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.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 23, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inauguration night
Last night, 2 days short of F's anniversary, Obama was inaugurated. I had been at home the whole day. A game of Twilight Trips (lawn bowls) had been arranged and I was to pick up my two lady friends at four pm. As the inauguration excitement had started just after lunchtime SA time, I put CNN on to record, and went off.
We had a credible game in the overcast twilight; although we did not win our game it was enjoyable with the company, in spite of a green which bounced and twittered and one's bowl did some surprising things.
At home my friends came in and we opened a bottle of wine, flicking through the crowd scenes till we came to Obama and his wife and the ceremony. America's equivalent to a coronation was stirring stuff, in spite of the cold and its resulting odd effect of taking away colour and making everything seem either grey or black with an odd flash of red.
Like everyone else, I thrill to Obama and his clear, clear thinking; I love his language and imagery, I love his straightforward speeches and I think he is both brave and deeply morale. Like everyone else, I wish him well, and worry about his safety. Do not let this figure, I think, become a horrifying saga of assassination and tragedy - the world needs a break. It needs a hero.
The evening wore on and eventually my guests were leaving. M was to take J home, just a short distance. We were saying goodbye outside in my driveway; my cat having accompanied us outside, as she does, and I moved to make sure she wasn't behind the car - typically, she scampered off as I approached her.
The car suddenly shot backwards with two very horrified ladies in it, just narrowly managing to stop before hitting backwards into the concrete fencing that borders the estate. Their faces were a picture. We dissolved into laughter.
M then proceeded to start her engine and have the car leap either forwards or backwards before stalling. What's happening, I said? I don't know! How much wine did you have? We were helpless with laughter, J having quitted the car on the passenger side.
Let me have a go, I said - go on then. I briefly stalled the car too but the handbrake was on, and once released. the car behaved normally, and off they went. It was good to laugh, but I realised later that had I been standing just a bit to the left, I could well have been knocked over.
Nevertheless, it was very funny.
We had a credible game in the overcast twilight; although we did not win our game it was enjoyable with the company, in spite of a green which bounced and twittered and one's bowl did some surprising things.
At home my friends came in and we opened a bottle of wine, flicking through the crowd scenes till we came to Obama and his wife and the ceremony. America's equivalent to a coronation was stirring stuff, in spite of the cold and its resulting odd effect of taking away colour and making everything seem either grey or black with an odd flash of red.
Like everyone else, I thrill to Obama and his clear, clear thinking; I love his language and imagery, I love his straightforward speeches and I think he is both brave and deeply morale. Like everyone else, I wish him well, and worry about his safety. Do not let this figure, I think, become a horrifying saga of assassination and tragedy - the world needs a break. It needs a hero.
The evening wore on and eventually my guests were leaving. M was to take J home, just a short distance. We were saying goodbye outside in my driveway; my cat having accompanied us outside, as she does, and I moved to make sure she wasn't behind the car - typically, she scampered off as I approached her.
The car suddenly shot backwards with two very horrified ladies in it, just narrowly managing to stop before hitting backwards into the concrete fencing that borders the estate. Their faces were a picture. We dissolved into laughter.
M then proceeded to start her engine and have the car leap either forwards or backwards before stalling. What's happening, I said? I don't know! How much wine did you have? We were helpless with laughter, J having quitted the car on the passenger side.
Let me have a go, I said - go on then. I briefly stalled the car too but the handbrake was on, and once released. the car behaved normally, and off they went. It was good to laugh, but I realised later that had I been standing just a bit to the left, I could well have been knocked over.
Nevertheless, it was very funny.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Shortening the Day
It has been a week or so since I last wrote this blog. For some reason I am finding it difficult now. Perhaps because this is the week of F's death; it will be two years. I freeze up.
But last night son M on the phone from San Francisco said Mom, why worry about it - it makes no difference. Dad is not here. Stop worrying about the date - and of course, he's right. What difference does a date make - F is not here and won't be tomorrow or the day after and he wasn't here last week .... and anyway, this time two years ago we were in France and it was very different from this South African heat and midsummer.
Instead of "zipping my mouth" I will zip my mind.
