So tonight is New Year's Eve. The start of a new year, my third year. Tonight I will mark the occasion with a proper cooked meal, a roast chicken, roast potatoes, butternut, broccoli.
I have a sense of calm. Christmas, our wedding anniversary and now New Year - nothing can touch me. I am managing to sail through this potentially choppy water - even if it's misty. Yesterday I returned to bowls, feeling somewhat repentant about my absence and looking forward to a game although oddly enough, I had to force myself to go.
Tabs - casual bowls, in which players are drawn out of a box and put into whatever teams come up; yesterday I was lucky, good players in a trips game.
Bowls is ever fascinating. From afar it looks tame - just people rolling heavy round things up and down and seemingly absorbed - what a drag. But get down and roll one of those round things, and calculate its curved line and weight to the very centimeter - and you're hooked. Line and balance is what it's all about. Balance in a perfect delivery, calculation and co-ordination. Very much like golf but regarded as a poor cousin. There is little glamour in bowls; rather, it is innate, subtle, and to some, enchanting. To me, enchanting. I think after F's death it saved my composure. I could lose myself in a game and concentrate on the bowl rather than my feelings. I could force time to tick by and be reasonably happy. Passion - I needed a passion and I had one.
Very few of my friends are going out tonight. I do not fancy driving out in any case; I do not fancy the drunk drivers, or the buzz of a party waiting for midnight - we are beyond all that. We never used to celebrate this night very much at all - F usually went to bed before me. Occasionally I would sit outside with a glass of wine and watch the surrounding neighbourhood let off rockets.
One noteable such evening my daughter K, who was still at university, had a major fight with a boyfriend F and I disliked - we thought he was controlling and erratic and did not trust him; I also thought he was a Right Winger and irrational and prejudiced. His grandfather had been a member of the Nazi SS, and while one cannot help one's grandfather being who he was, one could revise one's feelings about history and this Kenneth would not, at that time, see the film Schindler's List; I suspected it was because he had Nazi sympathies - he was that sort of person. The fact that he had something against that movie I found very disturbing.
Anyway this New Year's Eve K and Kenneth had had a typically major fight and he stormed off. My daughter went out to a party, in her own car. Come midnight and I hear noises coming from her room, which was above our garage. I went out to investigate - to find this boyfriend. She's gone out, I said. Gone where? To a party, I said, I don't know where it is.
He must have hung around, or left, I am not sure which and did not care as long as he did not cause trouble but K did not come home that night, she stayed out with friends. I woke up in the morning to that dull kind of tiredness after too little sleep but F had to go out somewhere and I was left alone in the house. I was writing. The phone rang - boyfriend Kenneth: where's my daughter? I do not know. Back to my computer, the phone rang again - his sister: where is K? I do not know. Back to the computer - the phone again, a friend, with the same question. Even his mother phoned. I realised that this was an arranged attack, an invasion, set up by this nutter, who had got everyone he knew to telephone our house and ask for my daughter. I pulled the plug on the phone, shaken. I had to leave it unhooked for hours.
They eventually broke up after more of this kind of drama - he was a nasty piece of work and it was a relief to get him out of our lives but it left scars on K, mentally. To this day I do not know how well those have healed, and I sympathise as I have similar scars from a similar man, an architectural student who was truly psychotic - today one would have called him bi-polar.
For five years from the age of eighteen I was bullied, harassed, teased, threatened, manipulated and shaken by a young man of uncertain temper who completely spoilt my university days. My weight dropped to 90 lbs, I had no friends, no self confidence and sometimes thought of suicide - but, my saving grace, I found a job somehow on the Financial Mail and discovered a host of uncomplicated, party-going, cynical, humorous, casually life enhancing people - life, not gloom! Fun, not doom! I immediately dropped this Patrick - I in fact went out to a party, and he went off to commit suicide. He didn't, of course; his departure from me took months. he could not believe that I had turned away. He would skulk outside and pounce on whoever I was with (leaving us shaken); he would arrive at my parents' home at the crack of dawn and tap on my window for an anguished, pre-work "talk" ... he would find my brother and beg for assistance. All this drama was abhorrent to me and everyone around me - no wonder I embraced my husband (later, years later, when we met), and within three months we were married - F was sane, rational, joyous, life affirming and reassuring. I felt safe with him, and what's more, he was damned attractive.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Excursions and Hospital Visits
F lay in one of two ICU wards for six weeks. He was unaware most of the time but for us it was an ongoing, waking nightmare. However, we were immeasurably helped by others.
Almost at the beginning, when his illness seemed to be more of a hiccup than a disaster, L arrived from England and was greeted by Son B and I at the station and taken out for a completely happy meal. She would stay for a few days and she could speak perfect French. By then we had moved into a family run hotel some ten kilometres from the hospital. Son B came and went, as did Son M; I drove a hired French car on the odd side of the road but with L with me it was an adventure and I soon felt less than terrified about driving.
I do not clearly remember the sequence of events with L, other than she could talk with animation to doctors and then turn to us with an adequate explanation. She was immensely kind to give up her time for us and to brave such an unsavoury drama. We went back and forth from the unit and F's bedside, we waited in hospital corridors, we smelled and saw and walked the polished impersonality of those corridors and those swing doors and those all enveloping, crisp pale blue robes and it must have been immensely tedious for her. But she remains a loyal and caring friend and I will never forget what she did. Eventually she left on the train and went, no doubt, with relief back to her own life.
Friends from South Africa arrived on their own volition for five or six days. We had known T and N since the first days of our marriage; F had played rugby with T before even then. They also moved into that little hotel with me and we planned our days so that after breakfast and a little excursion in the morning, I would go to the hospital and they would meet me there later. I was only allowed to visit from 1 pm, once F had been nursed or turned or examined or mulled over; I would stay for seven hours at his bedside, and this I did each day.
When T and N arrived they would don the pale blue robes and take turns at a short visit with him. During their stay F was slightly coherent although gravely ill. It was difficult to see him so subdued and helpless but N is an essentially cheerful person and her bright smile must have seemed a welcome jolt of normality for him. I would try, at that stage, to feed him something for supper - yoghurt or stewed fruit; I knew that in normal circumstances F would have nothing to do with that sort of fare, but each mouthful for me was a triumph. It was bizarre and frightening but the fact that T and N were waiting in the bland little ante room for me was a comfort. From there we could go out for supper.
Each evening we had to find somewhere to eat. By reputation France has wonderful food but I could not stand the regional style of cooking with excessive cream and oddity; it could have had something to do with my state of mind but it was not for me. We found a Chinese restaurant and a fish place that was palateable and returned there more than once. T and N's patience and support was a breath of hope for me and I shall love them forever.
At one stage neither of my sons could be with me and I faced an interval completely alone in France. I telephoned a close South African friend who lives in Wales. Please come, I said, I need you. C arrived within a day, the third party to join me in that well remembered little hotel. C is a talented musician with a busy schedule of practice and professional piano playing; she is also not in the habit of journeying across Europe on her own, as she has a globe trotting and devoted husband, but for now she took herself onto two planes and a vexing journey to where I was waiting at the airport. She is serene and dear to me but somewhat talkative; she talked while I drove, or sat with embroidery while I kept vigil at the bedside, or talked while we ate at some restaurant, but her presence was a comfort and a never to be forgotten gesture of affection and loyalty.
We made many trips back and forth to the airport. I hired a series of cars. I became used to the route between our hotel and the hospital, the highway, the small suburban French roads, the whereabouts of the supermarket, the nearby places of interest one could drive to in the mornings. My visitors and I went to flea markets, small bakeries, villages, the city centre. We rode in my hire car or on a tram. We visited antique shops and department stores, we walked crowded malls or empty seaside roads and winter beaches.
My French improved. I can converse in a basic present tense; my accent is good, the work of one French teacher for five years who had been brought up in Paris; I have a reasonable vocabulary but anything faster than simple school level sends me into a spin although at times I could supply the French word for what was being sought in English.
The weird place we were in for those six weeks seemed to become more acceptable; the gentle presence of those friends eased me, made my pain less intense, gave me hope. Their acts of unselfishness - not to mention the house which was freely and generously lent to us (two hours from the hospital, however, and now impractical) and the knowledge of their love and support, made things seem better.
Almost at the beginning, when his illness seemed to be more of a hiccup than a disaster, L arrived from England and was greeted by Son B and I at the station and taken out for a completely happy meal. She would stay for a few days and she could speak perfect French. By then we had moved into a family run hotel some ten kilometres from the hospital. Son B came and went, as did Son M; I drove a hired French car on the odd side of the road but with L with me it was an adventure and I soon felt less than terrified about driving.
