Here's the sound of love misplaced.
The soft awakening to love. The yearning to be seen; to be seen. The knowing you'll never be enough. The why, why, WHY NOT ME? The resignation of loss.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Bring change
I have blogged before, using a different name and exploring ideas and themes that lit the idealistic rage within. I used to connect it with Twitter even. I thought I was stroking the thwarted journalist within - that self-same media junkie who bowed out of the post graduate programme because I was sick of having no bloody money. (And then, to douse irony with cliche, went in to PR.)
But I stopped. It was partly to do with the spooky attention I attracted from various members of the dairy cow conversion lobby (for and against). And partly to do with my own desperate attempts to stand up for something or hide behind nothing, which, let's face it, a non de plume blog with two followers (one of whom is family) is not.
Truth be told, 'free-ranged' is much the same. It turns out my blog evolution is microscopic in two very pertinent ways: I'm still hiding; I'm still lounging.
I began 'free-ranged' because I thought that if I spent my evenings on the laptop too, it would ease the resentment of watching him tap away night after night. It doesn't. Anymore.
Also, my summer read was Backwards in High Heels. I enjoyed the writing 'voice' so much I Googled the authors and discovered Tania Kindersley's blog, which I liked very much and very much wanted to emulate in a muddled sort of a way.
Of course, the blindingly obvious problem is, I'm not her. I'm me.
I haven't got anything to say that excites me or anyone else. I've forgotten half the vocabulary I once knew and used fluently. And if I reveal the real me, this blog will be even more bleak and self-indulgent than it has become since February.
I don't really do anything, and I day-dream my way through the rest - mothering my children, keeping house. I know mothering your children is important, I just happen to be one of those people who gets a bit lost in the process, especially when there is no respite, especially when how unlikeable you have become is etched into the faces of the people you live with.
I saw my mother almost daily since she was first diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour four years ago, until she died last month. (She lived with us for nearly a year.) She needed me and I wanted to be there for her, but sometimes I was just so freakin' tired; so over being needed for anything. And now, of course, my time with her has ended, and even though I knew it wasn't forever, I didn't always do my best by her.
I need to be able to put that somewhere, to process it, but my three children are like newly hatched starlings bobbing in the nest. They want, want, want what I can't seem to give.
It's a recurring theme.
Recently, a supportive friend said, "But you have your blog." But if this is my value-based redemption, I am in serious trouble. This pish-pash of trying to be engaging and interesting, while channelling someone with an extremely dull life, is worse than a diary because I cannot bring myself to say all the truly awful things that need to be said, on record.
How's that for ducking and weaving? How's that for obfuscation?
When I dream of respite, I dream of being alone, and very, very still.
At other times, I picture myself driving a ridiculously expensive car far, far away from here, way too fast and listening to something like this, really LOUD.
But I stopped. It was partly to do with the spooky attention I attracted from various members of the dairy cow conversion lobby (for and against). And partly to do with my own desperate attempts to stand up for something or hide behind nothing, which, let's face it, a non de plume blog with two followers (one of whom is family) is not.
Truth be told, 'free-ranged' is much the same. It turns out my blog evolution is microscopic in two very pertinent ways: I'm still hiding; I'm still lounging.
I began 'free-ranged' because I thought that if I spent my evenings on the laptop too, it would ease the resentment of watching him tap away night after night. It doesn't. Anymore.
Also, my summer read was Backwards in High Heels. I enjoyed the writing 'voice' so much I Googled the authors and discovered Tania Kindersley's blog, which I liked very much and very much wanted to emulate in a muddled sort of a way.
Of course, the blindingly obvious problem is, I'm not her. I'm me.
I haven't got anything to say that excites me or anyone else. I've forgotten half the vocabulary I once knew and used fluently. And if I reveal the real me, this blog will be even more bleak and self-indulgent than it has become since February.
I don't really do anything, and I day-dream my way through the rest - mothering my children, keeping house. I know mothering your children is important, I just happen to be one of those people who gets a bit lost in the process, especially when there is no respite, especially when how unlikeable you have become is etched into the faces of the people you live with.
I saw my mother almost daily since she was first diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour four years ago, until she died last month. (She lived with us for nearly a year.) She needed me and I wanted to be there for her, but sometimes I was just so freakin' tired; so over being needed for anything. And now, of course, my time with her has ended, and even though I knew it wasn't forever, I didn't always do my best by her.
I need to be able to put that somewhere, to process it, but my three children are like newly hatched starlings bobbing in the nest. They want, want, want what I can't seem to give.
It's a recurring theme.
Recently, a supportive friend said, "But you have your blog." But if this is my value-based redemption, I am in serious trouble. This pish-pash of trying to be engaging and interesting, while channelling someone with an extremely dull life, is worse than a diary because I cannot bring myself to say all the truly awful things that need to be said, on record.
