The Ghost of Christmas Past

This time last year I was begging a nurse to feed my father. He'd just woken up after two days of being out cold from a seizure. We had had the resuscitate or let him go conversation.


Protocol dictated that a physio must visit to assess his ability to swallow before he could be given anything to eat or drink. On Christmas Eve, with three or four days to go before the appropriate person would be back at work, my father faced being so weakened that he would never recover.

He was more lucid than he'd been for a while and wasn't yet ready to let go of life, and we weren't ready to let go of him. She finally agreed to help. By Christmas Day he was eating well, and I was desperately grateful.

These few days were the beginning of the end. The beginning of six months of dying. When he returned to his usual hospital unit, he never walked again and said little, but he was still there. I am glad I fought for him.

I'm sad that his last Christmas was spent in strange environment with us visiting for an hour or two, trying to make everything as normal as possible. It broke my heart. It still does.

In amongst friends' talk of family and festivities, all I can do is miss him. What's going on around me feels so very alien. Life does go on, but so does loss. I not yet ready to remember him with a smile. I can only find sadness and memories of fighting a medical system, a dying body and mind, and a family still grieving. I am tired and tearful.

I hope this time next year I will be able to raise a glass to him, look back at his life and be glad he was my Dad.

Happy Christmas

Last night I saw your cousin amongst our happy band of waifs and strays. I haven't seen him since we met. And, tonight I saw Joy. She doesn't have much time for me, and I haven't seen her for months but she took me to one side to tell me what you'd told her about me. Hearing her words reminded me that it was all real.


I'm sitting in front of my laptop, typing to you, thinking about you, thinking about John Martyn and holding hands.

I fell for you in unexpected moment of madness or vulnerability or something. Something.

There you were. Flawed and temporary, and beautiful.

You made me beautiful.

Those are moments I will never forget.

So, tonight I'm thinking of you a world away, a world apart and I am grateful for whatever that was and wishing you were here, or I were there, or that you were mine.

I wish you well and a Happy Christmas.

Patronised

If another person suggests I think about going on a group singles holiday, I may be tempted to punch them.

Tommy

I have utterly indulged myself in BBC4 music documentaries that remind of what was fifteen and twenty years ago. Hearing even the first notes of particular songs transports me back to my school leaving, art college self. And I wonder what's changed, which bits are the same?


Music so powerfully part of the young adult, that memories and emotions and identity are right there with me as I listen to a snoring dachshund in my reasonably civilised surroundings, so very far from the infinitie possibilities and exploration of those days.

I'm lucky, many of those folk still travel with me, and it's good to remember where we came from, why I love those friends. I wonder why I let go of others or how we drifted.

I had a friend called Tommy. The joker, the philosopher, the musician, the pusher of boundaries. He could be found in the middle of it all, wondering if he belonged and carrying on regardless. He had a wonderful giggle and did the things I wouldn't dare to. He was also serious sometimes, exploring the world to find his place, and irreverant. A wearer of hats, and purveyor of late night conversation who always scraped through.

I was twenty when he died.

The news came in dribs and drabs. No mobile phones then, landlines engaged, local TV reports about the climbing accident and the night he spent clinging to life at the end of a rope whilst the rescue helicopter tried to reach him, his death in hospital, phone calls coming with uncertain news, no one really sure if it were true, or just too stunned to believe it, a visit to one of his close friends with no phone to deliver the news.

We were a big, broad group of friends who'd spent our holidays and weekends together at outdoor camps. They were my alternative family, still are.

We huddled together, shaken by this unimaginable loss. Suddenly life was big, and real, and scary.

It changed us.

Hospitals and flashbacks

This evening I left mum in the hospital where my father died. She's having her first hip replacement in the morning. She's scared about the anaesthetic.

It seems so routine after all we've been through these last years, but it's left me wobbly.

It was strange being back there, and hard to realise quite how tense and stressful and sad these years have been. After leaving mum tonight I wonder how did I ever get used to leaving my father there?

She's on her own, scared and worried and strange surroundings. Logically, I know she'll be fine. But, but...there's always that nagging doubt.

I didn't know how worried I was, am, and I'm left surprised. I thought I'd become numb to hospitals and sickness, perhaps I had. Having a few months' break has undone that resolve.