I do not clearly remember the sequence of events with L, other than she could talk with animation to doctors and then turn to us with an adequate explanation. She was immensely kind to give up her time for us and to brave such an unsavoury drama. We went back and forth from the unit and F's bedside, we waited in hospital corridors, we smelled and saw and walked the polished impersonality of those corridors and those swing doors and those all enveloping, crisp pale blue robes and it must have been immensely tedious for her. But she remains a loyal and caring friend and I will never forget what she did. Eventually she left on the train and went, no doubt, with relief back to her own life.
Friends from South Africa arrived on their own volition for five or six days. We had known T and N since the first days of our marriage; F had played rugby with T before even then. They also moved into that little hotel with me and we planned our days so that after breakfast and a little excursion in the morning, I would go to the hospital and they would meet me there later. I was only allowed to visit from 1 pm, once F had been nursed or turned or examined or mulled over; I would stay for seven hours at his bedside, and this I did each day.
When T and N arrived they would don the pale blue robes and take turns at a short visit with him. During their stay F was slightly coherent although gravely ill. It was difficult to see him so subdued and helpless but N is an essentially cheerful person and her bright smile must have seemed a welcome jolt of normality for him. I would try, at that stage, to feed him something for supper - yoghurt or stewed fruit; I knew that in normal circumstances F would have nothing to do with that sort of fare, but each mouthful for me was a triumph. It was bizarre and frightening but the fact that T and N were waiting in the bland little ante room for me was a comfort. From there we could go out for supper.
Each evening we had to find somewhere to eat. By reputation France has wonderful food but I could not stand the regional style of cooking with excessive cream and oddity; it could have had something to do with my state of mind but it was not for me. We found a Chinese restaurant and a fish place that was palateable and returned there more than once. T and N's patience and support was a breath of hope for me and I shall love them forever.
At one stage neither of my sons could be with me and I faced an interval completely alone in France. I telephoned a close South African friend who lives in Wales. Please come, I said, I need you. C arrived within a day, the third party to join me in that well remembered little hotel. C is a talented musician with a busy schedule of practice and professional piano playing; she is also not in the habit of journeying across Europe on her own, as she has a globe trotting and devoted husband, but for now she took herself onto two planes and a vexing journey to where I was waiting at the airport. She is serene and dear to me but somewhat talkative; she talked while I drove, or sat with embroidery while I kept vigil at the bedside, or talked while we ate at some restaurant, but her presence was a comfort and a never to be forgotten gesture of affection and loyalty.
We made many trips back and forth to the airport. I hired a series of cars. I became used to the route between our hotel and the hospital, the highway, the small suburban French roads, the whereabouts of the supermarket, the nearby places of interest one could drive to in the mornings. My visitors and I went to flea markets, small bakeries, villages, the city centre. We rode in my hire car or on a tram. We visited antique shops and department stores, we walked crowded malls or empty seaside roads and winter beaches.
My French improved. I can converse in a basic present tense; my accent is good, the work of one French teacher for five years who had been brought up in Paris; I have a reasonable vocabulary but anything faster than simple school level sends me into a spin although at times I could supply the French word for what was being sought in English.
The weird place we were in for those six weeks seemed to become more acceptable; the gentle presence of those friends eased me, made my pain less intense, gave me hope. Their acts of unselfishness - not to mention the house which was freely and generously lent to us (two hours from the hospital, however, and now impractical) and the knowledge of their love and support, made things seem better.
Stepping off the Cliff
Post Christmas: I discovered on returning home that my cats had inadvertently been locked out of the house (but it seems, only for one day, so thank goodness for that); they are all intact and very affectionate. I also discovered a splash of mercurochrome on a part of my white skirting board, which is disconcerting (from Lexi, of course, and her cheek) but the wound is perfectly healed up. All this after a six-hour drive, hectic all the way with never ending Christmas traffic, but uneventful.
I spent six days with K and her family, and it was fine. The first evening we spent with the children at Monte Casino, where they have restaurants bordering a large courtyard with a fountain and a chiming clock. We sat at a table watching our two little ones and scores of others running around. SB and S had miniature scooters they could scoot on as the musical fountain with lights, played - of course - Christmas music. I found tears very quietly - something to do with the way little two-year-old S trotted around, or his sister took his hand, or the back of their innocent, enchanted heads - but the tears were brushed away in spite of the fact that F would have loved to have been there.
The days leading up to Christmas day took both forever and flashed by, but dawn it, eventually, did, and there we were under a mercifully cool and grey South African sky but I could not help remembering the frigid French grey of the chateau and the fact that F did not even know it was Christmas - but no matter now, today here was family and delicious food and new toys. We did the day efficiently, and skirted round our memories. I blocked out thoughts and got on with the little ones, or took a really heavy pan of something hot and fragrant from the oven, or talked small but happy.
I am leaving grief, I have had enough of it. I am changing my bleak interior landscape. I am determined to change this landscape. Yesterday was our wedding anniversary, of all things; it would have been number forty one, and I thought I would dread it. But all was remarkably calm. I could even remember back to that large day with amazement, and think how innocent and brave we were - or how ignorant - as we had no idea of the life in front of us or who we were; we had known each other for only three months.
There we were stepping off a cliff into a future of doubtful wedded bliss! Isn't it crazy that uppermost is the importance of what one is wearing - which fabric, style, which length of dress, which flower? What music, place, food, wedding invitation?
Numbed by Eglonyl yesterday I was completely calm, thinking back to that wedding day. I was a serious bride, I hardly smiled. I wish I could have it all over again, I would throw myself at it. I was somehow unthinking and trusting, but tenuous; I clutched F's hand and I suppose he clutched mine with as much recklessness although doubt hardly ever entered his mind, ever. F was a remarkably confident man. I followed his blazing path for 39 years and in his death now I find myself still bowling along. But is this so bad?
I spent six days with K and her family, and it was fine. The first evening we spent with the children at Monte Casino, where they have restaurants bordering a large courtyard with a fountain and a chiming clock. We sat at a table watching our two little ones and scores of others running around. SB and S had miniature scooters they could scoot on as the musical fountain with lights, played - of course - Christmas music. I found tears very quietly - something to do with the way little two-year-old S trotted around, or his sister took his hand, or the back of their innocent, enchanted heads - but the tears were brushed away in spite of the fact that F would have loved to have been there.
The days leading up to Christmas day took both forever and flashed by, but dawn it, eventually, did, and there we were under a mercifully cool and grey South African sky but I could not help remembering the frigid French grey of the chateau and the fact that F did not even know it was Christmas - but no matter now, today here was family and delicious food and new toys. We did the day efficiently, and skirted round our memories. I blocked out thoughts and got on with the little ones, or took a really heavy pan of something hot and fragrant from the oven, or talked small but happy.
I am leaving grief, I have had enough of it. I am changing my bleak interior landscape. I am determined to change this landscape. Yesterday was our wedding anniversary, of all things; it would have been number forty one, and I thought I would dread it. But all was remarkably calm. I could even remember back to that large day with amazement, and think how innocent and brave we were - or how ignorant - as we had no idea of the life in front of us or who we were; we had known each other for only three months.
There we were stepping off a cliff into a future of doubtful wedded bliss! Isn't it crazy that uppermost is the importance of what one is wearing - which fabric, style, which length of dress, which flower? What music, place, food, wedding invitation?
Numbed by Eglonyl yesterday I was completely calm, thinking back to that wedding day. I was a serious bride, I hardly smiled. I wish I could have it all over again, I would throw myself at it. I was somehow unthinking and trusting, but tenuous; I clutched F's hand and I suppose he clutched mine with as much recklessness although doubt hardly ever entered his mind, ever. F was a remarkably confident man. I followed his blazing path for 39 years and in his death now I find myself still bowling along. But is this so bad?
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Somehow We Have Kittens
So now Christmas is next week, and I am going to Johannesburg to K and her husband A, their five-year-old delicate fairy SB and two-and-a-bit-year-old chunky little boy S. I am driving myself, something which has everyone in a tither in case something happens along the way. But I have a great, impeccable Lexus, and I love to drive. The journey takes between five and six hours and the road is a wonderful double highway all the way. What can happen?
I have been dreading the advent of Christmas without F, in K's house; he was such a familiar figure there. But now my dread has faded. Probably lost somewhere in the inevitable excitement of gift wrapping and gift choosing. I have a respectable amount of gifts to take with me. This is a generational step - the first time we will have celebrated Christmas with our daughter, at her home. I say "we" because F will be with me. I know that now.
