It was choir last night. Without doubt, the highlight of my week. For two hours on a Wednesday evening in a church in south London I get to be a different me. I’ve always loved singing and even though I’m no great shakes it doesn’t seem to matter and I’m pretty confident that my sessions with Rock Choir do more for my serotonin levels than most anti depressants ever could. As I stand in my section, upper alto as you’re asking, and sing ‘Mr Blue Sky’ for the umpteenth time I honestly feel just..great. I don’t think about the triplets or Jake or the unpaid bills or the complications with a certain ex partner, I just sing. I do find myself thinking of cancer though, from time to time. It’s not as morbid as it sounds, I just sometimes step outside of myself and remember the journey I’ve been on. From newly diagnosed and terrified to physically fragile and worn down by the physical effects of chemo and then the slow, slow, slow path to rediscovering some kind of normality, whatever that is. There were days not so long ago when I couldn’t imagine ever feeling ‘normal’ again let alone doing anything that didn’t involve scary hospital appointments and nappies … and now, once a week, I’m lucky enough to be able to take my place in crowd of sixty or so enthusiastic singers all there for their own personal reasons and all united by a love of belting out reworked pop classics. It might sound strange but that one weekly session somehow carries me through the next seven days when I really am just ‘mum’ – often jaded, stressed, ratty and being pulled in a million different directions by eight clamouring hands. So, once a week, as we all sing our hearts out and launch into ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’ I get a real sense of possibility and hope that maybe, step by step, I can shape a new life for myself and my amazing, incredible children. Step by step, day by day and song by song…
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