twangypearl the elastic girl

[skip if feeling low]

It's never the thing you worry about, is it? It's always some other thing, waiting to trip you up. You might think you can cover yourself, as if worry was some kind of insurance policy against pain. But that is ridiculous, it turns out.

My aunt has suffered from MS for over 20 years. Her gradual decline has entered a newly awful phase this year. She's been in and out of hospital where at one point she wouldn't eat for a few days, she was so sick of being sick. My two cousins and my uncle are her wonderful, kind-hearted, dark-humoured carers, and she is amazingly good-natured and unresentful. 

So it is particularly hard for my cousins, who are only in their twenties, to discover that it is not their mother but their father who is terminally ill now. Their father, who has been such a stalwart for all these years, who seemed indestructible, with his roar of a laugh and good heart, has bowel cancer with secondaries.

For my mother, too. She is 9 years older than her brother, and when he was little, was the one to get him up in the morning, to dress him in his knitted jumpers and shorts, probably, and play with him.

I am shocked. I am shaken, and it's not even my story. It's so sad.
Words fail me.

entertaining

JB's friend and colleague plus wife/partner (depends who you ask) were to come over on Saturday for dinner.  In the midst of the mad panic culinary preparations, I rang my mother who is a well-known good "cooker" (as the kids say) to ask her how to prepare some chestnuts quickly, in time for dinner. (JB had come home with uncooked chestnuts in their shells.)

She responded:

Where did you get the chestnuts? You didn't.. did you find them in the park?

Ma. I do know you can't give people conkers for dinner.

 

sights for sore eyes

Some backstory: I am rather short on sight, blind as a potato, and when I go to the pool, the better to wave my arm around as if training for the synchronised swimming event in the Arm Olympics 2012*, I remove my glasses. I then walk/swim around in a fog, marveling at how all the other people are reduced to blobs, as if painted by an Impressionist. This is wonderfully liberating. It's hard to have prejudices if you can't see if you are swimming alongside a grey-haired man rather than a annoyingly smooth and fit young wan.

But even I could see a canoodling couple in the pool. "Ooh, brave" I thought. "You never know when a situation could arise." And even I, with my weak eyesight, could plainly see when the young fella got out of the pool that a situation had indeed reared its head.
GAH. Mortification by proxy.

The JB is back from Canada where he'd been lying around being fed grapes by servants in gold tunics, or, sitting on a panel in a conference, as he refers to it. So early Tuesday morning found me waiting for him in the arrivals hall. There were touching reunions all around, and I was becoming misty-eyed at the way we people form attachments, at our wonderfully human capacity to love.
Ah.

I got a text from the JB saying he was waiting for his bag.
"Let's run together in slow-motion when we see each other" he said.
But sadly we were too chicken, (ah, if only I were brazen, I'd like that) and we had to satisfy ourselves with a hug, suitable for public consumption. I was glad to have him back.

Meanwhile, in another county, my father is settling in back home. He still has work to do, but he's getting on well, and I think he and my mother are adjusting to this new turn of the page.
(Strange, this marriage thing, isn't it? You hitch your star to someone else's, in the name of love, on a hunch, really, but with no inkling of what might happen, and you can but hope for the best.)

Your, blinking in bemused fashion,
Twangy

*Arm-waving as recommended by my physio. We had another torture session yesterday, and this time, instead of crying, I laughed semi-hysterically. It still hurt. The spangly-eyed one twisted and levered, pummeled and pounded as if her life depended on it, but somehow I was more prepared, and it was okay (sort of). And worth it, because it does seem to be working.