My one worry - and there is always something - is that one of my cats has a wound on her left cheek. I discovered it three days ago and took her to the vet. She is now on antibiotics and has a brown ointment applied three times a day, which she hates. Afterwards she spends some time licking her paw and washing her face, removing all the ointment and any skin which may be healing so that the wound (an erupted abscess from a cat bite) is wide open. I have virtually two days to heal her and I can't leave her like this. My friend, who is going to come into my house in the late afternoons to feed the cats, will not be able to medicate her, nor would I expect her to.
Lexi is pure charcoal grey, short haired and long boned. I bought her as a kitten from a pet shop I had wandered into, emerging with both Lexi and Teddy, a very pretty tortoiseshell. This was some three months after F had died. I love cats but F would not contemplate having a kitten. Somehow after his death I managed to acquire two. Oh, and for years we have been looking after a tabby, Puck, passed on to me by K as her dogs were making her life miserable. Puck is on the elderly side of middle aged, very affectionate, housebound and somewhat simple minded. She detested the kittens for about a year but can now meet them face to face with matronly disapproval but there is no more bad language.
Anyway, I have Lexi's face to worry about. I am amazed ar her gentleness as twice a day I hold her and put a pink pill into her mouth. Her expression is one of utter disgust but she never thinks to scratch me.
I will call the vet and ask him if I can use mercurochrome; or an antibiotic powder, instead of the ointment. This morning the wound is not quite so raw. It looks clean, but I will not apply the ointment.
I love to heal. Once when M was a little boy he had a nasty cut on his foot, which I virtually washed clean and mercurochromed to perfection. I can understand how a doctor feels; it's something in his very hands.
Just hope I can heal Lexi in time, before I leave.
I have been dreading the advent of Christmas without F, in K's house; he was such a familiar figure there. But now my dread has faded. Probably lost somewhere in the inevitable excitement of gift wrapping and gift choosing. I have a respectable amount of gifts to take with me. This is a generational step - the first time we will have celebrated Christmas with our daughter, at her home. I say "we" because F will be with me. I know that now.
My one worry - and there is always something - is that one of my cats has a wound on her left cheek. I discovered it three days ago and took her to the vet. She is now on antibiotics and has a brown ointment applied three times a day, which she hates. Afterwards she spends some time licking her paw and washing her face, removing all the ointment and any skin which may be healing so that the wound (an erupted abscess from a cat bite) is wide open. I have virtually two days to heal her and I can't leave her like this. My friend, who is going to come into my house in the late afternoons to feed the cats, will not be able to medicate her, nor would I expect her to.
Lexi is pure charcoal grey, short haired and long boned. I bought her as a kitten from a pet shop I had wandered into, emerging with both Lexi and Teddy, a very pretty tortoiseshell. This was some three months after F had died. I love cats but F would not contemplate having a kitten. Somehow after his death I managed to acquire two. Oh, and for years we have been looking after a tabby, Puck, passed on to me by K as her dogs were making her life miserable. Puck is on the elderly side of middle aged, very affectionate, housebound and somewhat simple minded. She detested the kittens for about a year but can now meet them face to face with matronly disapproval but there is no more bad language.
Anyway, I have Lexi's face to worry about. I am amazed ar her gentleness as twice a day I hold her and put a pink pill into her mouth. Her expression is one of utter disgust but she never thinks to scratch me.
I will call the vet and ask him if I can use mercurochrome; or an antibiotic powder, instead of the ointment. This morning the wound is not quite so raw. It looks clean, but I will not apply the ointment.
I love to heal. Once when M was a little boy he had a nasty cut on his foot, which I virtually washed clean and mercurochromed to perfection. I can understand how a doctor feels; it's something in his very hands.
Just hope I can heal Lexi in time, before I leave.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sea and Sand
After writing the previous blog I went to the beach. The day was a popular mid-December holiday here, and by mid morning it was bright and sunny after weeks of rain. At this time of the year when the sun comes out it means instant heat. There were many holiday makers around as the December holidays are in full swing.
I managed to park, finally, where I could get down to the sea accessing a path which runs down the side of a large hotel and I walked behind a group of teenagers on their way to the beach. Some of the boys and girls were holding hands. All were carrying bags or surf boards or both and they looked very young. I walked within their ranks but was invisible.
Everywhere I looked were people together. I am at a stage now where my solitary state feels natural. I found a bench to sit on after buying something cool to drink, and sat down with my little dog Bella at my feet. The sea was at low tide. Scores of people were in the water between two life saver's beacons and could easily reach a sand bank, on which they could stand, ankle deep. Beyond them were large frothing waves but the sand bank tamed the water to a degree.
I sat there for some time. The beach below me was filled with sun bathers, umbrellas, couples, familes, young children. I live in a holiday mecca. It is known as "South Africa's premier holiday resort." A brick path kilometers long winds it way above a beach past hotels, time shares, blocks of flats. The sea is always lively, waves crash and hiss. At Christmas time a million visitors arrive. The brick path teems with walkers, joggers, sun worshippers and people selling sun glasses, hats, wooden African craft, beadwork, or baskets. The path is lined with semi tropical vegetation and has an unforgettable smell of warm, wet wood. Once I saw a snake rush from one side to the other and disappear in seconds. F and I used to walk that walk, often.
But now I am invisible, apart from Bella. She is a small but chunky dog of a beautiful strawberry blonde colour and has lustrous dark brown eyes. Her long coat has recently been shaved short apart from her pale blonde pantaloons; she is half Daschund and half Pomeranian - the latter revealed when she smiles, literally, baring little front teeth and fixing one with an expression of utter happiness. She is an essentially feminine dog with great character and loves to be out and about.
Today she trots happily on her lead and pauses with me at intervals, just to stand and stare; I cannot get enough of the crashing sea below, or even of the tumult of humanity on the hot sand, but as I make my way back up the hill to my car I am glad to leave it all and head for my cool house, its peace and quiet. I can only take a small amount of exuberance at a time.
I managed to park, finally, where I could get down to the sea accessing a path which runs down the side of a large hotel and I walked behind a group of teenagers on their way to the beach. Some of the boys and girls were holding hands. All were carrying bags or surf boards or both and they looked very young. I walked within their ranks but was invisible.
Everywhere I looked were people together. I am at a stage now where my solitary state feels natural. I found a bench to sit on after buying something cool to drink, and sat down with my little dog Bella at my feet. The sea was at low tide. Scores of people were in the water between two life saver's beacons and could easily reach a sand bank, on which they could stand, ankle deep. Beyond them were large frothing waves but the sand bank tamed the water to a degree.
I sat there for some time. The beach below me was filled with sun bathers, umbrellas, couples, familes, young children. I live in a holiday mecca. It is known as "South Africa's premier holiday resort." A brick path kilometers long winds it way above a beach past hotels, time shares, blocks of flats. The sea is always lively, waves crash and hiss. At Christmas time a million visitors arrive. The brick path teems with walkers, joggers, sun worshippers and people selling sun glasses, hats, wooden African craft, beadwork, or baskets. The path is lined with semi tropical vegetation and has an unforgettable smell of warm, wet wood. Once I saw a snake rush from one side to the other and disappear in seconds. F and I used to walk that walk, often.
But now I am invisible, apart from Bella. She is a small but chunky dog of a beautiful strawberry blonde colour and has lustrous dark brown eyes. Her long coat has recently been shaved short apart from her pale blonde pantaloons; she is half Daschund and half Pomeranian - the latter revealed when she smiles, literally, baring little front teeth and fixing one with an expression of utter happiness. She is an essentially feminine dog with great character and loves to be out and about.
Today she trots happily on her lead and pauses with me at intervals, just to stand and stare; I cannot get enough of the crashing sea below, or even of the tumult of humanity on the hot sand, but as I make my way back up the hill to my car I am glad to leave it all and head for my cool house, its peace and quiet. I can only take a small amount of exuberance at a time.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Out of the Blue
F lay in the cardiac ICU for a week before being moved back, weak but awake, to the post ablation ward. We were so happy, took him magazines and grapes and cool drink. Ready for his recovery. Of course he would have to stay put until he was on his feet, but that was OK.
That first afternoon he ate some grapes and drank some orange juice, then complained about a stomach ache. Just the grapes, I said; probably should not have had them, perhaps they were a bit acid. I even joked about this to the New Zealander we had met previously, and to the doctor, who was called. Not this stomach ache, said the doctor; this is a strange one. M and I left to have dinner, reasonably unconcerned.
