Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Sunday, March 29, 2020
Standards
I have some. Not many but a few. One of which is that shorts are de rigueur for the duration of BST or add an hour to the tide times time. Summer time has arrived even if the temperature leaves something to be desired.Today is another one, no different really from its predecessor, the sun is shining and we were able to attend virtual church this morning and very good it was, too.
Now, having ventured outside and hurried back the coffee is cooling at room temperature, the music is flowing at quite adequate bitrates, the lady of the house is in communicado with many both verbally and textually. No doubt extending the time after which her conscience will allow her to ignore the Wii Fit Plus no longer.
I now have zillions of albums hiding under my right index finger and in the last hour or three I've selected such new and upcoming artists as Led Zeppelin, In through the out door, the record is next door, Yes, Close to the edge, the album being an arms length away and In the court of the crimson king, the album being somewhere hereabouts. I think they're pretty good and I'd expect them to prosper. Who knows one day they may even become classics. Neil Young next, probably, he's not bad either or so I'm told. There's a stack of his albums next door, too. The cover of Harvest is pretty worn but the vinyl is perfect. I expect there will be a migration to explore some crowd called U2 and another bunch called Pink Floyd ........
All in all not bad when you are shielded for the next 11 weeks. I could explore a whole world of music of which I am totally unfamiliar or I could just play what I always play. 60 years ago my dad told me such as these would never last. I was allowed a Beatles mug and plate but never bought a record of theirs at the time. The Stones got in the way and then James Marshall Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Alice Cooper and Bob Dylan. The rest is history. Wonderful history.
Now I can listen to a world of music and I end up listening to the familiar. Love it!
New music, it's all new when your memory becomes as porous as mine has. More like meeting old friends, predictable, comforting, uplifting, satisfying. I guess that when I first heard these and their cohorts it was new music. Anyway, I've just unplugged the HDD for 120 days or whenever.
However, a slave to standards I am not. It's a lot colder than it ought to be but having put the shorts on its only right to take appropriate precautions against the chill.
It's just as well that I've got Tidal streaming in here as well, not the quality as the front room would provide but much cosier. It's only taken me an age no doubt a teenager would have done it in seconds.
Besides which we've just had another phone call from one offering to go shopping for us, our neighbours put a couple of bunches of flowers and box of chocolate on the wall and txtd the one for whom they are meant and an email has dropped in the inbox from a good friend.
Surrounded by goodness, none taken for granted, none deserved but we are thankful for all.
It's all good and we are conscious of being looked after as only an all powerful, all knowing God can look after you. Which reminds me of
Come, Thou fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.
Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I’ll begin;
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.
O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.
O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send Thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.
Robert Robinson 1735 -1790
Thursday, March 26, 2020
Coronavirus : other viruses are available.
Last Thursday wasn't good, rotteness and lethargy were in the ascendent but life goes on, at least in NZ. Whilst explaining to she who wishes to provide all I need constantly in an torrential stream of questions that all I really wanted was some good news. Within an hour it came. An email from Terry, he of NZ residence who had just had his post chemo CT scan which showed him to be all clear. Joy of joys. It was overwhelming really. I couldn't have felt more chuffed, alas my emailing skill set had become slightly beyond reach so all he got was the shortest of notes but the best message I could manage.
In the early hours I was awakened by the shake, rattle and slurp of a very much below par me. I had no idea what was going on but I was uncontrolably and violently shaking from head to toe, rattling teeth, also uncontrollable and evident slurping, it could have been rolling but was a result of so much sweat that slurping is a more apt description. I'm not sure whether she should have moored me up or put a lifejacket on but it wasn't nice.
My holder of the hand became the holder of the phone. Such is her experience that she knew exactly what was going on. Phone calls made starting at 0330, returned, temperature taken and recorded, paracetamol administered even though not due, windows opened, or closed, advice taken and acted upon. Doctors phoned, calls returned, by 1300 a van load of drugs delivered to the door, left, watched and signed for by the driver once carried in by my local drug administrator.
All of this was related to me after two or three days, not too sure but I am sure that it was about the third day when I came to and asked what the horrible stink was. It wasn't her and there's only us. It was awful. Not just bad but terrible, unbearable, unbelievable but unendurable, too. After much heaving, sighing, stretching and drug taking I eventually got into a prone position from which I expected to make the shower. It was not easy but she had elicited the offer of help from her friend, still a community nurse who may have seen me at my worst but she'd never smelt me like I was. The threat made the shower urgently indispensible.
For those who know fishing, proper fishing that is, you will know about ray slime and deckwash hoses. It was that sort of shower. It was wonderful. Being clean and totally exhausted but so worth it. Whilst abluting the being, clothing, anything within two metres of where I'd lain was removed, washed, purified, cleansed and aired. I even went downstairs for a short sojourn before returning from whence I came.
