Tag: family

Six Days Horizontal

Getting sick is like sitting down on a chair that’s much lower than anticipated. You land hard and wonder why you didn’t see it coming. The signs were all there – lack of energy, headache, a bit of a cough but it didn’t seem that bad. Until it was. And then the crash landing.

Six days in bed felt like long drawn out weeks. There were nights where minutes felt like hours and hours stretched into infinity until dawn. Unable to breathe through my nose, I sat half upright, sipping endless glass after glass of water in a futile attempt to keep my lips moist. It was pretty grim by Wednesday night. Thoughts meandered irrationally in and out of my consciousness. At one point I was writing scripts for ‘Vera’; trains of clever dialogues rattled by without ever stopping at a station. At other times I was coming up with ideas for Podcasts. Perhaps that synapse of an idea will make this suffering worthwhile.

Being sick for a length of time gave me ample of opportunity to appraise my life. Existential dread arrived on cue between the hours of three and four a.m., no alarm necessary. Had I done enough with my one wild life? Clearly not. My shortcomings lay exposed, expectorating. I was condemned, guilty on all counts. My optimism fled at the first sign of the tempest raging in my head.

The week has been confronting. I turned into a creature I barely recognised. I could have walked out of the pages of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Any veneer of humour was chipped away, hope no longer resided in my soul. And my old friend, gratitude? She too deserted me and has only fleetingly reappeared in the past two days. A fair-weather friend on whom I thought I could rely. Faith too had deserted me.

Here I am on day eight and the fog is slowly lifting. I am now fully dressed and have even eaten a meal. I’ve stopped trying to wrestle with what I can’t control and settled into reluctant acceptance. My mood has steadied and the storm has eased. I am emerging, somewhat battered but essentially intact. I tell myself I’ll never take my health for granted again, and even as I think it, I know it’s probably horseshit.

It takes a village

My granddaughter was born two and a half months ago. She’s generally a ‘good baby’ (as if any baby could be bad), but she does struggle with sleep. In this regard, she reminds me of my daughter as a baby. She was a wakeful child, who would become overtired and then unable to sleep at all.

Now, of course, my daughter wishes she could sleep. Even a ten-minute nap is bliss, and she catches rest whenever she can. Her husband is a hands-on dad, which means both of them are running on empty. Nothing can prepare you for parenthood. It can only be understood through living it. I look at them and marvel at their resilience, but I also recognise that fine line between coping and breaking point.

One unfortunate inheritance I’ve passed on to my daughter is chronic migraines. She remembers me lying down with a bucket beside the bed, waiting for her father to come home and take over the evening routine. It probably happened once a week, certainly often enough to leave an imprint. Like me, she can only lie down, hope to sleep, or ride out the waves of pain. I know what she’s going through, but all I can really do is empathise, bring her medicine, prepare food, and care for the baby so she can rest.

Today she called me in desperation, asking where I was. After hours of trying to settle the baby with multi-day migraine, she had reached her limit. She did the wisest thing she could, put the baby down safely and walked away to her bedroom. I remember the guilt of those moments, when I too had to step back. Yet that distance, that breath of space, is what saves both mother and child. No-one can prepare you for motherhood and the contradictions it carries: joy and frustration, love and exhaustion, light and shadow.

She’s fortunate to have a close friend nearby who stepped in until I arrived. Together we cared for the baby, giving my daughter the reprieve she needed. Watching her, I thought about how difficult it can be raising a child in a nuclear family. How much gentler it might be if grandparents, aunts and uncles lived nearby, ready to lend a hand or a listening ear. There is much to be said for the extended family networks that are woven naturally into other cultures. As for us, we simply muddle through, doing our best, one tired, love-filled day at a time.

What Might Have Been, What Still Is

It is seven in the morning and I’m walking my dog. There are a few people about; a Border Collie here, an Oodle there, a Kelpie in the distance. As I come to cross path, an older couple appear without a dog in tow. This seems odd. At this time of the morning, most people walk briskly with their dogs, giving them a quick outing before work. Over time, most of these people have become familiar faces which I acknowledge with a nod and smile, or with whom I exchange a comment about the weather.  

Ever curious, my eyes follow the older couple as they walk in-step, hands in pockets, elbows lightly touching. As I watch from a distance, my heart aches for the familiarity and affection I sense from their movements. In their steps, I glimpse the path I imagined for myself long ago. This is how I always wanted my old age to be; my husband and I, walking along with a dog running ahead, enjoying companionable silence, or the conversation that makes up a lifetime shared.

