Voyage into the unknown

It is not just me who has family links to Basse-Normandie, my partner Becky has history here too.

Like my father, Becky’s dad landed in Normandy after D-Day. He arrived with General Patton’s US Third Army at Cherbourg at the end of July 1944. Under-age, Becky’s dad fought in some of the bloodiest campaigns of the war - the break-out in Normandy and then defeating the Nazi counterattack at the Battle of the Bulge - before invading Germany.

He has never talked about his experiences, beyond a few, typically humorous, anecdotes. It is hardly surprising. He probably only survived because he spoke a little German (actually, he spoke Yiddish) and was looked on as valuable after all the official translators had been killed within days of leaving Cherbourg.

Becky and I visited Cherbourg this week, but it was not Becky’s father's footsteps we were trying to discover.

Between the wars, Cherbourg had been one of the major ports of departure for European migration to the United States of America. From the early 1930s liners departed from a grand Art Deco terminal to travel to New York. The terminal now houses a vast modern museum to the sea, complete with aquaria and a nuclear submarine.



In 1922, Becky’s grandmother left for a new life in America. Thousands of migrants from across Europe would huddle on the quayside, waiting for the liners to dock. The shipping companies would run medical tests and check papers before allowing passengers on board – the companies would be responsible for paying passage back to Europe for those who failed the immigration procedure at Ellis Island.

A few years ago, Becky and I visited Ellis Island and discovered in the archives that Becky’s grandmother had travelled with her sister on the Mauritania from Cherbourg to New York. Before that she had travelled from the city of Uman in what is now the Ukraine.

It was incredible to be in Cherbourg and to try and imagine the amazing adventures that the thousands of migrants – including Becky’s grandmother – embarked on from this port.

For many - particularly Jews from eastern Europe - this would prove to be a voyage of survival, with no family members surviving the famines of the 1930s, the second world war and the Nazi Holocaust.

Again, we were struck by the enormity of history in these lands, the terrible suffering of the last century that – thankfully – never quite reached the British mainland.

Living in mainland Europe has given us an opportunity to uncover the local history – made more poignant by family connections – and has allowed us to understand some of the nuances of how post war Europe has been shaped.

Memories of the debarquement

When we came to Normandy I was aware that I had family connections to the region, but the last week has brought this history home to me.

My father – who visited us this week – passed through Basse-Normandie on two occasions during the second world war. The first time was fleeing the German advance that had cut off a route to the Dunkirk retreat in 1940. He was eventually ferried back to the UK in a Breton fishing boat.

The second time, he arrived at Arromanches two weeks after D-Day in 1944. He worked as an anaesthetist at the military hospital outside Bayeux and then set up a dental laboratory at the small seaside town of Langrune-sur-mer, just north-west of Caen.



The reason that the army needed a dentist so soon after D-Day is an interesting one. The combination of the rough seas of June 1944 and the fashion for young men to have false teeth meant that a lot of dentures ended up on the seabed. My father's laboratory was busy producing and fitting new dentures for the British troops.

So our trip to Langrune this week was an important family pilgrimage. During a previous visit in 1963 my father had failed to find the chalet where he had lived or the dental laboratory. But he felt in his bones that they were still there.

Whilst the rest of the family opted out of this wild goose chase, me and my 92 year-old dad trekked around the town. Taking the old church as a landmark, he narrowed down our search to the western edge of the town – still quite a large area.

Just as we were about to give up, my dad suggested we try just one more road, even though it was right on the boundary with the next town. As we turned down the small, unpaved road it looked like the old black and white pictures my father had taken in 1944.

About halfway down the road he spotted the chalet, still called “Marie Louise” and looking just like it had 65 years ago. It was a fabulous moment – not only had we succeeded in our quest, but it was very emotional for my father to reconnect with his past so concretely. And it was very moving for me to be there with him.



The dental laboratory was in the next street. It has been set up in a small workshop, which was now converted into a house. We had really hit the jackpot.