I have been skirting, even, round bowls. Fully intending to go to tabs afternoons, then changing my mind at the last minute. Too hot - using that as an excuse. This spontaneous reclusive behaviour is not healthy, it is not in my nature. But this Monday heralds the start of something called Twilight Trips, in which games are arranged to start late afternoon with specific teams and this competition is carried on for six weeks or so into the late summer afternoons. I am involved in two such clubs and their Twilight Trips this year, and must play; there is no room for erratic behaviour with this, as I have given my word even if it is just for fun and hardly earth shaking stuff. It's what one does, at this stage of life, for entertainment.
However, the notion that bowls is just for old people is ridiculous. If one is bowling properly your knee just about touches the ground each time you send a bowl - try doing that 42 times in one afternoon (that's the least amount in one game) and see how stiff you feel afterwards. Bowling well does require a level of suppleness even if the exercise is gentle. And bowling well requires a great deal of concentration - or it does me, anyway. Which is the thing I love - the digging down deep into concentration and finding accuracy, as well as the balance and rhythm of a good delivery, which is something I practice. The well known phrase - the more I practice, the luckier I get.
Yesterday I left my house determined to drive myself out of my sadness. I would see if there were any singles games being played which I could watch - Port Natal Singles should have been in full swing but mysteriously, the bowling green was deserted. Not to worry, Bella and I would walk through the golf course. It was cool and grey and our walk was effortless. Afterwards, I thought, I would do what I never do, which is venture onto the clubhouse veranda and have a cup of tea by myself.
Ha, bumped right into a lady bowler I do not know well but nevertheless, the first thing she said was that she finds Sundays lonely and she was going to practice on the green; I would join her, I said, and roll we did, on a heavy green with my two jacks and a duster for a mat. Then we had tea. And were joined by a mutual friend and later, we had lunch, and all of a sudden it was no longer a lonely Sunday but a pleasant interlude of chat and bowls and a light lunch and I returned home quite happy.
That's all I needed to make the long quiet day shorter and busy.
I'm marking time, For what?
But last night son M on the phone from San Francisco said Mom, why worry about it - it makes no difference. Dad is not here. Stop worrying about the date - and of course, he's right. What difference does a date make - F is not here and won't be tomorrow or the day after and he wasn't here last week .... and anyway, this time two years ago we were in France and it was very different from this South African heat and midsummer.
Instead of "zipping my mouth" I will zip my mind.
I have been skirting, even, round bowls. Fully intending to go to tabs afternoons, then changing my mind at the last minute. Too hot - using that as an excuse. This spontaneous reclusive behaviour is not healthy, it is not in my nature. But this Monday heralds the start of something called Twilight Trips, in which games are arranged to start late afternoon with specific teams and this competition is carried on for six weeks or so into the late summer afternoons. I am involved in two such clubs and their Twilight Trips this year, and must play; there is no room for erratic behaviour with this, as I have given my word even if it is just for fun and hardly earth shaking stuff. It's what one does, at this stage of life, for entertainment.
However, the notion that bowls is just for old people is ridiculous. If one is bowling properly your knee just about touches the ground each time you send a bowl - try doing that 42 times in one afternoon (that's the least amount in one game) and see how stiff you feel afterwards. Bowling well does require a level of suppleness even if the exercise is gentle. And bowling well requires a great deal of concentration - or it does me, anyway. Which is the thing I love - the digging down deep into concentration and finding accuracy, as well as the balance and rhythm of a good delivery, which is something I practice. The well known phrase - the more I practice, the luckier I get.
Yesterday I left my house determined to drive myself out of my sadness. I would see if there were any singles games being played which I could watch - Port Natal Singles should have been in full swing but mysteriously, the bowling green was deserted. Not to worry, Bella and I would walk through the golf course. It was cool and grey and our walk was effortless. Afterwards, I thought, I would do what I never do, which is venture onto the clubhouse veranda and have a cup of tea by myself.
Ha, bumped right into a lady bowler I do not know well but nevertheless, the first thing she said was that she finds Sundays lonely and she was going to practice on the green; I would join her, I said, and roll we did, on a heavy green with my two jacks and a duster for a mat. Then we had tea. And were joined by a mutual friend and later, we had lunch, and all of a sudden it was no longer a lonely Sunday but a pleasant interlude of chat and bowls and a light lunch and I returned home quite happy.