It seems I have "a" lurg, not "the" lurg. Antibiotics are now added to the rather larger egg cup of convenience, they would not have fitted in the smaller one. The pills are huge. Like the biggest I have, breaa geet monsters they are. They may not do the lurg much good, and I'm glad of that but they don't do me much good either.
They invoke a disconnect on a pretty totalitarian scale. I can see bits of me moving but the idea of my being in control of the movement is somewhat fanciful. Constantly being asked what I want .... squash ....? Yes, please. Eat? No thanks. Even when the smell of what's being cooked invades the malodourous air of this bedroom one is roused to believe that venturing down would be advantageous. The act maybe, the event somewhat less so.
Eating has become an effort too far. One morning I was woken to scrambled egg and fried bacon. Fried bacon! Fried bacon, is there anything as good? Grilled may be less messy, bunged in the oven may be easier but only fried tasted like bacon should. Only fried makes the mess that bacon can. It was lovely. I couldn't say when it was but I did realise that she must have been desperate for me to eat something. I wonder if the request for fried bacon will be met next time . . .
One upside is that intrusive pain has been somewhat muted although the whole drugs regime has been rescheduled, night time Oramorph reinforcements have been noticeably absent and paracetamol every six hours to the minute regardless of state of consciousness is a tribute to that most remarkable drug and the most remarkable administrator. All of which makes the last week a bit of a blur, disconcerting and trying to unravel the events is impossible but for the accurate record keeping of one to whom such things come naturally.
It is quite amazing how much effort is required lying down interrogating your memory, trying to affix days to events, or vice versa, albeit not exactly exciting events, details of which would make most uninteresting reading but markers nonetheless. Mostly extremely unpleasant reading, details of which would repulse anyone not a medical professional with some responsibility to this sad case.
Indeed, conversation is laboured either personal or telephonic. It's a twofold problem, the first being one of wind. I have lots, unfortunately, mostly it comes from the wrong place, is uncontrolled, unpredicatble and resembles random morse. Even though I become somewhat impervious to it all the supplier of all good things is ready with a syringe of peppermint water when it's getting out of hand. From the other end it is laboured, prone to failing, fading to barely a whisper and being very inconsistent as well as hard work. It's just not worth the bother but I try until I give up.
The other aspect of this problem is not unknown nor unprecedented but it has yet to become normal. It is that peculiar sensation of beginning a conversation and being unable to continue at anything like normal speed. I can see the words clearly in my head, actually really see them like the old Windows time screensaver bouncing around but I can't order them or summon them up at will. It's like fishing, again. I can see the quarry but I can't catch the prey. Writing is so much easier even though just typing this out is taking so long but most of the time is spent herding words. Eventually enough are coralled to get them out in order and the next lot bounce around waiting their turn but they are not patient waiters.
Then, as at this moment, the words lose their bounce, slowly fade, the mind goes blank, stopping gives pause for spelling, punctuation and grammar checks but even that gets harder and sometimes, as you must notice I just give that up, too.
Life does go on. A phone call from a mate in some distress just after being told his sister was critical in ICU up north, mid 60s. The next day a phone call from one whose father died last month to tell us his wife's dad died earlier that morning 90ish, ill for quite a while and the day after the ailing sister was no longer critical. It's what happens, we all die only the timing and causes vary.
Every day there are still cancers to be dealt with, heart attacks, strokes, traumatic events and so on. The miracle is that the NHS copes at all let alone as magnificently as it does, it still treats all it can even the Muppets who don't do as they're told, the ones who fight over toilet paper, the ones who fill trolleys with so much that they can't get it all in their cars and have to wait in their parking bay for a return trip.
But today, Thursday, the sun is shining, the clarity out of the window has invaded the mind. It feels like a degree of life has returned. I just had a read, Philip Yancey amazing blog, but he's a proper writer who just communicates the most profound ideas so simply that when I struggle to read anything a time with him always rewards. I'm told that there are a load of cards and letters awaiting my consideration, equally I've been told that they are worth reading as are the emails in my inbox.
Where would one be without the other? My other has once again endured a far worse week than I. I pray that as we pass through this last full day of antibiotics she may be every bit and maybe more relieved than I. Anything else worth knowing happened this week? Probably not!
Grace remains sufficient for the day whether we are aware of it or comatose. Grace and peace, invaluable and priceless.
Addendum. 1230. The doctor phoned as he said he would. I am one of the NHS's worst nightmares, so much so that I am not to engage in face to face meetings with anyone for 12 weeks. I'm to stay indoors. My wife is also thus constrained. The implications are only just being thought through. I have learned to be content with whatever I have was said by St.Paul. I'd say I believe it, now would seem to be the time to practice what I would not hesitate to preach. Paul could only manage with the grace of God extended to him daily. We are no different, and he was in a Roman prison not a nice house with garden, a shed, toys and for me the best company one could have.