Watching them, my heart aches but there’s also joy in my sadness. Joy, because they beat the odds of divorce, death or the malignancy of indifference. They have not ended up in a law court fighting out a bitter dispute or learned to loathe each other in silence, bickering away the fleeting moments of their lives. I celebrate this couple and all those who stood the test of time, those who have learned to love through pain, heartache and oh so many joys that life has to offer, to finally arrive at old age together, whether it be by luck, good fortune or good health. And as I watch them go, I know without doubt and without sentimentality that this would have been us, had death not severed my beloved from my side.

Painting the Harbour Bridge and Other Never-Ending Chores

https://www.pexels.com/photo/sydney-harbour-bridge-4023897/

There is a myth that the Harbour Bridge is continually painted without a break. The story goes that when painters finish at one end, they go back and start at the beginning. This is an urban myth. The reality is that sections need to be painted at differing intervals. Still the myth persists.

Cleaning my house feels like the story about painting the harbour bridge. No sooner do I finish one task, the next is already waiting for me. Now I don’t know whether the painters enjoy their job, but I certainly don’t enjoy mine. I’d much rather be at my desk writing, reading a good book or taking the dog for a walk. Vacuuming, not so much.

Yesterday I vacuumed, did the washing, folded the clothes and put them away, packed and unpacked the dishwasher, changed the sheets and put the rubbish out. Today I will clean the bathroom, iron some work gear, tidy up yet again and water the plants. There’s much more on the list, but I know I won’t get to it. Already the floor looks like it could do with another going over.

Tomorrow the working week begins. When I get home, I will cook, tidy the kitchen, do the dishes and clean out the kitty litter. There won’t be time for much more. The rest of the week will follow in the same vein and then will come the weekend when the big clean will happen once more. Whoever came up with the phrase ‘rinse and repeat’ is a genius. It applies to so much of our daily lives.

Yet while I grumble about my daily chores, I also remember my mother’s lot. When I was a child, she washed clothes in a wooden tub using soap and a washboard to scrub them clean. It was backbreaking work. We didn’t have a vacuum, so cleaning the floor was a matter of a daily sweep with a broom and weekly mopping. Our dishes were washed in a plastic tub and dried with a tea-towel. There were no modern appliances in our house. Cleaning was drudgery.

I have to remind myself that I have it so much easier now. It takes me less than three hours to clean my house top to bottom, which is no more than 2% of all the time available in a week. Viewed in this way, it is hardly an imposition. As with so much of life, it is the attitude to the task that makes the difference. And so, the Bridge gets painted, my house gets cleaned, and I am blessed that life keeps moving on.

Three Beating Hearts: The Making of a Family

Some women are naturally clucky. They coo over babies, look at them wide-eyed and are in awe of the miracle of life, so tiny and perfect. I am not one of these women. I am much more likely to coo over puppies to reach out to stroke them than I ever am to hold a baby in my arms. Hard to admit but true.

When my daughter was born, I was completely in love the moment I set eyes on her. Finally, I understood what came naturally to other women. But for me, I only had eyes and love for my daughter. She was the most perfect creature I had ever seen, and I was instantly filled with a love so strong that I knew I would do anything for her. That feeling has never left me.

When my daughter fell pregnant, I wondered how I would react to the baby once it was born. Would I be as madly in love with her as I was with my own daughter? I honestly didn’t know. Of course, I knew I would love and protect her, but would it be the same as when my own child was born? After many months of waiting and wondering who this new member of the family would be like, the day came quicker than any of us anticipated.

I arrived at the hospital just before my daughter was brought back to the ward, baby against bare chest, vernix protecting her daughter’s delicate skin. She looked so peaceful and beautiful, angelic even. Yet my eyes moved quickly to the face of her mother, my own daughter whom I love above all else. In turn, her eyes were fixed on her baby daughter and I recognised that fierce look of love, a feeling we now both share, generations apart.

She was looking out for her daughter, while I was looking out for mine.

Later in the week, I stayed at the hospital for a night so her husband could get some rest before bringing his family home. I am ashamed to say that I was of very little help that night. I heard the baby cry but could not rouse myself to get up. My darling daughter, however, was awake and doing all the things she had only learnt in the past couple of days. She was a natural. At six in the morning, I finally picked up her baby and settled her next to me so her mother could have a rest. For two blissful hours, I dozed with my granddaughter in the crook of my arm.