That's all I needed to make the long quiet day shorter and busy.
I'm marking time, For what?
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Leaving Solitary Confinement
My Friday meeting with the aforesaid new group of friends had me bouncing this weekend. It seems as if I am making headway into new social circles and am beginning to throw off my mantle of shyness and decorum. Be that as it may, it is refreshing to break new ground in the familiar agenda of bowls or occasional old friends, valued as these may be. I intend now to join in with the keep-fit-with-weights class, salsa dancing (perhaps), suggested musical evenings, the running of an art clas. Today I will invite some of these ladies to a supper evening at my house.
They are all attractive people. Apart from one who had come from afar and who had, I thought, that recognisable look of devastation about her, they were all serene, confident and certainly secure in their dress and mannerism. Within our own individual experiences we are bonded by a lack of partner, whether through death or grass widowhood; we are making up our own accompaniments, entertainments and futures. These Friday get-togethers are little steps along the way.
I do not wish for any other man in my life. Women will do. I abhor the thought of the complications of a man/woman relationship - the establishment of dominance, the giving over of control, the compromises, the ups and downs. And I do not wish to care for anyone else's failing health. I could not bear to worry, again, about someone else's survival. I could not hover over his hospital bed.
I am better off alone, and with women friends. I've had my heterosexual life thank you very much, and the other could not for me be a reality. But I like women, they are easy company, we understand each other without the intensity of heterosexual confrontation or even commitment. One can have many women friends and accept them just for who they are, not for how you fit in - or not - with their ideas of a relationship. One does not have to either dominate or be subjugated. One just has to have fun. A laugh. A chat. A cup of tea.
So, Friday evening, here. I love this rented house; I can make it intensely tidy and attractive for entertaining. Sympathetic lighting from small lamps and candles, good tableware, wine glasses, fabric napkins, my beloved oak refectory dining table or outside, the big round table F fitted up with a highly lacquered green lazy susan and our comfortable cane chairs. The latter is on my large cool veranda facing the lake and bulrushes, in which either bright orange little birds flutter by day or frogs serenade at night. I choose the setting with the weather and it gives me pleasure to dress the house for the occasion.
If I sound slightly smug right now I apologise. Smugness after a long period of angst cannot be a bad thing. It means progress, something being achieved. Yesterday I spent entirely alone and inert, I did not go anywhere. Time passed in that slow vacuum of the solitary but it is a tempo now that I am getting used to. I no longer chafe against the fact that I am on my own or the silence. It no longer frightens me. I can feel quite OK with neighbourhood sounds and find peace rather than dismay within my own four walls - sanctuary now, not solitary confinement.
They are all attractive people. Apart from one who had come from afar and who had, I thought, that recognisable look of devastation about her, they were all serene, confident and certainly secure in their dress and mannerism. Within our own individual experiences we are bonded by a lack of partner, whether through death or grass widowhood; we are making up our own accompaniments, entertainments and futures. These Friday get-togethers are little steps along the way.
I do not wish for any other man in my life. Women will do. I abhor the thought of the complications of a man/woman relationship - the establishment of dominance, the giving over of control, the compromises, the ups and downs. And I do not wish to care for anyone else's failing health. I could not bear to worry, again, about someone else's survival. I could not hover over his hospital bed.
I am better off alone, and with women friends. I've had my heterosexual life thank you very much, and the other could not for me be a reality. But I like women, they are easy company, we understand each other without the intensity of heterosexual confrontation or even commitment. One can have many women friends and accept them just for who they are, not for how you fit in - or not - with their ideas of a relationship. One does not have to either dominate or be subjugated. One just has to have fun. A laugh. A chat. A cup of tea.
So, Friday evening, here. I love this rented house; I can make it intensely tidy and attractive for entertaining. Sympathetic lighting from small lamps and candles, good tableware, wine glasses, fabric napkins, my beloved oak refectory dining table or outside, the big round table F fitted up with a highly lacquered green lazy susan and our comfortable cane chairs. The latter is on my large cool veranda facing the lake and bulrushes, in which either bright orange little birds flutter by day or frogs serenade at night. I choose the setting with the weather and it gives me pleasure to dress the house for the occasion.