After living in Langrune for 3 months and looking after local people’s teeth as well as the soldiers', my father followed the advancing army to Belgium where he was based in Antwerp and Brugges.

Having a family connection to the events of 65 years ago probably helps to remind me of the history of this region of France. It is not a pleasant history. Even as the region was being liberated, thousands of civilians were killed in air-raids and ancient towns and cities were razed to the ground.

The Nazi occupation had divided the local people between those who resisted, those who collaborated and those who did neither. The memories of these divisions are deep and painful and the wounds still have not healed today.

The first days of spring

Spring has arrived in Normandy. A week of sunshine was the prelude to the first asparagus of the year at Friday’s market.

We had a friend visiting and it was fantastic to be out and about, spending lots of time in cafés and taking a trip to the coast.

Seeing friends from the UK no longer makes us homesick. Hearing all the news about what is going on there makes us feel quite distant.

We read the British newspapers and are appalled and concerned by the impact of the economic crisis and the degeneration of people’s civil liberties.

However, our news is the French news – that is what affects us here. Although the crisis is big news here, the response is different.

As one of the big political figures said about the general strike last Thursday: “In a period of economic crisis sometimes it's everybody for themselves... but here, that's not the case. There is a collective force being born.”

Here in Caen – with a population of around 120,000 people – over 35,000 people took to the streets on Thursday. Across France at least three million people took part.



I managed to see something of the demonstration in Caen – the last time I spent the day in hospital having my infliximab infusion – and it was an amazing sight.

Engineers, civil servants, students and women from the perfume counter at Galeries Lafayette were all marching and demanding that ordinary people get the same protection from the economic crisis as the bankers are receiving.

Not much to ask eh?

A new prescription

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but I am really impressed with primary care here in France and the outcome of having “too many” doctors.

This afternoon, I went to see my généraliste – the equivalent of a GP in the UK. I made the appointment this morning and saw him straight after lunch.

All I needed was a new prescription.

In the UK I never see my GP when I need a new prescription, I send in a repeat prescription form and pick up two month’s supply at my local pharmacy.

My repeat prescription has a ‘review date’ on the bottom, but all that happens is that when that date is reached another date appears.

Here a prescription is valid for 3 months. You take it to a local pharmacist, they keep a copy and you can go in at any time and get what you need from the prescription.

When the 3 months expires you must go back to see your généraliste for a new one.

This caused some confusion between the receptionist and me the first time I needed a new prescription – it was a surprise for me that I had to see a doctor and a surprise for the receptionist that I thought I didn’t.

And when you see the doctor, you get a 10-15 minute consultation with a full physical examination and review of blood results and of how you’ve been since the last visit, a discussion about any changes to your medication, a chance to ask any questions and then a new, hand-written prescription.

I’m sure many would say that the UK procedure is more efficient, but, given the potential dangers of the immuno-suppressive drugs I’m on, the French system is much safer.

The unblocking of sinks

Yesterday I finally plucked up courage and unblocked the sink in the bathroom. The years of accumulated hair, soap and gunk was quite disgusting, but the satisfaction of seeing water flowing freely down the plug-hole is immense.

The sink seems to me a good metaphor for both the state of my Crohn’s and how I’m feeling being in France at the moment.

Firstly, my bowel is still taking some time to get back on an even keel after last week’s pain and vomiting. I know I have a couple of places of narrowing in my small intestine and, unless I eat a very low-residue diet, I get pain when food passes through.

There is no sink-unblocking solution to this problem. If there is food ‘backed-up’ behind the narrowing, it is a case of eating very carefully, drinking plenty of fluids and waiting. And trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Ultimately I will need more surgery – but not yet.

Secondly, after being poorly with one thing or another since the end of last summer, I am feeling quite annoyed with life and that I’m missing out on the whole living in France experience.

This frustration is filling me up and stressing me out.

