Princess Teddy and her sisters

Princess Teddy is a tortoiseshell cat in her late teen years. She has a soft and smooth coat of black, white and ginger, all three colours startling and definitive. Her face is black, split by a white stripe down to her nose, with one ginger and one black ear. She has two immaculate and very white back legs, and a white tummy. The rest of her is striped or mottled black and ginger, apart from one white front paw.

She knows that I think she is altogether beautiful and she basks in my approval. She moves like a cat in a cartoon, utterly feminine. She floats on "tippy toes" and arches her back with her tail in the air, bending herself round corners and looking up at me with an expression she knows will get her instant cat crunchies. She has a high pitched miaow and is frequently vocal, especially if I bend down to lift her seemingly weightless little body for a cuddle, although once up, she tolerates the affection with calm. She knows she is regal, every inch of her is of royal blood.

She is frequently to be found - and I do so with irreverence - on a chair under the table cloth descending from my veranda table; or next to a Lladro porcelain statue on an oak table indoors, which is a lady riding side saddle on a dressage horse. Teddy sleeps innocently and with as much elegance next to it.

Her sister, although not from the same litter, could not be more different. I found the two kittens at a local pet shop. Lex is charcoal grey from top to toe but has long Siamese bones and a small, pointed face. She is quiet and unassuming but regales me with sudden affection about once a week, after which she ignores me completely. She dictates her own supper time, out and about on some errand of her own until after eight o'clock in the evening, and some nights she does not appear at all. Teddy is always in or around the house and follows me most places.

Lex has to be respected as she is timid and shadow-like. Teddy puts up with being teased, her expression either astonished or indignant. Lex trusts me completely but her delicate face is wraithlike. If awoken, she stretches out her long charcoal legs and points her toes - like most cats, she spends much of her day asleep.

Besides these teenagers I have Puck, my daughter K's cat originally, who was put into my care when K's two dogs made her life untenable. Puck is a slightly more than middle aged tabby of somewhat limited imagination. Although one can be persuaded that she is slightly stupid she does seem to understand every word. She is ultra affectionate, never happier than when she is leaning against a human.

It took more than a year for Puck to stop swearing at the kittens. They now ignore each other completely but there is no more bad language from Puck, who inhabits my veranda with great faithfulness and never leaves the garden (I often see Teddy or Lex disappearing over the picket fence, tail up).

Tragedy Next Door

There is a tragedy going on next door. At the New Year the little girl next door fell into their swimming pool. She was pulled out by her father, quite blue, rushed to hospital, and resuscitated. She is not quite three years old.

Now, after lying in a coma in hospital for some three weeks or so, she is at home, but non responsive. She is no longer comatose but vegetative. This distressing situation was compounded by the arrival of their next baby, who is now about a week old. The little girl who fell in the pool is brain damaged and seemingly hopeless. This poor family is undergoing the limits of torture, seeing their precious child damaged but alive, non responsive, non comprehending, helpless. She can neither see nor communicate, her life has been curtailed, they are enmeshed in a situation that must be unbearable and they have a new infant to deal with. One cannot imagine their unhappiness; it must be despair beyond bearing.

Yesterday was very hot. I could hear, from my veranda to theirs, that little girl crying. She is being nursed fulltime by a qualified carer, as the mother quite rightly has to care for her new baby and cannot cope with both.

I do not know the family well but we have chatted from time to time. My heart goes out to them. This is worse, I think, than losing a beloved partner who did after all live out more than his three score years and ten. F was denied more of his life but this child, this little soul, is at the beginning of hers and she is condemned now to exist in a blighted state that will be a life sentence for her and her parents.

Her crying was an unnerving kind of roar; I could not bear to listen to it but retreated indoors. And thought, at least F and I were spared the tortuous rigours of his being a helpless invalid; we have something to be thankful for. The old cliche of counting blessings ...

It is hard to imagine that there are any blessings going on next door, apart from a new and perfect baby girl, but this in itself must be anguish; a change of circumstances in their previously happy family life so bizarre, so sudden, and so cruel it is hard not to question where God is coming from. Why should they be so punished? And what logic is there in the bringing back to life a child so damaged that from now on she cannot comprehend anything at all?