On our return to the hotel after dinner we were called to the desk. The hospital had phoned, looking for us. We should go there immediately. F had collapsed and had been rushed back to ICU; they wanted to scan his stomach, but were worried that he would not even last the ambulance trip to the place where this could be done. What's more, they had found an aneurism near his heart which could burst at any moment and his life was in the balance.
We were stunned. Hovered in the ICU waiting room, having digested the information; unable at last to bear any more waiting, we pushed through the doors and there he was, on a gurney, conscious, about to be wheeled to the ambulance. Giving directions - I forget what he was saying, but he was instructing someone about something, which was typical of the man. Waved as he was wheeled away.
He did make that journey, and we were eventually told that he would have to have surgery the following morning, to his stomach. He had a colostomy. Out of the blue. Of all things.
The absolute details of his medical condition escapes me now. My mind reeled at the time and it reels now. Some pre-ablation time a condition in his intestine reacted badly to the enforced week of mobility after the ablation, and his intestine could not be fixed. So they had had to operate, and he was gravely ill, now incarcerated in a separate building devoted to stomach problems. And this ICU ward was horrible.
His bed lay in a glare of lights in what seemed to be a traffic centre of activity. To get there we had to go through several swinging doors, completely swathed in the detestable pale blue sterile robes. My husband F was unconscious and again on a ventilator, while around him nurses and equipment bustled, noisily came and went; that hardly a word of English was spoken or understood did not help matters. We were largely ignored, marooned with a gravely ill man attached to tubes and machines under glaring, inhuman lights. The machines beeped and counted the small signs of life within him while we stood helpless and anguished beside his bed. Each time, we could only stay a few minutes.
That week was dreadful. F regained consciousness of a kind but begged us to remove him from where he was. He pleaded for us to take him home - not even aware at that stage that he was in France. He wanted us to bring him a gun, he would pull the trigger, he said. Please put him into the water and let him go, he said.
Son B came and went, backwards and forwards from London, Daughter K left her five-month-old baby and small daughter and joined us in France, bringing with her a breast pump to maintain her milk flow. Together we hovered painfully next to that bed; we came and went from ICU after obtaining admission through a monitor in my tentative French; we slept in the same hotel in separate rooms but in the same trance of dread -(we had moved from our first bleak, modern hotel to one more family-oriented, where I had even made enquiries about a ground floor room where F could eventually recuperate). But it was not to be. Nothing was to be.
My daughter was with me when he was finally transferred back to cardiac ICU. F was very weak, very thin, but alive, and cardiac ICU with its calm atmosphere, was more subdued, with kinder lighting. There K virtually talked her father back to a positive state - inasmuch as a man so ill could be positive. He slept most of the time but was occasionally aware of his family and surroundings, in small glimpses of the man himself.
K could not stay away from her baby for longer than five or six days. She left tearfully after saying goodbye to her father and flew back to South Africa.
That first afternoon he ate some grapes and drank some orange juice, then complained about a stomach ache. Just the grapes, I said; probably should not have had them, perhaps they were a bit acid. I even joked about this to the New Zealander we had met previously, and to the doctor, who was called. Not this stomach ache, said the doctor; this is a strange one. M and I left to have dinner, reasonably unconcerned.
On our return to the hotel after dinner we were called to the desk. The hospital had phoned, looking for us. We should go there immediately. F had collapsed and had been rushed back to ICU; they wanted to scan his stomach, but were worried that he would not even last the ambulance trip to the place where this could be done. What's more, they had found an aneurism near his heart which could burst at any moment and his life was in the balance.
We were stunned. Hovered in the ICU waiting room, having digested the information; unable at last to bear any more waiting, we pushed through the doors and there he was, on a gurney, conscious, about to be wheeled to the ambulance. Giving directions - I forget what he was saying, but he was instructing someone about something, which was typical of the man. Waved as he was wheeled away.
He did make that journey, and we were eventually told that he would have to have surgery the following morning, to his stomach. He had a colostomy. Out of the blue. Of all things.
The absolute details of his medical condition escapes me now. My mind reeled at the time and it reels now. Some pre-ablation time a condition in his intestine reacted badly to the enforced week of mobility after the ablation, and his intestine could not be fixed. So they had had to operate, and he was gravely ill, now incarcerated in a separate building devoted to stomach problems. And this ICU ward was horrible.
His bed lay in a glare of lights in what seemed to be a traffic centre of activity. To get there we had to go through several swinging doors, completely swathed in the detestable pale blue sterile robes. My husband F was unconscious and again on a ventilator, while around him nurses and equipment bustled, noisily came and went; that hardly a word of English was spoken or understood did not help matters. We were largely ignored, marooned with a gravely ill man attached to tubes and machines under glaring, inhuman lights. The machines beeped and counted the small signs of life within him while we stood helpless and anguished beside his bed. Each time, we could only stay a few minutes.
That week was dreadful. F regained consciousness of a kind but begged us to remove him from where he was. He pleaded for us to take him home - not even aware at that stage that he was in France. He wanted us to bring him a gun, he would pull the trigger, he said. Please put him into the water and let him go, he said.
Son B came and went, backwards and forwards from London, Daughter K left her five-month-old baby and small daughter and joined us in France, bringing with her a breast pump to maintain her milk flow. Together we hovered painfully next to that bed; we came and went from ICU after obtaining admission through a monitor in my tentative French; we slept in the same hotel in separate rooms but in the same trance of dread -(we had moved from our first bleak, modern hotel to one more family-oriented, where I had even made enquiries about a ground floor room where F could eventually recuperate). But it was not to be. Nothing was to be.
My daughter was with me when he was finally transferred back to cardiac ICU. F was very weak, very thin, but alive, and cardiac ICU with its calm atmosphere, was more subdued, with kinder lighting. There K virtually talked her father back to a positive state - inasmuch as a man so ill could be positive. He slept most of the time but was occasionally aware of his family and surroundings, in small glimpses of the man himself.
K could not stay away from her baby for longer than five or six days. She left tearfully after saying goodbye to her father and flew back to South Africa.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Sting-a-Ling Craziness
Of course one does not see into the future. Or entertain any thought of it - one is filled with hope and faith. We would be rescued from this predicament, I thought. All things had always worked out; I was never more than briefly lost. There had always been either an explanation or a reprieve, forgiveness, or a second chance. I always managed to come out on top - damaged, bruised, but intact. I had never fallen to pieces. My life had been a series of small miracles, like a string of pearls. This was simply the time for another miracle, another pearl to add to the chronicle of family life.
But that night in France heralded a downfall, and we tumbled headlong into a pit. There was to be no rescue.
I look back now with awe. Sometimes, just falling asleep, the pit yawns again; post traumatic and grisly. But I can sweep it aside. With practice, I am able now to sweep it away and tighten my thoughts, so that I can concentrate on little things. Life now is a series of little things.
Someone once wrote Death, where is they sting-a-ling? Where is it indeed; what is it - who cares. There are always sleeping pills, I say, usually to my little dog Bella. There is always that way out. I have lost my awe of death, my death; I discuss this with my little dog, who listens with bright eyed sympathy, then lays her head down on her paws. There I am discussing death with my pet, whose very life is an essence of love and loyalty, who would give her life for me - she does not fear death either. But she loves, and that's truth. Her love and joy scampers round my heels, follows me from room to room, lays with resignation at my feet wherever I pause, encircles me with gaiety, her constant appetite, her joyous morning greeting as she bustles out into the new dawn, the new happy day.
And then those that have flown the nest. Two sons B and M, a daughter K, whose care and commentary I value beyond measure but who live far away. Whose voices within that telephone call anchor me, amuse me - where they are, what they are doing, the park, the house move, the drive to the stables, reminders of another and vital existence other than my own sting-a-ling or preoccupation with the peculiar present time I seem to be enjoying. They lift me, remind me, insist on my grannyhood, my return to sanity.
I would never take those sleeping pills.
I live now in a new house. Two weeks after our return from France I moved into a rented house in a gated community. For security. Before Son M and daughter-in-law P returned to America we had found the new house and moved with furniture and boxes, the move immediate and shocking, a blur which carried me through as on a wave. M and P stayed with me a further two weeks so that my bones could sink slightly into the new darkness with their company for protection; Baby V's smiles cushioning me further. The house, brand new, with no ghosts. It stands metres away from a small lake, the lawn ending in a border of water reeds on which small, orange and black birds flitter.