fight the good fight, finish the race

So there I am yesterday morning at nine, skidding across town in the NoddyCar, to my niece's Baptism. The roads are empty, and although the weather is strangely damp and tropical, there's a satisfying back-to-school, new book, new page feel to the air, and I feel momentous and alive-alive-oh. (This has been going on a while, the good mood. I just feel happy, despite some reasons to the contrary. It's almost a physical feeling of optimism, like that tickle you get in your belly when you're excited. Is it possible that I know something I don't know? Or am I just ding-batty? Rhetorical question.)
And then everyone is in the church and we're all smiling indulgently at our lovely girl, Dazzle, who at one and a half has blossomed into the most charming and lovely person. She has a way of pointing out every dog and bird she sees, with great urgency, as if she knows you've been waiting all day to see them.
Daug! (dog) she says. And Bah! (bird). She can put her finger on her nose and your nose and identify people in photos. She looks meditatively at her shoes, when you ask her where they are. She carries a red cotton handbag with a plush Andrex puppy-daug in it. She puts the bag on her head for her entertainment and looks like a Russian. She's amazingly sweet-tempered, even when some people (ehem) jostle her, or take things from her.
And there she is, getting christened at the font, by the nice lady rector.
Fight the good fight, finish the race, says the Rector to Dazzle.
Bah! says Dazzle to the Rector.
(She fears the Rector may have missed that bird outside).
Afterwards, we all go to Brother's for a wonderful spread put on by Dazzle's mother, Flossie. It's really good. My father is there, he looks so happy and even (having got all-clear from the doctor yesterday on his swallow) has a glass of champagne and gets minutely tipsy after his 3 months involuntary detox. My mother looks tanned and well, Brother too. Flossie's cousins tell me Dazzle looks most like me, and I bask warmly in this compliment. We eat, drink and talk. Dazzle is duly and rightly celebrated.

Be as happy as you can be, Dazzle. Grow up strong and healthy. I hope mightily for the best for you.

reprieve

Well now. Where to begin? Gal.way Arts Fest. That was good. The show was in a thatched cottage in town, with tiny crooked rooms. The curator was one of Those People. You know? Those People. Who can do everything - she curates, shows, organises everyone and did I mention she does it all with calm and good grace? and is only about 25? Very impressive. We stayed in the Radisson which was a slightly futuristic and dehumanising experience. I mean, they didn't make us feel particularly special as they took our e150. And since we got back, I seem to have morphed back into Twangy The Housewife. Many many domestic and gardening chores ave been completed this week - including the installation of a gardening chest, and potting of a ton of plants and tidying and cleaning. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that, but I want to be out, in the world, moving and shaking. On the other hand, I don't, I like being at home with my plants and slugs, making art and freelancing on the side.
The constant dilemma.
Speaking of Those People, my Friend, OldFriend, she of the eight children, was on this week. In addition to her 8 CHILDREN, (three of whom are on the autism spectrum) her part-time DEGREE in PSYCHOLOGY, she and her husband are making a business proposal the ambition of which would make your head twist off with awe. They want to start a farm/riding centre for special needs children/young people. AMAZING. I am going to help her with graphics, logo and whatnot.
On the Da front, things are looking better all the time. We are cleared to take him home for lunch on Sunday. I feel like a first-time parent bringing a new-born home. He is excited to get out. As well he might be.. He talks a lot about "good behaviour" and what he can get away with, with the screws. (Okay, not that bit). I mean, he really seems to hold the view he is in rehab prison.
So things are ticking along. I feel a sense of reprieve - Bad Things happened and we survived. I am happy in a relieved way. I went for my Day 3 blood tests, and that was fine. It required some suspension of the thought process during it - you know, when you just float through, and engage the brain after? All is okay.
Your well if voluntarily brain dead,
Twangy

Pater noster

My Da is now in Rehab. (Stroke rehab, that is, not the Amy Wineh.ouse type. It's an ancient institution that used to glory in the inspiring name Hospital for the Incurables.
They didn't really go in for PR in the old days, did they?).
He's in good form. He seems really excited by the visible progress he is making. He is eating - scrambled eggs and porridge - (funnily enough, everything on his most hated list). He went to see the match in a nearby hotel yesterday too, and walking on his frame. Slowly his life is expanding beyond hospital wards.
Isn't it ironic, (doncha think), the way that by the time you get old enough to take your parents to task for making life difficult when you were a child, they've turned into someone else. My Da is now a sweet old man, who looks at you pleadingly with green eyes and likes to laugh at his own silliness. Formerly Angry Da is gone and I feel much closer to him.
He roars with laughter at the incident the other night where he became fixated with getting out of the place and, very logically, (it seemed to him), tried to get out of bed. Not surprisingly, the Escape Plan failed, he fell and the nurses had to come and pick him up.
(Turned out the sleeping pill they gave him can have give you nightmares. Huh, thanks for that, Staff. Considering he never even consented to taking it.)
I was wondering aloud if there was a pool for the patients in the place. Not for Da, interjected Brother, and we laugh. Poor Da was never too hot at swimming, even at the best of times. On one memorable occasion, he nearly drowned while trying to traverse a 6 foot stretch of water. Diane! he said. (Brother likes to act this out), I'm not going to make it! Blub, blub!
I don't know why we find this so funny. But we do.
I must gather myself to go and see the old feller now.
Your daughterly
Twangy