Ricochet

Being widowed is a ricochet business. It is about creating oneself anew. Which is a process both appalling and invigorating and one yoyos between these two emotions, with various shades of grey in between.

But with the passing of time comes - not healing - but confidence. I know that I will never get over the hateful shock of F's dying, of his suffering, at his helplessness in the end and the grotesque state of being he was subjected to. It still whams back at me if I let it, but I am getting more adept at shushing my mind. And what I am seeking is peace. I need peace in my life and I am getting better at establishing it.

Perhaps if my husband had had a more conventional death I would not have found it so difficult. If he had died suddenly, going from an apparent state of health into something like a heart attack out of the blue, or if he had died slowly of something like cancer and we had had time to get used to the idea - these are two extremes but they both make sense to me.

But no, F went into hospital seeking a solution thousands of people had found and walked out with, whole and well; he had gone in for an ablation we had read was little more difficult for the patient than the extraction of a wisdom tooth; the Internet was full of glowing reports from people who had fibrillations and were delightfully cured.

We chose the hospital with care, we researched their records, they were the ones with the most practice and success. There were no failures in their records.

F entered that hospital ward very ill but we were assured that he was no worse off than many others, that they could handle his problems. No-one was to know that from that point his journey would be downwards into one complication after another.

Anyway: that word, "anyway." Resignation, Let's get on with it. One cannot change the past. All the old cliches, all the old axioms designed to help one move forward - I am good at them now. Lots of practice.

But peace, that's what I think (now) I am beginning to find. Peace and good cheer - Christmas card wishes, the things every human needs, not only in December.

Halycon

The death of an old friend, Out of the blue the news that he had lain down for a nap and never got up. Can't believe it. Memories are still of a vibrant young man playing tennis, with a powerful serve. We used to gather every Wednesday evening at our tennis court, a crowd of us. We would play until after midnight, winter and summer - winter in the Highveld is freezing at night. We used to wear warm tracksuits and a glove on our free hand. Game after game with laughter and good exercise.

F was a prodigous builder and he had built a tennis house, a thatched, round area with a comfy chairs and a small kitchen, sliding glass doors looking on to our tennis court. Such parties we had there - not only Wednesday evenings but champagne breakfasts, or Sunday afternoons, with children running round like kittens underfoot. What I remember most is our laughter. We were a group of comfortable friends; we played tennis, went out for dinner, took boats onto Hartebeespoort Dam, had braais.

On the shores of the dam, at a place called Cosmos, F had renovated a small thatched cottage and there we were most weekends, with friends dropping in for lunch. We had a small motor boat and used to take it upriver, between tree-lined banks from which legowaans (alligator-shaped reptiles) would slide into the water and once, I swear, we saw a python swimming in the water. Our children would swing from a tree on the bank below our house; the ground fell steeply away into the water and there were large trees everywhere. It was only a small place but we loved it. Again, my main memory is of laughter and fun. The friends were lovely - and now one has died.

Not only that, but another member of this group has cancer, and his death is imminent. He is younger, the son of dear friends - F and I were somewhere in the middle of these generations. His father died some years ago in America and not long before F died, we visited his mother in Rhode Island.

Life and death is catching up. My memories of those Cosmos and Muldersdrift days are of us in our thirties, with small children and an endless capacity for fun. We had no thought of death, we played and laughed and worked hard. Husbands went to work morning to evening, wives took small children to school, and cooked things; we - I - questioned little.

I was busy with three children born within three years and a husband whose energy was boundless. We were happy, but just how carefree we were, we ignored. Only nostalgia reveals the invisible boundaries of our fun. We gave no thought to its ever ending, to people dying, to moving on. We had no knowledge of grief, we were innocent as puppies.

Sadder but wiser!

Busy, busy. I hardly have time to do anything. The two year anniversary has turned me round a corner.

This morning I am just back from gym class. After two days of constant rain the sun has come out, and the air breathes damply while everything in the garden is emerald green. My friend J picks me up for gym Wednesdays and Fridays at 7.15 am and we wind our way through the Country Club traffic to the church hall outside Gate 6, where we have gym.

