I rang my dad to see how his haematology appointment went.
Enlarged spleen and too many white blood cells is how it went. Bone marrow biopsy and scans. Weight loss and tiredness.
He was cheerful, positive, comforting. Talking about his good fortune at having got to his 70's in good health. He talked about how the house that they moved into last week, the house where they plan to spend of their lives, was full of flowers.
He talked about a trip to the tip and what they'd had for lunch and their plans for the week but by then I'd had enough and I wanted to get off the phone because I needed to cry.
Radiohead - No Surprises
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
Monday, 17 June 2013
Heavenfaced
The sun came out today. When I asked my boss if I could clear my afternoon and take some time I had owing, he agreed immediately. I spent a light and easy few hours with Snake and an old friend who is moving here, and who got the keys to her new house today. We explored the empty rooms and the long straight garden, giggling at nothing, inventing future ghosts and imagining horrific neighbours for her. We rushed a cup of tea in town before picking up Goldie from school, something I am hardly ever able to do, and I listened in awe as he told me he had been part of a musical day that had involved him singing in front of his class, a song he'd written on the spot about a lighthouse.
We dropped our friend of at the station, and raced across country to the coast and to the private view of another friend for the opening of an exhibition of her photographs. She had asked Snake the surrealist to perform something, and he read a couple of suitably strange poems. A while later, Goldie asked me to take a photo of him sitting on an antique barbers chair, wearing a toy storm troopers helmet while playing bongo drums. "Oh mum" he said "I'm thinking like dad now. I'm thinking like a surrealist".
It was still light when we walked back along the seafront to the car. Goldie ran and jumped and climbed everything climbable and some things that didn't look as if they were. When do we stop climbing everything put in our path? He's twelve and a half, and I hope it's no time soon.
Heavenfaced - The National
We dropped our friend of at the station, and raced across country to the coast and to the private view of another friend for the opening of an exhibition of her photographs. She had asked Snake the surrealist to perform something, and he read a couple of suitably strange poems. A while later, Goldie asked me to take a photo of him sitting on an antique barbers chair, wearing a toy storm troopers helmet while playing bongo drums. "Oh mum" he said "I'm thinking like dad now. I'm thinking like a surrealist".
It was still light when we walked back along the seafront to the car. Goldie ran and jumped and climbed everything climbable and some things that didn't look as if they were. When do we stop climbing everything put in our path? He's twelve and a half, and I hope it's no time soon.
Heavenfaced - The National
Sunday, 16 June 2013
Friday, 14 June 2013
When I see you, I see me
For some years, since the children have been old enough to stay with family for a weekend. and since we've had enough money that an occasional luxury doesn't spell disaster, weekends away have been the birthday present that Snake and I have given each other.
This year, in January, when my birthday came round, I was too sad to consider going anywhere. The death of a colleague who I respected and relied upon exacerbated the wound that is the absence of a friend whose birthday it should be as well. I had no energy, no will to plan, no wish to celebrate.
Today at work, with my calendar open in front of me, I saw the unusual sight of a free weekend for both myself and Snake. No shifts, no essays to write, no promises made to friends, nowhere the children had to be that we had to get them too. I sent him a text: "that place you were looking at - weird name and mysterious things. Want to book it for next weekend?" Ten minutes later I got a text back saying "Inkpen. Booked".
I love Snake.
It's not for another week, so it's not as spontaneous as all that...not like 25 years ago when we'd grab a bag and stick a thumb out with little destination in mind. But in the context of over full lives it feels liberating to grab an opportunity where it arises. It's my birthday present. It's time to celebrate. And if I'm going to choose which day of the year to celebrate my birthday on, then I might as well choose the longest.
I See You, You See Me - The Magic Numbers
This year, in January, when my birthday came round, I was too sad to consider going anywhere. The death of a colleague who I respected and relied upon exacerbated the wound that is the absence of a friend whose birthday it should be as well. I had no energy, no will to plan, no wish to celebrate.
Today at work, with my calendar open in front of me, I saw the unusual sight of a free weekend for both myself and Snake. No shifts, no essays to write, no promises made to friends, nowhere the children had to be that we had to get them too. I sent him a text: "that place you were looking at - weird name and mysterious things. Want to book it for next weekend?" Ten minutes later I got a text back saying "Inkpen. Booked".
I love Snake.
It's not for another week, so it's not as spontaneous as all that...not like 25 years ago when we'd grab a bag and stick a thumb out with little destination in mind. But in the context of over full lives it feels liberating to grab an opportunity where it arises. It's my birthday present. It's time to celebrate. And if I'm going to choose which day of the year to celebrate my birthday on, then I might as well choose the longest.