Questions rattle round my head. What if something happens? What if these were my last words to her? What if it's not ok? I should have said...

I just need to ride it out and know that I'll relax tomorrow once I've made the lunchtime call to check all is well.

I love her and want her to be ok.

Old Friends: Missing in Action

Sometimes it's hard not to be the grumpy single girl, and my scribblings of the past couple of years testify to that but here its is again.


I'm always delighted for my chums when they find someone new, fall in love, have kids, but it can be difficult to lose them as priorities shift. There's been a spate of folk recently who've found new love, and somewhere in the whirlwinds of their romances they neglect the people who stood by them when they were the ones reaching for the hot water bottle rather than their lover.

I'm happy enough living on my own, and having my freedom -being able to play the fiddle at 2am naked if I fancy it, or wearing bizarre combinations of cosiness as winter begins to bite, eating nothing but baked potatoes every evening for a week and indulging hours in the bath without caring about how much hot water is used.

But, as they're hanging the nursery curtains and sitting down at a table in the new restaurant, you look round for the folk who were once there to share the vestiges of the week and debate the book you've just read. You realise the numbers are dwindling and wonder what you will do do with your weekend.

I smile as I think of the proud father and friend whose man is on bended knee, and wonder if they stop to remember to keep space in their lives for the ones who helped them get there. And, who'll still be there if life doesn't turn into the dream they'd hoped for.

In the meantime, those of us left behind must huddle closer together and keep reaching out for the new.

What will the weekend bring? I don't know but, at least it may still be an adventure.

Exposed

On Sunday night I came home and typed. I typed because it's what I do when my head's too full of spinning thoughts that need straightened out. When I sit down to do this, I rarely know what's going to come. I need to unravel the threads, to clarify.

I go through fits and starts. Unlike many other bloggers, I don't write regularly for an audience, I write for me. If someone finds this place and reads, responds then so be it.

There are a very few 'real' folk who know where this place is.

When the hard things come along, I'm better at typing than I am at saying the words out loud.

On Monday morning I asked a question of the man a wrote about on Sunday night. Why? I'm not certain.

I wrote my last post to him, because it was what was in my head after a conversation that wasn't easy, had no hope of conclusion, and is likely to remain so. It then dawned on me that he may still know where this place is, having seen it once before. Did he still know how to find it?

Last night he told me he didn't, he had tried and failed to find his way back here. I'd opened the proverbial can, and today I sent the link. I'm still not sure why I did when it makes me so vulnerable and when I could have just let it drift.

Will there be consequences? I don't know.

There are risks. I doubt he'll break the confidence because by doing so, he'd be vulnerable too. The risks are exposing myself and making him upset that I have written about him. I could hide it all, but I can't un-think thoughts or re-write history. And, I don't want to.

The benefits? Well, at least it's honest. I have told my story. Perhpas he will see the good in these words, if they are read.

Do I trust him? Yes.

Do I know how he'll respond? I have absolutely no idea.

Do I regret pressing 'send'? I don't know yet.

He is a clever man, a kind man, a creative man. I think he may just understand that sometimes I struggle to say words out loud, despite my constant chatter. And, that there are other ways of expressing what fills our thoughts and souls.

The deed is done, and only time time will tell. Opening up just freaks me out a little...

Torn.

I'm sitting here crossed legged on the sofa, in clothes that are a comfort blanket, the television's blaring in the corner and its banality washes over me. I sit down to write because I don;t know what else to do. I don't know what I want to say. Whatever arrives on these pages will come from hands and heart, and I will try not to self edit. I need to write this, whatever 'this' is.


My head has been full of you this weekend. A late night call, an hour passed in seconds. In chatter and smiling and remembering fathers and in just being. Remotely.

If the past years have taught me anything, it's that being selfish and putting oneself first – living with integrity – is the thing that matters. It matters because it makes us happy. It matters because without it we can't give others happiness. I am typing because I need to look after me. I don't find it easy (Selfish - A Question).

Tonight I was excited to see you and torn. Tonight I walk away from my plans because I need to say what I need to say to you. I need to say that I don't know what to do. I need to say that I want it to stop, but I also want it more than anything.