If I sound slightly smug right now I apologise. Smugness after a long period of angst cannot be a bad thing. It means progress, something being achieved. Yesterday I spent entirely alone and inert, I did not go anywhere. Time passed in that slow vacuum of the solitary but it is a tempo now that I am getting used to. I no longer chafe against the fact that I am on my own or the silence. It no longer frightens me. I can feel quite OK with neighbourhood sounds and find peace rather than dismay within my own four walls - sanctuary now, not solitary confinement.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Fighting Against the Odds
Coincidentally it is that same time of the year now. The last fortnight of F's life. As we head now towards that dreadful date I still find myself freezing up, and within this fortnight I must write about his death, which is difficult.
This time two years ago he was in cardiac ICU in a French hospital and I was spending seven or eight hours a day at his bedside. I would drive there each day in a hire car along kilometres of highway, on the right hand side of the road, reading road signs, taking care with traffic, parking in the huge grey tarmacked parking area of the hospital set in completely flat countryside surrounded by electric pylons. The journey from hotel to hospital took about twenty minutes. It was always cold although frequently sunny.
The family-run hotel we had discovered was adequate, clean and comfortable although certainly not five star. Each day I was asked sympathetically by the owner or her mother how my husband was getting along, and each day I was exhorted to have courage - in French, courage is the same word. I used to eat breakfast in the small dining room - a boiled egg, or a croissant, yoghurt, fruit, black tea. A dear little bird (I think a robin, with a red breast) used to hop around the window near my table, busy with its own small life, and I would watch for his appearance.
At the hospital I reached F's ward by way of a flight of stairs and a meagre, glass lined corridor. He lay in one of six cubicles. At the centre of the room were a couple of desks for nursing staff and of course, one could hear the pinging rhythm of various cardiac machines which were continual in that universal sound of "hospital" - squeaking shoes or trolley wheels on the gleaming flooring of wide interior passages, voices, the melodious two notes preceding muffled announcements from the depths of administration or the tick, tick tick of vital machinery attached to patients which ticked or pinged or squeaked rhythmically and quietly - not to mention the prominent coloured electronic displays which moved above the head of each bedside recording blood pressure, heart rhythm, oxygen levels and other things, obtuse graphs and figures which were both reassuring and terrifying.
His bed was on the inside of the room, windowless. During this last fortnight he was moved to the bed obliquely opposite, where there was a window through which sun could stream in the afternoon. It was thought that this would cheer him up. By now he was very depressed and was put on to anti-depressant medication which would have an effect, I was told, only in about six weeks - this medicine just one more thing among the many daily and continual dosages of drips or drugs because he had gone down to an infection which was the one thing, they said, they dreaded. There was little talk at this time about his heart or its rhythm. That could be dealt with later. Now they were fighting for his survival, and, after the colostomy, an infection in his weakened state was very bad.
But we seemed slowly to be winning; or at least, he seemed to be holding his own. He was fully conscious now but bedridden. There was no sitting up in bed, much less getting out of it. One day I had come in to find him sitting in a chair (weeks past) absolutely at the end of his tether. Please, he said, I can't take this. The staff had left him there for an hour - it would make him stronger, they said. I rushed to insist that he be put back to bed - a man, the physio, would have to be called for this, they said, to move him. Agony to wait - but he arrived within minutes, and lifted up my husband, and I can still see that horrifying moment when he dangled like a rag doll in the arms of this man. Completely, utterly helpless.
I did not mince words to the staff - in this case a thickset Frenchwoman I had not seen before who did not speak a word of English but seemed bent on disciplining the illness and my husband's weak state as if she could beat it out of him.
This time two years ago, however, we were resigned to the fact of his being severely ill but looking forward - and even beginning to discuss - the possibility of going home. Not that F talked much, he slept most of the time. The nurses had tried to cheer him up with a television at the foot of his bed, but not even soccer, or tennis, or cricket interested him now. He was oblivious to the sunlight, oblivious to family most of the time although he did say, once, that I should go home to South Africa, get back to bowls, leave him there and visit occasionally - a preposterous idea!
This time two years ago he was in cardiac ICU in a French hospital and I was spending seven or eight hours a day at his bedside. I would drive there each day in a hire car along kilometres of highway, on the right hand side of the road, reading road signs, taking care with traffic, parking in the huge grey tarmacked parking area of the hospital set in completely flat countryside surrounded by electric pylons. The journey from hotel to hospital took about twenty minutes. It was always cold although frequently sunny.