This view is hypnotic. Across the lake are a series of new houses straight from a drawing board. They are beige or grey trimmed with white and have green roofs, they look American. Their verandas also border the lake and their occupants are far enough away to be anonymous. A fountain runs in the middle of the stretch of water, masking every day conversation. It is turned off at night, its silence filled, at times, by a chorus of frogs. It is so perfect, I wish that F could have seen it,
But that night in France heralded a downfall, and we tumbled headlong into a pit. There was to be no rescue.
I look back now with awe. Sometimes, just falling asleep, the pit yawns again; post traumatic and grisly. But I can sweep it aside. With practice, I am able now to sweep it away and tighten my thoughts, so that I can concentrate on little things. Life now is a series of little things.
Someone once wrote Death, where is they sting-a-ling? Where is it indeed; what is it - who cares. There are always sleeping pills, I say, usually to my little dog Bella. There is always that way out. I have lost my awe of death, my death; I discuss this with my little dog, who listens with bright eyed sympathy, then lays her head down on her paws. There I am discussing death with my pet, whose very life is an essence of love and loyalty, who would give her life for me - she does not fear death either. But she loves, and that's truth. Her love and joy scampers round my heels, follows me from room to room, lays with resignation at my feet wherever I pause, encircles me with gaiety, her constant appetite, her joyous morning greeting as she bustles out into the new dawn, the new happy day.
And then those that have flown the nest. Two sons B and M, a daughter K, whose care and commentary I value beyond measure but who live far away. Whose voices within that telephone call anchor me, amuse me - where they are, what they are doing, the park, the house move, the drive to the stables, reminders of another and vital existence other than my own sting-a-ling or preoccupation with the peculiar present time I seem to be enjoying. They lift me, remind me, insist on my grannyhood, my return to sanity.
I would never take those sleeping pills.
I live now in a new house. Two weeks after our return from France I moved into a rented house in a gated community. For security. Before Son M and daughter-in-law P returned to America we had found the new house and moved with furniture and boxes, the move immediate and shocking, a blur which carried me through as on a wave. M and P stayed with me a further two weeks so that my bones could sink slightly into the new darkness with their company for protection; Baby V's smiles cushioning me further. The house, brand new, with no ghosts. It stands metres away from a small lake, the lawn ending in a border of water reeds on which small, orange and black birds flitter.
This view is hypnotic. Across the lake are a series of new houses straight from a drawing board. They are beige or grey trimmed with white and have green roofs, they look American. Their verandas also border the lake and their occupants are far enough away to be anonymous. A fountain runs in the middle of the stretch of water, masking every day conversation. It is turned off at night, its silence filled, at times, by a chorus of frogs. It is so perfect, I wish that F could have seen it,
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Grey Goes to Black
The day of the ablation dawned grey, the primary colour of winter. Son M and I ventured into the city that morning, exploring. Leading away from a very large cathedral is a long, pedestrianised street of shopping, so typical of a European city. But, like all tourists, we were seduced, and joined the throng of well wrapped citizens in their quest for Christmas shopping on quests of our own. I wanted, of all things, a certain lipstick. M patiently waited as I cruised through parfumerie after parfumerie, as if they could offer up something completely new. (Eventually I bought one, which proved to be one I had at home all the time).
Our thoughts were, of course, on F and what was happening to him. We had been told that the ablation would take several hours, so we did not go near the hospital until well into the afternoon. It actually took seven hours. When F was wheeled into his ward he was the colour of white paper, but conscious. He was not happy and looked as if he had - and he had - undergone a physical ordeal, as during the ablation a patient is conscious. But all had gone well, we were told, although they could not quite establish normal cardiac rhythm. That could be worried about later. Evidently, imperfection at first was reasonable and could be dealt with; more than one ablation was sometimes necessary.
M and I were jubilant that it was over. We did not like the look of F but neither of us said anything about it. We were content to leave him in the care of the nurses, and we went out for dinner. Our troubles were over, we thought; the worst had come and gone.
We returned to the hotel and our separate rooms, where I ran a bath. Shortly afterwards my phone rang. M - something is wrong, he said, I'm coming down to speak to you. The hospital had phoned. F had had a heart attack and was in Intensive Care. We should come to the hospital.
That was the moment it all began. We found the Intensive Care unit and from a pile of stiffly folded pale blue garments took, for the first time, a sterile robe in which we had to enter the ward. I grew to hate those enveloping and impersonal cotton robes.
As I write now, my heart constricts. This was the evening I tasted fear for the first time, it was the moment we entered a very dark tunnel.
F lay in that bed for a week, on a ventilator, mostly unconscious, at times pleading to have it removed. I cannot clearly remember those scenes; I only know that M and I were in agony with him; trying to reason with a man who was lost in a maze of drugs and hospital equipment and, when briefly conscious, was confused, unhappy and helpless. We had grave conversations with the doctors, who worried not only about his recovery but about vital organs such as kidneys. We were not to know that that very inactivity, that drug-induced near comatose state would be the eventual cause of his demise as he slowly lost battle after battle.
All we wanted was for him to emerge from the Intensive Care ward and be taken back to his own post-ablation private room, like all the other patients. And, seven days, later, he was. Our troubles were over.
Our thoughts were, of course, on F and what was happening to him. We had been told that the ablation would take several hours, so we did not go near the hospital until well into the afternoon. It actually took seven hours. When F was wheeled into his ward he was the colour of white paper, but conscious. He was not happy and looked as if he had - and he had - undergone a physical ordeal, as during the ablation a patient is conscious. But all had gone well, we were told, although they could not quite establish normal cardiac rhythm. That could be worried about later. Evidently, imperfection at first was reasonable and could be dealt with; more than one ablation was sometimes necessary.
M and I were jubilant that it was over. We did not like the look of F but neither of us said anything about it. We were content to leave him in the care of the nurses, and we went out for dinner. Our troubles were over, we thought; the worst had come and gone.
We returned to the hotel and our separate rooms, where I ran a bath. Shortly afterwards my phone rang. M - something is wrong, he said, I'm coming down to speak to you. The hospital had phoned. F had had a heart attack and was in Intensive Care. We should come to the hospital.
That was the moment it all began. We found the Intensive Care unit and from a pile of stiffly folded pale blue garments took, for the first time, a sterile robe in which we had to enter the ward. I grew to hate those enveloping and impersonal cotton robes.
As I write now, my heart constricts. This was the evening I tasted fear for the first time, it was the moment we entered a very dark tunnel.
F lay in that bed for a week, on a ventilator, mostly unconscious, at times pleading to have it removed. I cannot clearly remember those scenes; I only know that M and I were in agony with him; trying to reason with a man who was lost in a maze of drugs and hospital equipment and, when briefly conscious, was confused, unhappy and helpless. We had grave conversations with the doctors, who worried not only about his recovery but about vital organs such as kidneys. We were not to know that that very inactivity, that drug-induced near comatose state would be the eventual cause of his demise as he slowly lost battle after battle.
All we wanted was for him to emerge from the Intensive Care ward and be taken back to his own post-ablation private room, like all the other patients. And, seven days, later, he was. Our troubles were over.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Checking In
The day for checking into the hospital finally arrived. We set off in the car, Son M driving, F in the passenger seat in front of me. He was strangely quiet the whole journey. I was happy. The drive took about two hours along a busy but uneventful highway. We found the hotel - in an unexpected suburban setting - and moved in. F's bags, were, of course, packed for hospital. We had lunch, the food my first taste of the local cuisine and not really to my liking but no matter, and then we set off. The big moment had arrived.
The hospital was about seven or eight minutes away from the hotel. I was to get to know that route of corners and circles well. In huge grounds were a series of buildings each three or four storeys high, each one for different medical genres. The cardiac building, once we found it, was undergoing renovations and we had to enter through a series of scaffolding off the huge tarmacked parking area. We queued up for the admittance formalities. The hospital proved to be a large government organised complex - and anything to do with government red tape has a universal flavour of drabness, of somewhat dark brick, well worn sombre flooring and a spartan dreariness coupled with the resigned melancholy of people awaiting their turn to be dealt with. The very air smells of government.
But once the elderly lift had delivered us to the ablation floor the air of measured sobriety changed. All was bustle. Each private ward was quite spacious and had two beds, one for the spouse. The nurses were efficient and not unfriendly but seemed to speak no English. We were bustled in, F was installed in bed. We discovered a room nearby where there were chairs and books, some of them in English. There we met a man, a New Zealander. He was wandering about in a dressing gown, had had his treatment and was recuperating; it was fine, he said. M and I had a conversation with him. Somehow F, in bed, had retreated from us.