I See You, You See Me - The Magic Numbers
Monday, 10 June 2013
I get this sudden sinking feeling of a man about to fly
We hired a van at the weekend, a big Ford thing. I loved it. We only had it for 3 or 4 hours, but I wanted to drive off into the horizon, sitting up high with that big space behind me. It reminded me of our much loved and much missed camper in which we had so many fantastic adventures - tiny adventures squeezed into spare hours, evenings with the four of us playing card games while the rain beat down on the roof, all together in that small, perfect, contained space.
We had the van in order to pick up some furniture from the house my parents are moving from. We lifted and shifted and squeezed and balanced large objects around awkward corners and through narrow doors, and for those few hours I was very simply and actively happy. Not thinking, not analysing. Getting stuff done, chaotically and loudly and cheerfully.
*************************************************************************************
One of the ways my father has always expressed affection is through anxiety. I think the lessons he'd have liked me to take into the world would probably have been - don't go near the edge, don't climb too high, don't care too much. In telling someone not to go too near the edge we are prioritising the management of our anxiety over preserving their trust in the world and in themselves. There has to be a balance of what is a reasonable amount of caution to teach. When the girl goes out for nights with friends with her bottle of coloured alcohol and her ridiculously high heels, or when Goldie keeps climbing way beyond my reach among branches that seem from my perspective, firmly rooted to the ground, too fragile to hold him, I try to hold my anxiety and to let them trust - the girl to trust her instincts and her friends, her intelligence and her self respect; the boy to trust his knowledge from years of tree climbing, his awareness of his own physical abilities.
I can clearly remember a time when I wasn't afraid of heights, when I wanted to climb and would peer over ledges. Now, my anxiety is always expressed in dreams of unstable staircases reaching up to uncertain destinations. At a conference last week, I was in a newly built tower block with an open well at it's centre. From the top floor I looked down and felt the universe tip me towards a fall over the too low ledge, I watched myself crashing through space to the concrete floor. I moved as far as I could away from the ledge and tried to be inconspicuous in my need to cling to walls; tried to concentrate on what was being said rather than reliving again and again the fall that hadn't been.
**********************************************************************************
My father has very little sight at the moment, although hopefully it will get better. He is also very tired, weakened perhaps by the shock of surgery, perhaps the effort of learning to do everything without the use of vision, perhaps the stress of an impending house move, perhaps by an as yet undiagnosed, still being investigated health problem. It's difficult to see him like that, it makes me very aware of his new fragility. He's vulnerable now, and I want to protect him.
Also, for now, he has let go of that need to manage his anxiety by controlling me. Part of my happiness at the weekend was that I was doing something practical in his presence in the way I wanted to - loudly and chaotically, without his caution, his care.
The universe is tipping, our roles are shifting. It's sad, and it's daunting, but there's some liberation in that. Some escape from an anxious, constrained childhood.
Post title from Demons by The National
We had the van in order to pick up some furniture from the house my parents are moving from. We lifted and shifted and squeezed and balanced large objects around awkward corners and through narrow doors, and for those few hours I was very simply and actively happy. Not thinking, not analysing. Getting stuff done, chaotically and loudly and cheerfully.
*************************************************************************************
One of the ways my father has always expressed affection is through anxiety. I think the lessons he'd have liked me to take into the world would probably have been - don't go near the edge, don't climb too high, don't care too much. In telling someone not to go too near the edge we are prioritising the management of our anxiety over preserving their trust in the world and in themselves. There has to be a balance of what is a reasonable amount of caution to teach. When the girl goes out for nights with friends with her bottle of coloured alcohol and her ridiculously high heels, or when Goldie keeps climbing way beyond my reach among branches that seem from my perspective, firmly rooted to the ground, too fragile to hold him, I try to hold my anxiety and to let them trust - the girl to trust her instincts and her friends, her intelligence and her self respect; the boy to trust his knowledge from years of tree climbing, his awareness of his own physical abilities.
I can clearly remember a time when I wasn't afraid of heights, when I wanted to climb and would peer over ledges. Now, my anxiety is always expressed in dreams of unstable staircases reaching up to uncertain destinations. At a conference last week, I was in a newly built tower block with an open well at it's centre. From the top floor I looked down and felt the universe tip me towards a fall over the too low ledge, I watched myself crashing through space to the concrete floor. I moved as far as I could away from the ledge and tried to be inconspicuous in my need to cling to walls; tried to concentrate on what was being said rather than reliving again and again the fall that hadn't been.
**********************************************************************************
My father has very little sight at the moment, although hopefully it will get better. He is also very tired, weakened perhaps by the shock of surgery, perhaps the effort of learning to do everything without the use of vision, perhaps the stress of an impending house move, perhaps by an as yet undiagnosed, still being investigated health problem. It's difficult to see him like that, it makes me very aware of his new fragility. He's vulnerable now, and I want to protect him.