The family-run hotel we had discovered was adequate, clean and comfortable although certainly not five star. Each day I was asked sympathetically by the owner or her mother how my husband was getting along, and each day I was exhorted to have courage - in French, courage is the same word. I used to eat breakfast in the small dining room - a boiled egg, or a croissant, yoghurt, fruit, black tea. A dear little bird (I think a robin, with a red breast) used to hop around the window near my table, busy with its own small life, and I would watch for his appearance.
At the hospital I reached F's ward by way of a flight of stairs and a meagre, glass lined corridor. He lay in one of six cubicles. At the centre of the room were a couple of desks for nursing staff and of course, one could hear the pinging rhythm of various cardiac machines which were continual in that universal sound of "hospital" - squeaking shoes or trolley wheels on the gleaming flooring of wide interior passages, voices, the melodious two notes preceding muffled announcements from the depths of administration or the tick, tick tick of vital machinery attached to patients which ticked or pinged or squeaked rhythmically and quietly - not to mention the prominent coloured electronic displays which moved above the head of each bedside recording blood pressure, heart rhythm, oxygen levels and other things, obtuse graphs and figures which were both reassuring and terrifying.
His bed was on the inside of the room, windowless. During this last fortnight he was moved to the bed obliquely opposite, where there was a window through which sun could stream in the afternoon. It was thought that this would cheer him up. By now he was very depressed and was put on to anti-depressant medication which would have an effect, I was told, only in about six weeks - this medicine just one more thing among the many daily and continual dosages of drips or drugs because he had gone down to an infection which was the one thing, they said, they dreaded. There was little talk at this time about his heart or its rhythm. That could be dealt with later. Now they were fighting for his survival, and, after the colostomy, an infection in his weakened state was very bad.
But we seemed slowly to be winning; or at least, he seemed to be holding his own. He was fully conscious now but bedridden. There was no sitting up in bed, much less getting out of it. One day I had come in to find him sitting in a chair (weeks past) absolutely at the end of his tether. Please, he said, I can't take this. The staff had left him there for an hour - it would make him stronger, they said. I rushed to insist that he be put back to bed - a man, the physio, would have to be called for this, they said, to move him. Agony to wait - but he arrived within minutes, and lifted up my husband, and I can still see that horrifying moment when he dangled like a rag doll in the arms of this man. Completely, utterly helpless.
I did not mince words to the staff - in this case a thickset Frenchwoman I had not seen before who did not speak a word of English but seemed bent on disciplining the illness and my husband's weak state as if she could beat it out of him.
This time two years ago, however, we were resigned to the fact of his being severely ill but looking forward - and even beginning to discuss - the possibility of going home. Not that F talked much, he slept most of the time. The nurses had tried to cheer him up with a television at the foot of his bed, but not even soccer, or tennis, or cricket interested him now. He was oblivious to the sunlight, oblivious to family most of the time although he did say, once, that I should go home to South Africa, get back to bowls, leave him there and visit occasionally - a preposterous idea!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
There is No Normality
Finally, a butterfly painting by self, in the previous blog. I have been trying for days to move it from my photo file. Not having anyone computer literate near me, this has been difficult.
It is the quiet week between Christmas and New Year when people vanish. New Year's Eve I had to face alone - I prepared myself by shopping for a special wine, and food. I took a CD from the library, three Mozart piano concertos, I lit candles, turned on Christmas tree lights, cooked the meal, poured the wine, laid a tray. Sat back with cabernet sauvignon in a crystal glass and listened to Mozart in candlelight. Quite amazingly blissful.
There is something to be said for the optical delight of a few simple massed candles and ruby red wine in sparkling glass. I enjoy, these days, using elements we used to keep for special occasions. There is hardly anything more special now than my survival and sanity, and nothing more special than contentment, if I can find it.