How's that for ducking and weaving? How's that for obfuscation?
At other times, I picture myself driving a ridiculously expensive car far, far away from here, way too fast and listening to something like this, really LOUD.
Monday, August 15, 2011
August Snow
And again Christchurch city has closed - snowbound for the second time in a month. It's day two and counting.
We are very grateful for our one remaining wood fire. The heat pump the Government kindly installed as compensation for having lost three fires (earthquake damaged chimneys) keeps icing over.
Not looking the gift horse in the mouth though...
We are very grateful for our one remaining wood fire. The heat pump the Government kindly installed as compensation for having lost three fires (earthquake damaged chimneys) keeps icing over.
Not looking the gift horse in the mouth though...
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| No al fresco breakfast |
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| Serious dumping on the rocking horse |
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| New patio in the making - half laid with salvaged bricks from our chimney stacks |
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| From our bedroom through the french doors to the veranda |
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Baja sessions
There's a small tamper-proof plastic box under my mother's pillow containing a loaded syringe and a 9V battery-operated pump to infuse the mixture of morphine, a mind-altering sedative and an anti-nausea drug through a narrow white flexi-tube to a catheter port in her abdomen.
This is palliative care. Or, 'comfort cares' as nurse B calls it as she fusses with the blankets and strokes my mother's forehead.
I like nurse B very much, and nurse G. They are wonderfully caring and gentle even though I sometimes feel their ministrations leave me awkwardly outside the loop; like my mother is somehow theirs.
I find myself apologising for taking up the already cramped space around my mother's bed as they manoeuvre the 'slippery Sam' to help turn her two-hourly.
And whenever they tentatively knock, I always seem to be eating and reading magazines, or eating and playing solitaire on my phone. I feel like a slack employee; jumping to my feet justifying my seeming inability to keep vigil by my mother's bed in a more productive, nurturing kind of way.
They're not around when I flounder with words and tears. They weren't in the room when I vowed I would stop watching for every breath. And they didn't see my face flush with guilt as I pondered which day this week she would die.
Tonight, we watched the Bee Gees 'One Night Only' on television. At least, I hope she was aware of it. She loves that particular concert and had the CD in her car, along with several others that are now rotated on the portable player by her bed.
She also has the Three Tenors, which I confiscated after arriving to find, "Time to say goodbye" playing during the weekend. I am coping better with Chris Isaak's Baja Sessions. It has a sameness that is easier to block than those tenors belting out "Nessun dorma" etc.
But then, it's not meant to be about me.
I have received several texts asking how long do I think? I'm thinking: if that's your question, you probably already know the answer.
My brother sent a text from Sydney asking me to let him know when she was a day or two away. What do you do with that?
Meanwhile, yesterday was the official start to the school holidays, with a two-week term break ahead. The girls are desperate to get away to the snow - anywhere really, as long as it's not Christchurch.
But I can't leave. We can't leave. Not yet.
This is palliative care. Or, 'comfort cares' as nurse B calls it as she fusses with the blankets and strokes my mother's forehead.
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| Hospital entrance at the Cashmere View Rest Home and Retirement Village. |
I like nurse B very much, and nurse G. They are wonderfully caring and gentle even though I sometimes feel their ministrations leave me awkwardly outside the loop; like my mother is somehow theirs.
I find myself apologising for taking up the already cramped space around my mother's bed as they manoeuvre the 'slippery Sam' to help turn her two-hourly.
And whenever they tentatively knock, I always seem to be eating and reading magazines, or eating and playing solitaire on my phone. I feel like a slack employee; jumping to my feet justifying my seeming inability to keep vigil by my mother's bed in a more productive, nurturing kind of way.
They're not around when I flounder with words and tears. They weren't in the room when I vowed I would stop watching for every breath. And they didn't see my face flush with guilt as I pondered which day this week she would die.
Tonight, we watched the Bee Gees 'One Night Only' on television. At least, I hope she was aware of it. She loves that particular concert and had the CD in her car, along with several others that are now rotated on the portable player by her bed.
She also has the Three Tenors, which I confiscated after arriving to find, "Time to say goodbye" playing during the weekend. I am coping better with Chris Isaak's Baja Sessions. It has a sameness that is easier to block than those tenors belting out "Nessun dorma" etc.
But then, it's not meant to be about me.
I have received several texts asking how long do I think? I'm thinking: if that's your question, you probably already know the answer.
My brother sent a text from Sydney asking me to let him know when she was a day or two away. What do you do with that?
Meanwhile, yesterday was the official start to the school holidays, with a two-week term break ahead. The girls are desperate to get away to the snow - anywhere really, as long as it's not Christchurch.
But I can't leave. We can't leave. Not yet.
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| Miss 7 is diverted with retro fizz and an afghan biscuit - for now. |
Monday, July 4, 2011
Milestones
It was my mother's 71st birthday today. She is dying. On June 13, I was told it was a matter of weeks. She has survived precisely three weeks.