Her father came back in the morning and at first couldn’t find his baby. When he saw her snuggled into my arm, he laughed and came to retrieve her. He is besotted with his daughter, proud and protective. I see my husband’s love for our own child reflected in my son-in-law’s eyes. He will be a perfect father.

I am so proud of this little family. They work together, look out for one other and wear their boundless love with pride. And so, my own love expands beyond what I ever felt possible to envelope these three magnificent individuals who have become their own little family.

Bed Rest and Restlessness

I am an impatient patient. Bed rest is agony, not because of the pain but because I am railing against having to rest. Any other time, I long for a sleep in, a chance to have a leisurely morning, just not when I’m sick. Feeling unwell sends me into a spin of (mild) depression, feeling trapped and a sense of foreboding that I will never reemerge into the land of the hale and hearty.

I’ve had the luxury of a week off work. Was I pleased? Not a bit! I lay in bed checking emails, between coughing fits and fits of sleep. Things were happening without me running around. Everyone was coping but me. My colleagues were probably not even aware that I wasn’t there. I was superfluous.

Is this how retirement would feel? No longer needed, no one wondering what I was up to? I have always thought of the moment I leave as entering the land of milk and honey. I’d finally be able to do whatever I liked, whenever I liked. But would it be like this illness, stretching ahead without an end in sight?

Today I finally felt well enough to walk the dog and meet up with a friend. I came home, had a short rest and then proceeded to paint the laundry. First coat done, I had a longer rest before attempting the next tasks on my list. Is this what I have come to? Short bursts of energy to be followed by periods of rest before I can cope with the next item? Surely not!

Tomorrow, the second coat goes on and I have a shelf to assemble before the new washing machine arrives on Monday morning. I may then head out to the Christmas in July markets. I’m already feeling better just thinking of it. That fresh coat of paint will not only give the laundry a new lease of life but will also renew my spirits. Perhaps, I just need to find a new rhythm. One that fits in with what my body is gently trying to tell me. On the other hand, maybe I’ll hold onto that thought until at least Monday and let the sleeping dog lie on the bed. After all, I have a laundry to conquer.

A School Life, A Full Life

We are approaching the end of the term. I can tell. My floors aren’t vacuumed, and the bed is overdue for clean sheets. Lots of little jobs are falling by the wayside. I tell myself that I will get to them next week when I finally have some time.

Today, I arrived home after 7pm and my number one priority was feeding the animals and then cooking my own meal. My poor dog didn’t even get out for her customary walk tonight. I’ve snuggled into my dressing gown and I have no desire to brave the elements.

To be fair, not all of it has to do with working at a busy school. Last week, I had several engagements that left me with little time at home. The first was a delightful dinner on Friday night where good company, a bottle of bubbly and the funniest conversations made me laugh so hard that I had to hold my sides. Both food, and company were outstanding.

Saturday, I drove back to Millthorpe where I used to live to catch up with dear friends and get a haircut. It is a three hour drive one way. That’s quite some distance to travel for a hairdresser. While I like the Salon and the quality of the cut, my main reason for not swapping over to someone else is that I enjoy catching up with friends. As we move away, it is harder and harder to keep in contact. ‘We must keep in touch,’ is a common refrain but life gets busy and after a short time the connections are weakened until they are completely severed. I didn’t want that to happen.

The downside of being away for a weekend is that the washing, cleaning and weekly preparation doesn’t get done. I went headlong into this week without much of a plan. I’m feeling the effects of it now. My Monday has been taken up with reactive tasks and the important items on my to-do list never got a look in. When I packed up in the afternoon, I discarded a full cup of tea I had made myself at midday. I hadn’t been near my desk since then.

Am I frustrated? Maybe just a little. But life is more than just the tasks we feel we have to complete. I’m glad that I went to the dinner with good friends on Friday, and then off to see more lovely friends on the weekend. The washing can wait. I still have plenty to wear. While I may be tired, I am also incredibly grateful for my full life in loving company.

I’m grateful for friends – old and new, grateful for shared laughter, and for the chance to be of service, even on the messiest of Mondays. The to-do list can wait. For now, my dressing gown, a warm meal, and a quiet moment are exactly what I need.

Boxing Day: Box it up!