I watched him eat his supper that night, a bland kind of macaroni cheese. F always had a hearty appetite. He ate the food uncomplaining, sitting on the side of his bed. In the cupboard were his clothes, a couple of books, his hearing aid, neatly arranged. We were completely sure of what we were doing. He was there to be repaired; it was comfort, at last. Outside it was quite black, and cold; but inside this edifice of medical competence we felt secure and happy. We were leaving this man in good hands and they were, finally, the right ones.
The hospital was about seven or eight minutes away from the hotel. I was to get to know that route of corners and circles well. In huge grounds were a series of buildings each three or four storeys high, each one for different medical genres. The cardiac building, once we found it, was undergoing renovations and we had to enter through a series of scaffolding off the huge tarmacked parking area. We queued up for the admittance formalities. The hospital proved to be a large government organised complex - and anything to do with government red tape has a universal flavour of drabness, of somewhat dark brick, well worn sombre flooring and a spartan dreariness coupled with the resigned melancholy of people awaiting their turn to be dealt with. The very air smells of government.
But once the elderly lift had delivered us to the ablation floor the air of measured sobriety changed. All was bustle. Each private ward was quite spacious and had two beds, one for the spouse. The nurses were efficient and not unfriendly but seemed to speak no English. We were bustled in, F was installed in bed. We discovered a room nearby where there were chairs and books, some of them in English. There we met a man, a New Zealander. He was wandering about in a dressing gown, had had his treatment and was recuperating; it was fine, he said. M and I had a conversation with him. Somehow F, in bed, had retreated from us.
I watched him eat his supper that night, a bland kind of macaroni cheese. F always had a hearty appetite. He ate the food uncomplaining, sitting on the side of his bed. In the cupboard were his clothes, a couple of books, his hearing aid, neatly arranged. We were completely sure of what we were doing. He was there to be repaired; it was comfort, at last. Outside it was quite black, and cold; but inside this edifice of medical competence we felt secure and happy. We were leaving this man in good hands and they were, finally, the right ones.
Monday, December 8, 2008
That Christmas Past and the Chateau
Putting together the pictures for the scrap book is a labour of love. I have chosen F's happiest ones; he always had a lovely smile and these pictures are of his most radiant. They are disparate ones of family and friends in different activities and places and make me realise just how blessed we have been. But in all the myriad photos of F and I standing together there is no space between us which says this is as far as you go; this and no more. No presentiment of his loss. We are full of life. We are secure and happy and enjoying the moment; not knowing that it would be so brief.
I have been impelled into widowhood: no-one asked me whether I would care to be a widow. We deliberately go into marriage, but we accidentally become a widow. We do not consider the possibility beyond it being a vague thing on the horizon that will probably never happen. "One day if something ever happens to me" is a game we play. We do not believe in the inevitable. And there are no lessons in how to deal with this new, altered and inevitable state of existence. Which is astounding, given that it is the future of every single couple in the world. Someone has to die - or walk away, or divorce, or stray. Someone has to be left.
So, I am the one left. F and I ceased to communicate when he went into the hospital. We were not lucky enough to have a lingering death, during which we could rationally plan the future, and talk, and say goodbye. Where I could begin to mourn. We expected, in France, to emerge with his health intact and were not prepared for the crash of crises, one after the other, that took him further and further from consciousness, conversation, recognition or comfort. For six weeks he was ravaged by ventilators, drugs, delirium, tubes, ICU nurses and by I and the family, or friends, standing by. For six weeks I was at his bedside for seven hours a day but he did not know it.
The fact that his nurses and doctors hardly spoke a word of English isolated him; he must have been terrified. F was hard of hearing, and anything but a linguist. He would not have understood a word they were saying even if he were conscious - which he must have been, in flashes. Once he said to me, I absolutely hate it here. But his moments of equilibrium were few and far between and all the more cruel, as each one presaged another crash and we had no more than a few cruel hours of thinking we were perhaps going to survive, after all.
These memories are so painful, they are not good at this time of the year. I should be humming Christmas tunes; I have wrapped my gifts and will take out a pretty tree we have which changes colours; I will set it up and I will make mince pies. I should not be thinking of that Christmas in France.
it was really cold, the sky was perennially grey. I do not remember sunshine. Son M, his wife P and baby V were with me then. We moved from the commercial hotel in which we had been staying, near the hospital, into a chateau which son B and I had found. We were so elated to find it; old and elegant, it had so much charm and character we thought this would be a good place to spend Christmas. But we did not reckon on the cold and draughty floors of a very old building, and the fact that baby V was crawling and spent most of her waking hours sitting on the floor, where we had to dress her in layers of clothing to keep her warm.
I had a few little decorations with me (as we would have been happily celebrating Christmas with a recovered F, had things been different); I scattered them about in the suite of rooms we occupied but it could not have been more dreadful. Even the baby, her smiles and sweetness, could not combat the emptiness, the bizarreness of where we were and what we were at. Her grand father, of course, did not even know it was Christmas.
We ate an expensive lunch at a boutique hotel we discovered nearby, that Christmas day; the three of us and the baby. The table was prettily decorated with orange glass baubles and touches of gold; the service was excellent, the food strange, the wine costly, the whole thing an ordeal. We struggled through our meal, through the day - but we were still hopeful, then. What we were enduring was only temporary. No-one had yet discussed with me my future status. I had not envisaged my husband's death, it was unthinkable. Our husband and father was simply going through a dreadful glitch.
I have been impelled into widowhood: no-one asked me whether I would care to be a widow. We deliberately go into marriage, but we accidentally become a widow. We do not consider the possibility beyond it being a vague thing on the horizon that will probably never happen. "One day if something ever happens to me" is a game we play. We do not believe in the inevitable. And there are no lessons in how to deal with this new, altered and inevitable state of existence. Which is astounding, given that it is the future of every single couple in the world. Someone has to die - or walk away, or divorce, or stray. Someone has to be left.
So, I am the one left. F and I ceased to communicate when he went into the hospital. We were not lucky enough to have a lingering death, during which we could rationally plan the future, and talk, and say goodbye. Where I could begin to mourn. We expected, in France, to emerge with his health intact and were not prepared for the crash of crises, one after the other, that took him further and further from consciousness, conversation, recognition or comfort. For six weeks he was ravaged by ventilators, drugs, delirium, tubes, ICU nurses and by I and the family, or friends, standing by. For six weeks I was at his bedside for seven hours a day but he did not know it.
The fact that his nurses and doctors hardly spoke a word of English isolated him; he must have been terrified. F was hard of hearing, and anything but a linguist. He would not have understood a word they were saying even if he were conscious - which he must have been, in flashes. Once he said to me, I absolutely hate it here. But his moments of equilibrium were few and far between and all the more cruel, as each one presaged another crash and we had no more than a few cruel hours of thinking we were perhaps going to survive, after all.
These memories are so painful, they are not good at this time of the year. I should be humming Christmas tunes; I have wrapped my gifts and will take out a pretty tree we have which changes colours; I will set it up and I will make mince pies. I should not be thinking of that Christmas in France.
it was really cold, the sky was perennially grey. I do not remember sunshine. Son M, his wife P and baby V were with me then. We moved from the commercial hotel in which we had been staying, near the hospital, into a chateau which son B and I had found. We were so elated to find it; old and elegant, it had so much charm and character we thought this would be a good place to spend Christmas. But we did not reckon on the cold and draughty floors of a very old building, and the fact that baby V was crawling and spent most of her waking hours sitting on the floor, where we had to dress her in layers of clothing to keep her warm.
I had a few little decorations with me (as we would have been happily celebrating Christmas with a recovered F, had things been different); I scattered them about in the suite of rooms we occupied but it could not have been more dreadful. Even the baby, her smiles and sweetness, could not combat the emptiness, the bizarreness of where we were and what we were at. Her grand father, of course, did not even know it was Christmas.
We ate an expensive lunch at a boutique hotel we discovered nearby, that Christmas day; the three of us and the baby. The table was prettily decorated with orange glass baubles and touches of gold; the service was excellent, the food strange, the wine costly, the whole thing an ordeal. We struggled through our meal, through the day - but we were still hopeful, then. What we were enduring was only temporary. No-one had yet discussed with me my future status. I had not envisaged my husband's death, it was unthinkable. Our husband and father was simply going through a dreadful glitch.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Nearly Christmas
Today I separate about twenty photographs from a drawerful in my study. It is almost Christmas and I am making my daughter K an album of her father in these past few years for a Christmas present. Our childhood photographs are still packed away in my garage, I have a host of pictures to go through one day. But I have a lot of recent pictures I know she will not have seen, and I think she will treasure a collection of them.