So I have to be inventive, and programme my day. Today is Friday and must be conquered. Recently I have been meeting a group of new friends - all local widows - on Friday evenings at the nearby golf driving range where there is a small restaurant. On Friday evenings there is live music. We meet there but, it has to be said, cringe at the volume of the music, which makes audible talking difficult - still, there is a certain buzz in the air and the food is not bad. I like these women. They have been wounded, like me, but have not given up, they show some fighting spirit. Unlike some at bowls, these women do not dress or think like old people, they look independent and elegant, and I have not given up on elegance.
But tonight it does not seem possible, too many are away. I find it hard to approach people for company and am finding this harder all the time. I cringe at the thought of being the instigator, I hate the thought of cap in hand asking whether someone would like to meet, have tea, lunch.
Certain friends have drifted away, without doubt. Being widowed assures one of a slow and deepening invisibility. It is assumed that after all this time there has been healing - other people's imagination does not stretch this far. They do not realise, or care, or even comprehend that after "all this time" one is still in that most bizarre place where one's inner voice is the only audible thing. There is no normality for the bereaved. The clamour of grief has been quietened but whispers on.
So, today: yet another visit to the library for me - my choice of six books last week was all bad. And a walk for Bella on the lead - my choice a walk round the gated community where I am living (nobody is around, perhaps one car will pass by, perhaps there will be one child on a skate board or one yapping dog through a picket fence); a walk on the brick path above the beach, if I can find parking among the holidaymakers; or a walk along a nearby golf course, which is beautiful but daunting, peopled with the well dressed and busy in golf carts - all of the above leaving me with more of a sense of isolation than ever, so that I return to my quiet house and virtually pull covers over my head.
I can recognise other bereaved souls; the quiet of a figure walking a small dog, the wavering steps of a well dressed lone woman in a mall - I can recognise but not approach these people. Makes no sense, but there you are. I am obstinately incapable of being logical, outgoing, or brave.
It is the quiet week between Christmas and New Year when people vanish. New Year's Eve I had to face alone - I prepared myself by shopping for a special wine, and food. I took a CD from the library, three Mozart piano concertos, I lit candles, turned on Christmas tree lights, cooked the meal, poured the wine, laid a tray. Sat back with cabernet sauvignon in a crystal glass and listened to Mozart in candlelight. Quite amazingly blissful.
There is something to be said for the optical delight of a few simple massed candles and ruby red wine in sparkling glass. I enjoy, these days, using elements we used to keep for special occasions. There is hardly anything more special now than my survival and sanity, and nothing more special than contentment, if I can find it.
So I have to be inventive, and programme my day. Today is Friday and must be conquered. Recently I have been meeting a group of new friends - all local widows - on Friday evenings at the nearby golf driving range where there is a small restaurant. On Friday evenings there is live music. We meet there but, it has to be said, cringe at the volume of the music, which makes audible talking difficult - still, there is a certain buzz in the air and the food is not bad. I like these women. They have been wounded, like me, but have not given up, they show some fighting spirit. Unlike some at bowls, these women do not dress or think like old people, they look independent and elegant, and I have not given up on elegance.
But tonight it does not seem possible, too many are away. I find it hard to approach people for company and am finding this harder all the time. I cringe at the thought of being the instigator, I hate the thought of cap in hand asking whether someone would like to meet, have tea, lunch.
Certain friends have drifted away, without doubt. Being widowed assures one of a slow and deepening invisibility. It is assumed that after all this time there has been healing - other people's imagination does not stretch this far. They do not realise, or care, or even comprehend that after "all this time" one is still in that most bizarre place where one's inner voice is the only audible thing. There is no normality for the bereaved. The clamour of grief has been quietened but whispers on.
So, today: yet another visit to the library for me - my choice of six books last week was all bad. And a walk for Bella on the lead - my choice a walk round the gated community where I am living (nobody is around, perhaps one car will pass by, perhaps there will be one child on a skate board or one yapping dog through a picket fence); a walk on the brick path above the beach, if I can find parking among the holidaymakers; or a walk along a nearby golf course, which is beautiful but daunting, peopled with the well dressed and busy in golf carts - all of the above leaving me with more of a sense of isolation than ever, so that I return to my quiet house and virtually pull covers over my head.
I can recognise other bereaved souls; the quiet of a figure walking a small dog, the wavering steps of a well dressed lone woman in a mall - I can recognise but not approach these people. Makes no sense, but there you are. I am obstinately incapable of being logical, outgoing, or brave.
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