Faith untested would be pretty worthless, would it not? Fortunately, previous testing has been hard, almost unbearable but He who took us through them will take us through the tests that lie ahead. So, life carries on but it doesn't get any easier it seems.
In the early hours I was awakened by the shake, rattle and slurp of a very much below par me. I had no idea what was going on but I was uncontrolably and violently shaking from head to toe, rattling teeth, also uncontrollable and evident slurping, it could have been rolling but was a result of so much sweat that slurping is a more apt description. I'm not sure whether she should have moored me up or put a lifejacket on but it wasn't nice.
My holder of the hand became the holder of the phone. Such is her experience that she knew exactly what was going on. Phone calls made starting at 0330, returned, temperature taken and recorded, paracetamol administered even though not due, windows opened, or closed, advice taken and acted upon. Doctors phoned, calls returned, by 1300 a van load of drugs delivered to the door, left, watched and signed for by the driver once carried in by my local drug administrator.
All of this was related to me after two or three days, not too sure but I am sure that it was about the third day when I came to and asked what the horrible stink was. It wasn't her and there's only us. It was awful. Not just bad but terrible, unbearable, unbelievable but unendurable, too. After much heaving, sighing, stretching and drug taking I eventually got into a prone position from which I expected to make the shower. It was not easy but she had elicited the offer of help from her friend, still a community nurse who may have seen me at my worst but she'd never smelt me like I was. The threat made the shower urgently indispensible.
For those who know fishing, proper fishing that is, you will know about ray slime and deckwash hoses. It was that sort of shower. It was wonderful. Being clean and totally exhausted but so worth it. Whilst abluting the being, clothing, anything within two metres of where I'd lain was removed, washed, purified, cleansed and aired. I even went downstairs for a short sojourn before returning from whence I came.
It seems I have "a" lurg, not "the" lurg. Antibiotics are now added to the rather larger egg cup of convenience, they would not have fitted in the smaller one. The pills are huge. Like the biggest I have, breaa geet monsters they are. They may not do the lurg much good, and I'm glad of that but they don't do me much good either.
They invoke a disconnect on a pretty totalitarian scale. I can see bits of me moving but the idea of my being in control of the movement is somewhat fanciful. Constantly being asked what I want .... squash ....? Yes, please. Eat? No thanks. Even when the smell of what's being cooked invades the malodourous air of this bedroom one is roused to believe that venturing down would be advantageous. The act maybe, the event somewhat less so.
Eating has become an effort too far. One morning I was woken to scrambled egg and fried bacon. Fried bacon! Fried bacon, is there anything as good? Grilled may be less messy, bunged in the oven may be easier but only fried tasted like bacon should. Only fried makes the mess that bacon can. It was lovely. I couldn't say when it was but I did realise that she must have been desperate for me to eat something. I wonder if the request for fried bacon will be met next time . . .
One upside is that intrusive pain has been somewhat muted although the whole drugs regime has been rescheduled, night time Oramorph reinforcements have been noticeably absent and paracetamol every six hours to the minute regardless of state of consciousness is a tribute to that most remarkable drug and the most remarkable administrator. All of which makes the last week a bit of a blur, disconcerting and trying to unravel the events is impossible but for the accurate record keeping of one to whom such things come naturally.
It is quite amazing how much effort is required lying down interrogating your memory, trying to affix days to events, or vice versa, albeit not exactly exciting events, details of which would make most uninteresting reading but markers nonetheless. Mostly extremely unpleasant reading, details of which would repulse anyone not a medical professional with some responsibility to this sad case.
Indeed, conversation is laboured either personal or telephonic. It's a twofold problem, the first being one of wind. I have lots, unfortunately, mostly it comes from the wrong place, is uncontrolled, unpredicatble and resembles random morse. Even though I become somewhat impervious to it all the supplier of all good things is ready with a syringe of peppermint water when it's getting out of hand. From the other end it is laboured, prone to failing, fading to barely a whisper and being very inconsistent as well as hard work. It's just not worth the bother but I try until I give up.
The other aspect of this problem is not unknown nor unprecedented but it has yet to become normal. It is that peculiar sensation of beginning a conversation and being unable to continue at anything like normal speed. I can see the words clearly in my head, actually really see them like the old Windows time screensaver bouncing around but I can't order them or summon them up at will. It's like fishing, again. I can see the quarry but I can't catch the prey. Writing is so much easier even though just typing this out is taking so long but most of the time is spent herding words. Eventually enough are coralled to get them out in order and the next lot bounce around waiting their turn but they are not patient waiters.