They are mainly of F and I with friends around the world, a lot from England where we lived for eight years and where F became Commodore of the biggest motor yacht club on the Thames.
I choose happy ones, although F was, invariably, happy. Particularly in England, where he had been born and grew up, and where we had a house a stroll away from Hampton Court Palace, near the moorings of the yacht club - and his boat, Breezing In. This was a forty foot motor yacht made by Oyster, a wellknown company of yacht builders. It had none of the white leatherette/plastic look of the so-called gin palaces; this was a yacht with a motor (two large ones). It had that look of hand crafting in the wooden interior, like a sailing boat, and it was F's pride and joy. He did all his own maintenance on the motors and all the cleaning, washing, interminable polishing and buffing and sprucing up necessary to a boat on the water and it gleamed; a proud boat, a loved boat.
We became interested in the lifestyle of a boat club one day shortly after arriving in England, while strolling along the Thames at Richmond. There were all these people in boats lining the banks, having a good time. F loved boats; he had had a dinghy and a motor boat in South Africa. I had entertained idea of picnics at sea, with beer and roast chicken and hours drifting about on blue waters, but it was not to be. The seas around the South African coast are anything but leisurely and one is hanging on to a rail most of the time, not picnicking. A far cry from the slow moving traffic of the Thames and boats ranging from little battered ones to large, snooty moneyed ones which parade silently up and down the muddy but - upriver - tranquil waters.
Here were all these boats moored, people moving about in the sunshine, laughing, talking and visiting, This appealed. With his usual aplomb F set about a conversation and before long we were invited aboard. Thus begun our love affair with the TMYC and things nautical, Little did I realise that afternoon that this would become the focus of our lives for eight years and the immense fun would be mixed with the stress that eventually cost F a pace maker and inevitable heart trouble.
I sit here at a junction in this narrative. I can go into the TMYC and those unforgettable years - there is a book there - eccentric people and situations for a lifetime, laughter, tears, frustration, idiosyncracies .... but today a distant memory.
Or I can continue with the present and my second Christmas alone. I have not faced up to one as yet - last year, the first one, I spent with B and his partner H in Mallorca, where it was delightful to be with them in such a foreign and infinitely beautiful place. I had no qualms. This year will be full of qualms. I shall miss F's energetic preparation of Christmas dinner - he always cooked Christmas dinner - the feeling of family, the nucleus being F, the frivolity of the decorations, gift wrapping, excitement and the carols that he loved to hear. This time I will be with K and her family - we shall have excitement, gift wrappings, the children and no doubt, carols; I shall love being with them but there will be a ghost behind me.
They are mainly of F and I with friends around the world, a lot from England where we lived for eight years and where F became Commodore of the biggest motor yacht club on the Thames.
I choose happy ones, although F was, invariably, happy. Particularly in England, where he had been born and grew up, and where we had a house a stroll away from Hampton Court Palace, near the moorings of the yacht club - and his boat, Breezing In. This was a forty foot motor yacht made by Oyster, a wellknown company of yacht builders. It had none of the white leatherette/plastic look of the so-called gin palaces; this was a yacht with a motor (two large ones). It had that look of hand crafting in the wooden interior, like a sailing boat, and it was F's pride and joy. He did all his own maintenance on the motors and all the cleaning, washing, interminable polishing and buffing and sprucing up necessary to a boat on the water and it gleamed; a proud boat, a loved boat.
We became interested in the lifestyle of a boat club one day shortly after arriving in England, while strolling along the Thames at Richmond. There were all these people in boats lining the banks, having a good time. F loved boats; he had had a dinghy and a motor boat in South Africa. I had entertained idea of picnics at sea, with beer and roast chicken and hours drifting about on blue waters, but it was not to be. The seas around the South African coast are anything but leisurely and one is hanging on to a rail most of the time, not picnicking. A far cry from the slow moving traffic of the Thames and boats ranging from little battered ones to large, snooty moneyed ones which parade silently up and down the muddy but - upriver - tranquil waters.
Here were all these boats moored, people moving about in the sunshine, laughing, talking and visiting, This appealed. With his usual aplomb F set about a conversation and before long we were invited aboard. Thus begun our love affair with the TMYC and things nautical, Little did I realise that afternoon that this would become the focus of our lives for eight years and the immense fun would be mixed with the stress that eventually cost F a pace maker and inevitable heart trouble.
I sit here at a junction in this narrative. I can go into the TMYC and those unforgettable years - there is a book there - eccentric people and situations for a lifetime, laughter, tears, frustration, idiosyncracies .... but today a distant memory.
Or I can continue with the present and my second Christmas alone. I have not faced up to one as yet - last year, the first one, I spent with B and his partner H in Mallorca, where it was delightful to be with them in such a foreign and infinitely beautiful place. I had no qualms. This year will be full of qualms. I shall miss F's energetic preparation of Christmas dinner - he always cooked Christmas dinner - the feeling of family, the nucleus being F, the frivolity of the decorations, gift wrapping, excitement and the carols that he loved to hear. This time I will be with K and her family - we shall have excitement, gift wrappings, the children and no doubt, carols; I shall love being with them but there will be a ghost behind me.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
A Brief Adventure
Friend J's house in France is on a quiet suburban street lined with small trees. Inside a bland exterior is a large double volume space of an open plan lounge, kitchen and a study area lined with books. There is a free standing wood burning fire, and glass walls through which one can see a leaf strewn swimming pool and a windswept lawn. Wooden stairs lead up to three charming loft-style bedrooms but as the bathroom is downstairs, we make up F's bed near the fire. I worry about him negotiating the wooden staircase at night. I will sleep upstairs, as will son M. We are cheerful. This is an adventure.
The sea is not far away. Grey and choppy, the seascape has the desolate air of an abandoned beach in a storm. Papers blow on deserted pavements and gather against closed doors bearing pictures of pink and green ice cream cones. Summer has been packed away. A few restaurants remain open and inside they are warm, but there are no tourists at this time of the year. The French waitress is brisk and we are served a local dish of mussels, which are delicious.
It is so good to be here. We have a few short days before the hospital appointment but we plan to enjoy them. We will explore the area, lunch out, cook suppers in my friend's very efficient kitchen; we have a hire car with a GPS and there are places nearby I have never heard of. Within walking distance of the house is a fascinating array of small shops where we buy long loaves of bread, fresh vegetables and fish. As it is nearly Christmas there is a snug bustle around the shops with red shiny things and dark green conifers everywhere. There is a real Christmas feeling, not the shopworn rush of the overblown Christmas carols we are used to. We keep the fire in the house fed with chopped wood we buy from a warehouse; it consumes wood with gusto and F is constantly at it. He seems more peaceful, and even more comfortable, here.
On the third day we venture beyond the Spanish border and find a spectacular resort with high cliffs where there is a modern hotel and a massive view of a wintry sea. It is quiet now, and the hotel seems empty. In summer it must be jam packed. Very few views have impressed me so. We lunch down near the harbour but as it is a Sunday there are many diners and parking is difficult. F and I wait for son M to park and join us. The food is good but exotic. We are surrounded by locals out for their Sunday gathering. We eat quietly, aware that tomorrow is an important day. This is almost our last meal together before the hospital and we are tense, but the looming clouds and the battering sea outside is just so much bunting to our great adventure. I turn a blind eye to the threatening sky and its charcoal colour.
The sea is not far away. Grey and choppy, the seascape has the desolate air of an abandoned beach in a storm. Papers blow on deserted pavements and gather against closed doors bearing pictures of pink and green ice cream cones. Summer has been packed away. A few restaurants remain open and inside they are warm, but there are no tourists at this time of the year. The French waitress is brisk and we are served a local dish of mussels, which are delicious.
It is so good to be here. We have a few short days before the hospital appointment but we plan to enjoy them. We will explore the area, lunch out, cook suppers in my friend's very efficient kitchen; we have a hire car with a GPS and there are places nearby I have never heard of. Within walking distance of the house is a fascinating array of small shops where we buy long loaves of bread, fresh vegetables and fish. As it is nearly Christmas there is a snug bustle around the shops with red shiny things and dark green conifers everywhere. There is a real Christmas feeling, not the shopworn rush of the overblown Christmas carols we are used to. We keep the fire in the house fed with chopped wood we buy from a warehouse; it consumes wood with gusto and F is constantly at it. He seems more peaceful, and even more comfortable, here.