We gathered at her hospital for afternoon tea.
I choked on the "happy" of the birthday song and lip-synch'd the rest. No-one was up for 'hip-hoorays'. I arranged a cake (among other savoury and sugary treats). No-one appeared to notice the missing third 'e' of Beverley. Mum was always a stickler for that. Her sisters too. Its significance paled by the fragile retreat of the person we have loved in to and then out of a body given over to cancer.
My brother called from Sydney. It didn't go well. He spent the next half-hour dispatching distressed texts. He couldn't understand a word she'd said (of which there were very few), except for, "Is that you, Kevin?"
Not his name.
We gathered at her hospital for afternoon tea.
I choked on the "happy" of the birthday song and lip-synch'd the rest. No-one was up for 'hip-hoorays'. I arranged a cake (among other savoury and sugary treats). No-one appeared to notice the missing third 'e' of Beverley. Mum was always a stickler for that. Her sisters too. Its significance paled by the fragile retreat of the person we have loved in to and then out of a body given over to cancer.
My brother called from Sydney. It didn't go well. He spent the next half-hour dispatching distressed texts. He couldn't understand a word she'd said (of which there were very few), except for, "Is that you, Kevin?"
Not his name.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
On the fringes and okay
I had the great pleasure of attending my second cousin's twenty-first birthday party last night and a.) getting to bed well before midnight and b.) feeling absolutely perfectly well in the morning after just one celebratory glass of wine.
This is not as I remember twenty-firsts. Not at all.
I could blame the fact I drove the 40 minutes to her family's country house and was the responsible driver for the evening. But the real reason has more to do with the fact I am exactly double my lovely second-cousin's age and my hot date was my eighty-year old Aunt, who also happens to be the birthday girl's grandmother.
I sat on the fringes with several silvered dames and had loads of fun, savoured the dinner and remembered it the next day, and found myself comfortably passe as troops of twenty-somethings filed through the sitting room and living room en route to... well, I don't know exactly.
We had a bit of a giggle about some of the boys, who were seriously out of their depth with the bevy of sophisticated beauties that barely concealed their disdain for said boys' ill-chosen quips. They were trying so hard to be COOL and the girls were merciless.
There were some interesting moments when my cousin, the birthday girl's father, introduced me as his niece, and the birthday girl introduced me to another as her aunt.
I wonder, does my cousin think I'm immature? Does my second cousin find me ancient? What happened to 'cousin'? Is the whole cousins thing really so fraught they both shied away from it, even though first and second cousins are relatively easy to identify, surely? It's the extended mess of third and fourth cousins, and beyond, that confounds me.
Does anyone know? Should we care? (I barely know my first cousins!)
Here's the lovely birthday girl as I think of her most, with her beloved horses - Danny above and Zorro below.
I am completely at the mercy of the old nag who walks me around on the very occasional horse-trek, so I find Miss D's horse-riding acumen seriously impressive.
Mr T used to ride, and quite well, but time and opportunity are against him. And then there's the slight problem that he tends to over-excite them unintentionally. He has a similar effect on dog and cats. Now that really doesn't bear thinking about.
This is not as I remember twenty-firsts. Not at all.
I could blame the fact I drove the 40 minutes to her family's country house and was the responsible driver for the evening. But the real reason has more to do with the fact I am exactly double my lovely second-cousin's age and my hot date was my eighty-year old Aunt, who also happens to be the birthday girl's grandmother.
I sat on the fringes with several silvered dames and had loads of fun, savoured the dinner and remembered it the next day, and found myself comfortably passe as troops of twenty-somethings filed through the sitting room and living room en route to... well, I don't know exactly.
We had a bit of a giggle about some of the boys, who were seriously out of their depth with the bevy of sophisticated beauties that barely concealed their disdain for said boys' ill-chosen quips. They were trying so hard to be COOL and the girls were merciless.
There were some interesting moments when my cousin, the birthday girl's father, introduced me as his niece, and the birthday girl introduced me to another as her aunt.
I wonder, does my cousin think I'm immature? Does my second cousin find me ancient? What happened to 'cousin'? Is the whole cousins thing really so fraught they both shied away from it, even though first and second cousins are relatively easy to identify, surely? It's the extended mess of third and fourth cousins, and beyond, that confounds me.
Does anyone know? Should we care? (I barely know my first cousins!)
Here's the lovely birthday girl as I think of her most, with her beloved horses - Danny above and Zorro below.
I am completely at the mercy of the old nag who walks me around on the very occasional horse-trek, so I find Miss D's horse-riding acumen seriously impressive.
Mr T used to ride, and quite well, but time and opportunity are against him. And then there's the slight problem that he tends to over-excite them unintentionally. He has a similar effect on dog and cats. Now that really doesn't bear thinking about.
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