You don’t have to be a minimalist to want to declutter your life after Christmas. We, who are lucky enough to live in wealthy countries, have more than our fair share of possessions and after a while, the sheer volume of it makes us feel stifled. Never more so than after Christmas, when even more things come into our homes, not all of it is welcome.

Generally, I try to give presents that are consumables like special items of food or at least useful around the house. I do make an exception with a friend with whom I exchange ridiculous gifts, but even these are practical. I don’t get hung up on whether things I give get re-gifted; if I got it wrong, let someone else enjoy it! Nor do I mind giving money if I know it is the best gift for the person.

I find it difficult to fathom that people would want to go out and spend more money on Boxing Day sales, unless, of course, there is something very special that they have been waiting for. For me, Boxing Day is a good day to begin the purge and box up all the things I no longer need. I go through my wardrobe and ask myself honestly whether I have worn that item in the past year, whether it still fits me and whether I still like it. If the answer is no to any of these questions, it gets folded and put into a box. I also go through my linen cupboard, shoes, kitchen utensils, herbs and spices, and food items at the back of the cupboard. The only thing that escapes my scrutiny is books. We all have our weaknesses.

While I am by no means a loyal follower of Marie Kondo, there is some truth in what she has to say. Although, she too has changed her tune somewhat since she has had children. She is less rigid and acknowledges the inevitable clutter that comes with raising kids. If you have children, you will need to be much more flexible with your approach to clutter. Still, you can go through clothes that no longer fit and toys that no longer hold their interest. Box it up!

Those of us who don’t have young children in our care need to think about the things we have accumulated and whether they will help or hinder us when transitioning into the next stage of our lives. Moving from a house to a small townhouse at the beginning of the year has certainly taught me about which things spark joy and which things spark nothing but trip hazards. There is only so much that fits into that container, which we refer to as our home.

I am not advocating Swedish Death Cleaning either. As far as I’m concerned, if someone benefits from receiving my inheritance, let them clean up after me. No, I am advocating doing some decluttering for ourselves. We will be the beneficiaries of a place where we can easily find things and where we can walk to the bathroom at night without encountering an obstacle course of our own making.

Let Christmas Day be about giving and receiving. Enjoy the presents, the food, and your loved ones. Then, when Boxing Day comes, and you look at the mess that’s left behind, take out the boxes and begin sorting. Come the New Year, you will be so thankful you did.

Unsolicited Advice

I’ve just returned from a trip down south to see my sister. We haven’t seen each other often in the past thirty years, in part because of the long distance between us, and in part because we have been busy with our own lives. Lately, she hasn’t been well at all, and I knew she was looking forward to my company.

My sister lives alone in a substantial three-bedroom house which has an additional formal lounge and dining room as well as a study. She keeps the whole back section of the house closed off to save on heating and spends most of her time in either her bedroom, eating alcove or family room. She is surrounded by a lifetime of memories, enormous collections of blue and white china and heavy wooden furniture that fill the sizable rooms. Once a keen gardener, her backyard is overgrown and inaccessible, especially now that she has great difficulty walking unaided. It was hard for me to see the enormity of what faced her day in, day out.

While out for dinner at her son’s place, she brought up the subject of the upkeep of the house and garden. Would he be able to come and prune the trees and weed the garden? Maybe even paint the house sometime? I immediately knew this wasn’t a viable solution. My nephew works full-time, has his own family and a house to maintain and certainly doesn’t have the hours on the weekend to do it all.

I had brought it up in conversation before, but it seemed like the perfect time to say it again. The house is simply too big for her to manage, and she ought to sell and downsize. Unbidden, my advice fell on deaf ears. When my nephew joined in with the many advantages this would offer, she picked up her bag, tried to rise from the chair and said, ‘Let’s go!’

I didn’t respond. I let her calm down, changed the topic and enjoyed our dessert. I wasn’t going to let this outburst spoil an otherwise enjoyable evening.

I stayed with her for another couple days before heading home. I never broached the subject again. I still worry that she will have yet another fall and that no-one will be there to call an ambulance. I’m concerned about her heating costs and her steep driveway which most days keeps her marooned in the house. But I also acknowledge that it isn’t my decision to make.

The saying ‘Don’t let anyone who hasn’t been in your shoes tell you how to tie your laces,’ echoes in my ears. I realise I’ve been treading that fine line between concern and meddling.