letter home

Hi Ma
Hope all is well and you are keeping the home fires burning. 
We've had some funny times with Flash, as Da calls Lindsay the Wanderer.
We couldn't find Da's glasses (pair One, for Reading) until they were spotted on - you guessed it - Flash. Da says he looms over him in the night which must be a bit disconcerting. Then he goes off and sets off the alarm several times in the night, despite the barricade of seats the nurses set up for him. I feel so sorry for his wife and family because he is totally changed from how he was before - he was/is very intelligent apparently. Now all he wants to do is leave. 

So poor Da is a bit tired. Joseph (of the broken neck)is really nice isn't he? I think he really does want to come and play golf - apparently the chosen month is March 2010. He seems really funny (not really sure as I only get 50% of what he says). He thinks I am a great lassie now because I fixed his telly. He is 85 so is entitled to call me a lassie. Everyone is a lassie to him I suppose. Or a laddie. He is great for his age anyway. We were all playing Who wants to be a millionaire tonight. A bit of camaraderie - sure anything to pass the time. 
We were a bit fed up when we heard the Escape may not happen on Monday. The referral may not have gone through early enough on Friday. Brother thinks it is still being processed so doubts if they'll get organised for Mon. (But sure what does he know? He only knows about containers ;)) Anyway I reckon I'll stay another night - till Monday eve. Da needs someone to provide a constant supply of clothes and information. We told the nurse he can't have that blue soap and she put a bracelet on him to warn people to use the simple stuff. I think they thought Da didn't want a bath but it was only the soap he objected to. He is very clean, our Da. Hmph!

I'll go now Ma, and have a rest after all that excitement
love
Twangy

how did I get HERE? Part II

Whoa, as the dudes say. Here I am again, in my parents' house, supervising our currently rather wet Donkey and a Half. I got back from Edinburgh late on Sunday after handing off the Pater to Brother. Brother was good. It's true he is not the best communicator and has a touch of the curmudgeon about him, in some ways, but he is Good in Crisis, and was very kind to Da, using his fatherly skills to help him on with his shoes and sit in his chair. Da was pleased to see us. We brought him for a spin in a wheelchair out to sit in the shade of a conveniently planted tree in the entrance to the hospital. Then I split, feeling hollow, to go back to Dublin on the red-eye Ryan.air flight, and somehow after a strange week at home in Dublin, I am back here now, as if spun off a wildly girating carousel. It's raining steadily and the temperature has plunged by 15 degrees. I can hear thunder, I think. Here I am again, indeed. Ma went the Lothian way last night once more - the hope is that an ambulance will be arranged to repatriate Da (yes, this is the rather dramatic term for it, though it may seem more appropriate for war criminals or recently released POWs) by ambulance sometime next week. And we are getting used to the idea of this stroke. Although a voice in my head still says, as I walk by my father's car, say, or see the vegetables he planted this year: I hope he can drive again. I hope he can garden again. And I realise how much my father is a part of everything here, that he is in every tiny blade of grass on the land, and every scrap of paper in this house. I am so sad that he is unable to walk, or smile or get up, and that he's far from home. I'm sad that he is afraid. And I'm afraid too.
It's quite amazing what people say to you. Of course I know they mean well. I say these things too, or I did. I am going to stop now, and just listen when someone needs to tell me that they are sad that something has happened to someone they love. I am not going to cheer them up with all the wonderful, positive, blessings in disguise. I am just going to bite my lip to keep all my platitudes in, and listen.

