn’t seem remotely like your idea of a trip.”

“Kate, I’m serious. I want to go. And look, lovey, you won’t be lonely with me around.” She jumped up to hug me.

I certainly wouldn’t be lonely, but I wondered would Ella be bored out of her tree. On the other hand, she was endlessly gregarious and never had problems making friends wherever she went,
so perhaps I didn’t need to worry. She was only interested in the first leg of my journey, to Brazil, and she had been very good to me during the past few weeks with all her advice about
online dating. Although, how could I have believed I could start a new relationship with a man without first healing myself?