One thing I have to keep reminding myself that I still have five and a half months here. Another thing to remember is that this has been a fairly typical autumn and winter for me.

I generally get on with life and cope with long periods of inactivity without always becoming consumed with frustration, anger or depression. I have become very skilled at grasping opportunities when they arise and managing my expectations.

I get a lot done for someone who doesn’t do very much.

This chance to live in France for a year has been an amazing opportunity – and one I would recommend to anybody. But living abroad is challenging and does knock you off balance at times.

The problem for me at the moment is that I am beginning to see this opportunity through the eyes of someone who does not have a serious long-term health problem and who does not normally spend most of the year tucked-up at home.

Perhaps the gunk that needs cleaning out is the gunk of unrealistic expectations rather than the gunk of my illness (apologies for stretching the metaphor a bit too far).

Because, ultimately, I will get the most out of this five and a half months if I am focused on and excited by what I can do, not overwhelmed by the frustration of what I cannot do.

Message received

I’ve been in France since last July and had by second attack of severe pain and vomiting on Friday. So that’s two attacks in nearly eight months, which really isn’t bad for me.

It is important to look at it like that, because going through an acute episode of my Crohn’s and the few days afterwards is rather unpleasant and dispiriting.

The attack I had in October which lead to me being on steroids was far worse. I think this time it was more of my bowel giving me a ‘final warning’.

I have to remind myself that my Crohn’s has come to live in France with me – and that it is still a big problem in my life.

This time last year, my doctors were encouraging me to have more surgery on my bowel to remove some scar tissue that was causing narrowing in two sections of the small intestine.

If the appointment with the surgeon had come through earlier (it took nearly six months for an ‘urgent’ appointment) I would have had the surgery before I came here.

As it was, I decided that it was more important for me to join my partner on this adventure and my healthcare team in the UK were very happy to support me in these plans.

My généraliste, gastroenterologist and hospital doctors here in Caen are all aware of how dodgy my Crohn’s can be, but are very keen for me to avoid surgery if at all possible.

I will go and see a doctor this week, but ultimately it is up to me to rest my bowel and go easy on all the great food there is here. It is not impossible to eat a tasty low-residue diet with all the cheese and cream produced locally.

I know what leads to these attacks – not being strict enough with my diet, getting stressed, not sleeping enough, not resting enough and getting exhausted.

Ultimately I need to listen to what my body is saying to me – and on Friday it sent me a very clear message!

Be valiant!

With the days getting longer and the temperatures getting warmer I’m beginning to rouse from my winter hibernation.

Recently, I had nearly a week without a cold draining the energy out of me. Unfortunately, I seem to have picked up another one – but the momentum is there.

We now have six months to go of our adventure. We have negotiated a departure date with our landlady for the middle of August, so this week has been a good time to focus on what I want to achieve before I head back to the UK.

The first goal has to be putting in six months work on my French skills. Although I have continued to watch French TV, read French newspapers and speak to friends and to people in shops and restaurants, I had given up a systematic learning process.

Now I am spending a couple of hours a day studying to improve my vocabulary. One of my teachers is Michel Vaillant – a cartoon (or bande dessinée) character who I like. I read the books with a dictionary and learn loads.

The surname Vaillant means brave, courageous or valiant. There is a great phrase in French – je ne me sens pas très vaillant – which means “I don’t feel too good”. However, the literal “I don’t feel very courageous today” is a wonderful phrase for people with long-term health conditions where feeling brave is a pre-requisite for facing the day.

The other goal of being in France for a year was to look back at life in the UK (and the last ten years of being ill) with a bit of distance and perspective and start thinking of some of the things I want to do when I get back in August.

I am slowly doing this – without having any ‘eureka!’ moments – and the list is growing. The key, I guess, is to recognise that my health does prevent me from doing some things and forces me to do other things in different ways to most people.

Yet, this year proves that most things are possible if I apply my mind to careful planning, work out solutions to potential problems and, of course, be valiant.