I get home smug with that feeling of recent and thorough exercise, somewhat trembly; it is good to sit down. I have no further plans for the day but I am going out this evening, to join friends for a light supper and to listen to live music at a nearby restaurant.

This is the key - I have plans and friends. As these people are widows or grass widows and several have lost their husbands six months, five months ago, I realise it has nought to do with time. The fact that I am turning this corner after two years is irrelevant. They are turning with me, somehow. We get along, we have a lot in common, we find solace in numbers and in activity. In fact we have fun.

But I do think. looking back, that the first year of my widowhood I was in shock. That year, as I look back, flew away; I was numb. I could not listen to music for a whole year, I cried in front of my television at the slightest thing; I got used to and pondered this new rented house very slowly, I wandered around like a mute. But time went quickly. It is almost as if I lost a year of my life.

And, of course, I had to handle reality in harsh bursts - like insurance, F';s estate, the selling of cars, the selling of the house. I broke down in tears at, of all places, the electricity board. A gentle Indian man full of consternation assured me that he would turn my electricity back on that very afternoon - I had had it turned off and the swimming pool had gone green. Transfer of the house was supposed to have taken place, it didn't. The estate agent was a huge lady who was completely unhelpful to me; she pointed out none of the pitfalls I fell into, she handled me roughly without sympathy or consideration of the fact that this was a steep learning curve for me; she was downright hostile.

I know why: my financial (F's estate) advisor had insisted that we use his choice of conveyancer and not hers; estate agents, he said, are usually in cahoots with their conveyancers, we will use our own. She was angry at this. Just let it be, I said. And constantly tripped up thereafter.

The pool is your responsibility! she hissed at me. Her hisses were constant, in answer to my every question. Eventually my daughter K, who is a tough little customer unafraid of confrontation, took over, to my bemusement. And gave this lady hell. I never heard from her again. After that the only contact I had was through my perfectly nice and reasonable lawyer/conveyancer when I signed papers, and that was that. I was left thoroughly rattled. But wiser.

The Pomeranian Smile

I have a new direction! Something I could not have imagined .... son B called me from London. Would I edit something for him for his new website? Of course I could - and did. Would I like to be an official employee?

So here this morning I have been translating convoluted business language into plain English, and sketching out a plain skeleton of language people can understand. I feel so great. To be useful. Son B needs this editorial clarity. He is very clever but finds plain solid writing difficult, as do, he says, many of his contemporaries. Their brains are mightier than their pens.

And I am thrilled.

What an addition to our lives, computers. Emails. Working from a distance. Instant communication. Miracles.

My dog Bella sighs, however. She lies on one side of me, Puck the tabby on the other. I suppose one should never worry about a sleeping pet; their brains are in neutral, it must be soothing. As long as they have company - I think. Bella on her own reverts to simply being a small dog. On her own she will rifle the bin in the kitchen and eat what's in it; with me, she is constantly expressive, cheerful, observant and on guard. She will bark at any untoward noise and bristle with indignation although she is quite small. She would defend me to the last, she has a job to do.

She understands my comings and goings, she takes note of what I am wearing. Bowls clothing mean a possible outing as she frequently comes with me to my own club; but she waits to see, as sometimes she is not allowed. Somehow she has rationalised why this is. Touching my handbag means we are ready, we are going out - but will she be alowed to come? She waits politely to be called.

She is half Pomeranian and has that Pom smile, baring little white teeth. My homecoming always brings a radiant smile, as sometimes she smiles if she mislays me. She will not come out with me to the garden if I am to water the flowerbeds. She has never been sprayed by a hosepipe but worries that she might be. When I come indoors she smiles, embarrassed, relieved.

She is a strawberry blonde with large dark eyes. I have had her coat shaved except for her pantaloons and she is cute and neat. She has an expressive face, a sweet and gentle nature, she is full of love. Her many friends at bowls are smitten. She behaves impeccably, lying quietly while we play, never venturing on to the green. Occasionally she trots right round the end if I am there, then goes back to where we have our bags and lies down. I frequently catch her eye when I am playing, I feel as if she is watching the game. Bella constantly amuses me.