You have a life and demons, and I have mine. Between us there is something simple.

I don't want to feel guilty, conflicted.

I want to sit with you forehead to forehead, breathing you.

All logic dictates that I should cut you off. If it were uncomplicated lust, that would be easy. We do not indulge the physical. I don't know how to let you go, but I do know that I will not come to you.

When this first started – did it start? - I just thought this was the straying eye of a man ensconced, looking to reclaim a bit of independence, soothe himself. But more than a year down the line I know it's not this. It has grown strong. I try so hard to walk away. Sometimes I can't.

I fail to make a point this evening, I just waffle words that have no direction. All do is share my internal debate. It doesn't help.

You need to figure out what it is that you want. You need to do that for yourself. I want you to be happy.

My head is full of the words of W.H. Auden. Odd what springs to mind when one's own words are not enough, too much.

I want so much to not to need you, miss you.

I type the words 'I love you' and delete them. Type, fight, delete. Type, fight, delete. Fuck.

I want to find the courage to figure out what I need. I want to be happy.

I wish that you would wrap me in your arms and keep me there, safe.

I want to lie with my head on your chest and listen to your heart beat. I want to feel your weight on me. I want this to be ordinary.

I want not to fight my feelings.

I will not ask you anything, or for anything.

Time will tell us the answer.

Dad, Dignity and Gaddafi

I walked into the kitchen at work yesterday to be greeted by newspapers whose front pages bore the image of a dying man. I knew Col. Gaddafi was dead. Late night radio and news on the way to work told the story of a tyrant's demise. However, when I saw those images that's not what I saw.


I struggled to hold back tears as I saw the images of a vulnerable, injured, weak, elderly man who was scared and whose life was slipping away.

I saw my father's final hours. I saw him lying in bed, struggling to breathe. I felt the fear of leaving him, knowing I might be leaving him to die without us holding his hands.

I'm shocked by my reaction. I am shocked that I'm likening the image of a tyrant to the man I loved so dearly.

Time and history will write the story of a selfish dictator. Libya will recover and heal.

I understand why Libya celebrates. They have won their freedom. I am angry with our press and our politicians for celebrating the death of a human being.

We demand that dictators, tyrants, cruel leaders and war criminals should treat their prisoners and people fairly. Our society subscribes to the principles human rights, and asks this of others.

Revelling in the a dying man's most private and vulnerable moments is not ok. By doing so we reduce ourselves to the cruelty of those who are evil. If we revel in the death of a man, we are no different to those who kill. We are complicit and we are hypocrites.

War, accidents, abuse, pain or other circumstances ensure that we will not all have a good end to end to life. Where it is possible, we all deserve to die with dignity.

Selfish - A Question

It's a while since anyone used the contact form on this blog, and the question below was contained in an email that had disappeared into my junk mail. Glad I found it though - thanks for the message. I hope the enquirer doesn't mind it being shared.

It's a good question, which I guess I'm now throwing open to the floor.

'I always wonder why being selfish is socially rejected. Though I see nothing wrong with it, social fabrics compel us sometimes. What are your views?'

It asks something I've not completely resolved in my own head yet. I know I need to learn to be more selfish, and I'm getting there but it doesn't sit very comfortably with me.

I'm a perpetual big sister, often worrying about what other folk want, at my own expense. Although far less now.

The problem is with not being selfish is that no one ever gets the best of you, and you don't get the best of you. The analogy which helps me explain what I mean is that of the oxygen mask. The stewards on a plane always warn you that, should an emergency happen, that you must put your own mask on first before attempting to help others.

If you don't put your own oxygen mask on first, you won't survive. Nor will those that need your help with their own masks.

So, being selfish can be a giving thing to do. Partners, family, friends and colleagues get the best of you and not the watered down, exhausted or over emotional version. Being selfish means putting your own needs and feelings out there even if they contradict those of others. It's the only way you'll ever get close to understanding and being understood. Honest, if scary, communication.

However, there's a line for me. I can't be selfish if I know it's going to damage someone else – and, I think that's where the 'social fabric' element comes into to play.

I'm not there yet, but I am learning to be selfish after all, and not feeling guilty about it!

What do you reckon?