Also, for now, he has let go of that need to manage his anxiety by controlling me. Part of my happiness at the weekend was that I was doing something practical in his presence in the way I wanted to - loudly and chaotically, without his caution, his care.
The universe is tipping, our roles are shifting. It's sad, and it's daunting, but there's some liberation in that. Some escape from an anxious, constrained childhood.
Post title from Demons by The National
Sunday, 9 June 2013
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Lead a little life today
My father is contemplating - facing up to the reality of - losing his sight . Twelve years ago the retina in his left eye detached, and he effectively lost that eye. On Tuesday night he had surgery to try and reattach the retina in his right eye. Post operatively, he is finding that he can see a little, and is taking hope from that, but it will mean major changes for him. Driving has been something he loves, and what he has done for work for part of his life. I don't imagine he will drive again. I get my insatiable need to consume books from him. Will he read again? He and my mother are moving soon. How much more difficult will that be for him with very limited vision? How much more difficult will it be for her?
I have been appreciating the visual world this week, but trying to use other senses, other tools, as well.
Walking through a strip of woodland on the edge of this estate, a few metres of wildness between the humanised and industrialised on either side. Absorbing the greenness that is a smell as well as a colour. One morning, early, a muntjack deer ran straight towards me before veering off into the undergrowth.
Listening to new music. Through Kate Pirouette I heard about Tom McRae and went with Ms M to an evening of beautiful, haunting, dreamlike songs and funny, self deprecating talk from a local-ish artist I'd never heard before. I can be a little resistant to new music, but through her real and warm blog and some comments left I was confident in Kate's taste and it opened up a new avenue, a new source of poetry and sound.
Being a little more social. I'm increasingly aware of how much of an introvert I really am. In social settings I tend to head to a wall and observe, my heart sinking a little if people approach. But at a party on Friday evening that I hadn't meant to go to I talked to a couple about music, about the perfection that is Get Lucky by Daft Punk, about Japanese psychedelic heavy metal, about Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats.
Appreciating people and atmospheres. Every year for most of my lifetime, on the first day of June, there has been music and dancing on Midsummer Common in Cambridge. We met up with an old friend and her young daughters, and wandered and ate, and smelt warm and friendly hippy smells. We talked about the biggest possible subjects while dodging between people dressed as fairies and astronauts, while queuing for candy floss and balloons, while shouting over bursts of music. Her gorgeous daughters, 5 and 7, in pretty summer dresses, reacted with the same enjoyment and acceptance to sets from a Bollywood inspired band, a bunch of folk musicians and an invigorating and slightly scary slam punk session in a small tent. As we walked back to the station, my friend told her girls "me and Caz have been friends for 22 years" and they looked up at us in unison, uncomprehending.
I'm trying to live the life I have while I have it, very aware of the way things can change.
This Is The Last Time - The National
I have been appreciating the visual world this week, but trying to use other senses, other tools, as well.
Walking through a strip of woodland on the edge of this estate, a few metres of wildness between the humanised and industrialised on either side. Absorbing the greenness that is a smell as well as a colour. One morning, early, a muntjack deer ran straight towards me before veering off into the undergrowth.
Listening to new music. Through Kate Pirouette I heard about Tom McRae and went with Ms M to an evening of beautiful, haunting, dreamlike songs and funny, self deprecating talk from a local-ish artist I'd never heard before. I can be a little resistant to new music, but through her real and warm blog and some comments left I was confident in Kate's taste and it opened up a new avenue, a new source of poetry and sound.
Being a little more social. I'm increasingly aware of how much of an introvert I really am. In social settings I tend to head to a wall and observe, my heart sinking a little if people approach. But at a party on Friday evening that I hadn't meant to go to I talked to a couple about music, about the perfection that is Get Lucky by Daft Punk, about Japanese psychedelic heavy metal, about Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats.
Appreciating people and atmospheres. Every year for most of my lifetime, on the first day of June, there has been music and dancing on Midsummer Common in Cambridge. We met up with an old friend and her young daughters, and wandered and ate, and smelt warm and friendly hippy smells. We talked about the biggest possible subjects while dodging between people dressed as fairies and astronauts, while queuing for candy floss and balloons, while shouting over bursts of music. Her gorgeous daughters, 5 and 7, in pretty summer dresses, reacted with the same enjoyment and acceptance to sets from a Bollywood inspired band, a bunch of folk musicians and an invigorating and slightly scary slam punk session in a small tent. As we walked back to the station, my friend told her girls "me and Caz have been friends for 22 years" and they looked up at us in unison, uncomprehending.
I'm trying to live the life I have while I have it, very aware of the way things can change.
This Is The Last Time - The National
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)