Angel Colours

That two year anniversary has just passed, and I got through it. No tears the entire day except during a phone call from a friend I did not expect; I was appalled at how near to the surface these tears were. I did not know that. But I was well supported - lunch out, dinner out, cheerful company skating me through.

Those last few days of F's life I was persuaded to visit my son B in London, to have a break, they said. F seemed to be improving. The weekend was arranged, and B had gone to some trouble planning meals and activities for us. I packed a bag and went to the hospital prior to flying to London about midday.

F was sitting up, looking very much better. Why are you crying? he said. Because I don't want to go! I wouldn't have it any other way, he said, you need to go. You need to get back to reality. This is my reality, I said, and those were our last words.

I left his ward and was pursued by a male French Canadian nurse. Are you alright? he said. No. You are exhausted, you have been through a terrible time; it will do you good. I stood looking through that first floor window at the interminable scene I had studied so many times - a large car park, people coming and going, asphalt and trees. I felt defeated.

Son M was there, he would stay with his father. He put me on the plane and I cried the entire way to London. A young man sat next to me - he must have been mortified. I stared out the window for that hour or so during the flight, tears running down my face. But when I saw son B, they stopped as if a tap had been turned off, and I settled into the fast pace that B walks as we made our way by train through the massive English crowds, cold stations, on and off two trains to his home in Blackheath.

I felt cossetted, cheerful. The next day I had my hair done indifferently and we lunched at a Press Club bar somewhere near Fleet Street. All was well. But that afternoon M phoned to say that his father had a temperature.

I should have listened to that warning bell. I should have heard it! But one clings so to hope; brush this aside, he is, he must be, on the road to recovery. Instead, we carried on with our day, our plans, our meals. I cannot clearly remember what we did that Saturday evening - watched English television, I think, after eating out. I had been starved of television of late. But Sunday morning dawned freezing cold, and M was worried. Still, there were no planes on that particular airline on a Sunday to that French town; and I would be flying back on Monday morning.

We took B's dog Jamie for a walk in Greenwich Park before our Sunday lunch. It was absolutely freezing. I walked with pain, I was frozen rigid with dread. We walked a long way, until poor Jamie's bad hip troubled him and B picked him up and carried him. Jamie's embarrassed little face.

B had prepared a roast lunch. He served it and I could see the trouble he had gone to. I ate as if it were sawdust. He had to attend a business dinner that evening. I can't leave you like this, Mom, he said. I will go there, explain things, and come straight home. Which he did. Somehow, that night passed.

In the morning I was dressing to leave when the phone rang. Son M: Dad is very bad. Yet another infection. The doctors say should they do everything or should they do nothing? By everything they meant rush him into surgery. Do nothing, I said. He has had enough.

They expected him to survive for 48 hours, they would make him comfortable. I knew with absolute certainty that F would not want more surgery, ventilation, intensive care, catastrophe's worked upon his defenceless body.

B would fly with me to France, cancelled everything. We got on the train taking us to some small airfield outside London. I cannot now remember its name. On board I took knitting needles I had in some knitting and put them in the litter bin as I could not board the plane with them in my luggage, and I did not want to have to put luggage in the hold; it was only a small case, I could carry it on and quickly off.

The train wound through fields and small suburbs. As it rounded a bend we ran in between some rolling green hills, which changed as if a light had been turned on to the most vivid colours imaginable; I was aware of the colour as if they had been brushed by angel wings. Colour poured onto the scene, filled the entire sky; colour which couldn't be there in that grey English landscape. I saw a rainbow prism beaming into and through every blade of grass, every nuance of the hill.

I know now that was the moment F died.

M was with him. The French Canadian nurse had closed the curtains around father and son, and quietly switched off the blinking graphs surrounding his bedside. I cannot write about those last moments. It was a moment of deep communication between them, and although it breaks me that I was not there, I would not deny my beloved F and his son that devastating closeness.