On the third day we venture beyond the Spanish border and find a spectacular resort with high cliffs where there is a modern hotel and a massive view of a wintry sea. It is quiet now, and the hotel seems empty. In summer it must be jam packed. Very few views have impressed me so. We lunch down near the harbour but as it is a Sunday there are many diners and parking is difficult. F and I wait for son M to park and join us. The food is good but exotic. We are surrounded by locals out for their Sunday gathering. We eat quietly, aware that tomorrow is an important day. This is almost our last meal together before the hospital and we are tense, but the looming clouds and the battering sea outside is just so much bunting to our great adventure. I turn a blind eye to the threatening sky and its charcoal colour.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Leaving No Mans Land
This is making a difference. For some reason, retracing those steps is - and I search for the word. Healing is too strong, too pat. I am not healing. I doubt I will ever be healed. But it is like a small release of pressure, a little at a time. The immense angst that has been carrying me around for these two years is lightening in colour. Perhaps it is burrowing deeper; perhaps being absorbed into my soul; perhaps being released. There is no metaphor for exactly this, words come close but they are not enough. Being widowed is a journey without a handbook.
I heard yesterday of a friend's sister who lost her husband just weeks ago. She is having a terrible time, my friend said. All she wants is her husband. I look at my friend, perplexed. There is such a long furrow for her to plough, I said. She has a long furrow ahead of her.
The expression that time will heal is meaningless. One tick at a time, being swept along a changing landscape is not what does it. What heals - if that is the word - is a gradual coming back, a gradual resurgence of something so delicate it is impossible to put into words. It is perhaps gradual reinvention, a gradual reinstatement of - what - health?
But not natural; it does not happen by itself. It has to be worked for, stalked, cornered, trapped. It is a fight. Every day passed in a blur of depression is a defeat. Every moment glimpsing some contentment, even if fleeting, is a skirmish won; a day passed in happiness is a major triumph,and a private victory. But there is no battle plan. The entire war is solitary and inexplicable. I am a general of my own soul and it is not my thing, this. I would make a lousy soldier.
So, writing down every detail of the descent into the worst time of my life is some kind of a lifeline I am clinging to, now. Reliving the events and details is rehashing them into something more acceptable than the blur of images that are crammed only with pain, irony and horror. I think.
I heard yesterday of a friend's sister who lost her husband just weeks ago. She is having a terrible time, my friend said. All she wants is her husband. I look at my friend, perplexed. There is such a long furrow for her to plough, I said. She has a long furrow ahead of her.
The expression that time will heal is meaningless. One tick at a time, being swept along a changing landscape is not what does it. What heals - if that is the word - is a gradual coming back, a gradual resurgence of something so delicate it is impossible to put into words. It is perhaps gradual reinvention, a gradual reinstatement of - what - health?
But not natural; it does not happen by itself. It has to be worked for, stalked, cornered, trapped. It is a fight. Every day passed in a blur of depression is a defeat. Every moment glimpsing some contentment, even if fleeting, is a skirmish won; a day passed in happiness is a major triumph,and a private victory. But there is no battle plan. The entire war is solitary and inexplicable. I am a general of my own soul and it is not my thing, this. I would make a lousy soldier.
So, writing down every detail of the descent into the worst time of my life is some kind of a lifeline I am clinging to, now. Reliving the events and details is rehashing them into something more acceptable than the blur of images that are crammed only with pain, irony and horror. I think.
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Difficulty of Wheels
Son M was waiting for us in Paris, his face alight. After months of anticipation, this was the moment, for him, to set it all in motion: he was taking his father to be cured. Our eldest son, B, had brought us thus far, and virtually handed us over. He would be going on immediately back to London and his business commitments.
The wheel chair having been produced (finally, after the inevitable wait), the three of us set off in a small parade for the exterior of the airport and a taxi. We were going to rest at son M's hotel before returning to Charles de Gaulle and a domestic flight to take us on to my friend's house in France, later that morning. The official pushing the wheel chair was very young. Son M and I were in front, chatting. Suddenly there was a shout; I looked back and to my horror saw my husband on the floor - he had been tipped out of the wheel chair, lay sprawling but smiling, unhurt - a lesson in care, probably for the young man, who was mortified.
France in December is a grey and damp place. The hotel was bustling, efficient, modern. Husband F took straight to a prone position on the bed in M's room; I headed for a shower before joining M in the lobby, where he was breakfasting. Our reunion was, as ever, joyful. This son lives in San Francisco. Shortly afterwards I glanced up to see husband F coming towards us, on his face such a smile. I shall never forget that smile and his air of happiness as he made his way across the room.
Back at the airport we had the unnervingly familiar debacle over a wheel chair. The taxi had deposited us and we had walked with husband F to a chair, while son M went off to claim the pre-arranged wheels. It seems that to be able to use one, one has to present oneself at the relevant check in. Which was a stiff walk away down a crowded concourse. The usual argument: my father cannot walk here, it is too far, that is why he needs a wheel chair. Sorry sir, but he has to be here with his passport before I can authorise one. But I cannot get him here without it, and I have his passport. Sorry sir.
Eventually, eventually, the lady was persuaded and eventually, after a wait, someone arrived with the necessary, and we set off on a brisk walk in a parade that plows through queues of peevish people who have been waiting in line and patently resent the intrusion- right to the head of such a queue and immediately through the barrier, boarding gate for the plane.
M and I had been trotting obediently behind. Passports, please remove your shoes, even the man in the wheelchair.
Someone remarks: but this isn't where we're going - referring to our boarding passes. Wrong plane. So off we go again, back through the queues of the same people, shoes replaced - thank goodness someone noticed!
This time we were dumped in an area waiting for a large bin-like contraption that would raise us to the level of the plane door, and in this ignominious manner we managed to board and fly to our final destination. Where, I must add, at a minor domestic airport, the only wheel chair arranged and ready for us was waiting at the door. The irony being that this building was so small in scale it was virtually unnecessary, F could walk through it and out to the hire car.
The wheel chair having been produced (finally, after the inevitable wait), the three of us set off in a small parade for the exterior of the airport and a taxi. We were going to rest at son M's hotel before returning to Charles de Gaulle and a domestic flight to take us on to my friend's house in France, later that morning. The official pushing the wheel chair was very young. Son M and I were in front, chatting. Suddenly there was a shout; I looked back and to my horror saw my husband on the floor - he had been tipped out of the wheel chair, lay sprawling but smiling, unhurt - a lesson in care, probably for the young man, who was mortified.
France in December is a grey and damp place. The hotel was bustling, efficient, modern. Husband F took straight to a prone position on the bed in M's room; I headed for a shower before joining M in the lobby, where he was breakfasting. Our reunion was, as ever, joyful. This son lives in San Francisco. Shortly afterwards I glanced up to see husband F coming towards us, on his face such a smile. I shall never forget that smile and his air of happiness as he made his way across the room.
Back at the airport we had the unnervingly familiar debacle over a wheel chair. The taxi had deposited us and we had walked with husband F to a chair, while son M went off to claim the pre-arranged wheels. It seems that to be able to use one, one has to present oneself at the relevant check in. Which was a stiff walk away down a crowded concourse. The usual argument: my father cannot walk here, it is too far, that is why he needs a wheel chair. Sorry sir, but he has to be here with his passport before I can authorise one. But I cannot get him here without it, and I have his passport. Sorry sir.
Eventually, eventually, the lady was persuaded and eventually, after a wait, someone arrived with the necessary, and we set off on a brisk walk in a parade that plows through queues of peevish people who have been waiting in line and patently resent the intrusion- right to the head of such a queue and immediately through the barrier, boarding gate for the plane.
M and I had been trotting obediently behind. Passports, please remove your shoes, even the man in the wheelchair.
Someone remarks: but this isn't where we're going - referring to our boarding passes. Wrong plane. So off we go again, back through the queues of the same people, shoes replaced - thank goodness someone noticed!
This time we were dumped in an area waiting for a large bin-like contraption that would raise us to the level of the plane door, and in this ignominious manner we managed to board and fly to our final destination. Where, I must add, at a minor domestic airport, the only wheel chair arranged and ready for us was waiting at the door. The irony being that this building was so small in scale it was virtually unnecessary, F could walk through it and out to the hire car.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