weird is the word

It's been a while. The thing is, that apart from being unhumanly busy with my work for the show, I have also been put to the pin of my collar in this whole (in)fertility dance we are doing. Poor JB has to go to the wanka.torium at the hospital tomorrow to have his boys' velocity or whatever measured. And if that wasn't enough to be going on with (which it was, lemme tell you), I have also had a nasty bout of cystitis which reduced me to a blubbering wreck last week. (Was that last week? These days are so full, and yet so dull. They feel like months going by.)
And, and, FriendL and I had a really frightening experience with a foster dog. (All day he'd been fine,  we'd walked him round the neighbourhood, played in the garden and then in the evening, I went into her kitchen and he trapped me in there, barking aggressively, guarding her with his hackles up. My heart was pounding madly. I averted my gaze like they tell you to on the Dog Whisperer and put a chair between me and him. L had to come in and put him on the lead. To sum up: Me, frightened, never so much, of a dog.
Poor L was so disappointed and demoralised by the whole fiasco. It was almost like moving a lion around the house, he had this primal presence - very frightening. in the end the German Shepherd Club people came to get him and even they managed to get bitten by him. Poor thing. They really didn't know what to do with him).
My cousin, her partner and mother came to visit. Luckily they are staying in brother's house so the responsibility for their having of fun is less. What happened to those days when we were young, when there was just so much time to talk and so much to talk about? We're so weary now, and guarded.
And and and, we went to Eindhoven last weekend to see Jo in a show. It was mild, flat and slightly foggy.

Our hotel room window was sealed up. The show was like a cross between a rave and an art show.
Look at me, I am all ravey like a young one! Jo and Ive were well, if a little tired and back-bent in Jo's case, after the rigours of the performance. We went to Dusseldorf on Sunday, on a train that raced over flat fields populated with Shetland ponies.

And read a guidebook that was hilariously poorly translated and full of strange assumptions:
Forget all those cliches about Dusseldorf shopping!
We did our outmost to unburden ourselves of the above and mooched around the Altstat and the river, and to the Schadowstrasse where Dusseldorfers window-shopped with great aplomb.
I do love a change of scene. There was another fun time we had in a biergarten with Jo and Ive. (They're such a hoot, everything is "creepy" and "weird". It's like they are in a permanent state of alienation from the world. Oh! and "random", if it's not weird it's "sooo random". I wonder if this says anything about their lack of faith in destiny? Do they feel they are really rattling around meaninglessly? How weird it must be.)
Well. Talk about meaningless and random but I fear this is about as good as it gets at the moment. 

Your faithful weirdo
Twangypearl

one thing at a time

Another week has slipped by.  This is the week that was:
the week the doctor rang, and told me all my blood tests are AOK, including the hormonals. Which is happy-making. Phew. On the other had, I still have to go for a Ultrasound to see if all is in place and no-one has moved the furniture around or changed the decor or anything, in there. It still remains to be seen if there is any male factor involved, but to that niggle, I repeat my mantra: ONE THING AT A TIME which is also my New Year's resolution. (A thing I decided in February when it became apparent that not eating in front of the telly was setting the bar a little too high this year.)
Speaking of a little too high, I am spraying the flippy bits in a flipclock with graffiti artist's paint. All in the name of art, you see, although for the life of me, I can't remember why I thought it was a good idea to take 9 flipclocks, take out the flippy bits and draw on top of them. Why, why? oh why?
Am obviously deluded.
I went to visit Spike and co last weekend. Spike has been throwing crying fits and not wanting to go to Montessori since his friend left to live in Paris. It is hard being 3.
So. In conclusion. It seems that despite my mantra and the title of this very post, I haven't learnt anything. I am skyping E (young artist friend), listening to Sinead O's You do something to me on Youtube and posting this, all at the same time. Three things at a time.
Self, you exhaust me. I am leaving you for another. Hey, they are talking about transplanting larynxes (sp?)  why not a psyche? For this one is decidedly faulty.