Then, as at this moment, the words lose their bounce, slowly fade, the mind goes blank, stopping gives pause for spelling, punctuation and grammar checks but even that gets harder and sometimes, as you must notice I just give that up, too.
Life does go on. A phone call from a mate in some distress just after being told his sister was critical in ICU up north, mid 60s. The next day a phone call from one whose father died last month to tell us his wife's dad died earlier that morning 90ish, ill for quite a while and the day after the ailing sister was no longer critical. It's what happens, we all die only the timing and causes vary.
Every day there are still cancers to be dealt with, heart attacks, strokes, traumatic events and so on. The miracle is that the NHS copes at all let alone as magnificently as it does, it still treats all it can even the Muppets who don't do as they're told, the ones who fight over toilet paper, the ones who fill trolleys with so much that they can't get it all in their cars and have to wait in their parking bay for a return trip.
But today, Thursday, the sun is shining, the clarity out of the window has invaded the mind. It feels like a degree of life has returned. I just had a read, Philip Yancey amazing blog, but he's a proper writer who just communicates the most profound ideas so simply that when I struggle to read anything a time with him always rewards. I'm told that there are a load of cards and letters awaiting my consideration, equally I've been told that they are worth reading as are the emails in my inbox.
Where would one be without the other? My other has once again endured a far worse week than I. I pray that as we pass through this last full day of antibiotics she may be every bit and maybe more relieved than I. Anything else worth knowing happened this week? Probably not!
Grace remains sufficient for the day whether we are aware of it or comatose. Grace and peace, invaluable and priceless.
Addendum. 1230. The doctor phoned as he said he would. I am one of the NHS's worst nightmares, so much so that I am not to engage in face to face meetings with anyone for 12 weeks. I'm to stay indoors. My wife is also thus constrained. The implications are only just being thought through. I have learned to be content with whatever I have was said by St.Paul. I'd say I believe it, now would seem to be the time to practice what I would not hesitate to preach. Paul could only manage with the grace of God extended to him daily. We are no different, and he was in a Roman prison not a nice house with garden, a shed, toys and for me the best company one could have.
Faith untested would be pretty worthless, would it not? Fortunately, previous testing has been hard, almost unbearable but He who took us through them will take us through the tests that lie ahead. So, life carries on but it doesn't get any easier it seems.
Saturday, March 14, 2020
The search of happiness
Thursday began well. Sensible time, no raging pain, a gentle coming to and coffee followed by rice krispies, more coffee and a nap. Thus the morn passed making way for a generous by current standards, dollop of lasagne. Followed by seconds. Unheard of in recent times but welcome. Maybe it was the fact that shadows made patterns in the garden, maybe it looked more springlike than anything seen so far this year. It was just a nice day.
Once the post lunch nap was done the thought of a Dartmoor drive appealed, a visit long overdue to see Dad. A phone call ended abruptly, as it would when words like panic, escaped, wandered off, I'll phone back were the ones left ringing in the ears.
An hour and a half, two? However long once comms were restored calm had descended and I suggested that we'd have visited but it was a bit late, now. No, come, the whole crowd's coming later. Normally I wouldn't have considered it so far from my comfort time zone but today had been a good one. We couldn't stay long as my cataract recovering better half was not happy about having to drive anywhere no matter how necessary.
A drive around the north and western edges of the moor is always a joy enhanced with the roof down but cataract recovery needs a draught and dust free environment so the roof stayed up. It was still a joy as it's almost Lexus silent and by far quicker and more comfy. Arriving, parking, slowly and carefully walking into the kitchen and coffee. Nice. Haven't visited my brother for ages. Remembering that I was there to visit dad too, I dutifully wandered into the front room. Alright? I asked. Where you from? I told him. He said he knew someone who lived there, I was relieved at that.
My brother has a Linn with a Naim and now speakers that do them justice so he put on Bob Marley, not an artist I'd choose to while away hours with but the quality of the musicianship shone through, the mastery of the recording engineers art and the cohesion of the soundstage was magnificent. Decent sound costs. Really great sound costs lots.
The irony of being sat in his front room with my dad listening to Bob Marley was not lost on me, a man who once bought me a copy of Val Doonican's greatest hits on that well known mfp label from Woolworths for Christmas when I bought Led Zeppelin. I still have both. One comes readily to hand. I can still remember Patrick McGinty, an Irishman of note, fell into a fortune and bought himself goat, says he lots of goats milk I'm sure to have me fill but when he got the nanny home he found it was a bill and so on. Doesn't quite have the ring of Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true, wanted a woman never bargained for you. Val Doonican, Robert Plant, I bet you won't read any blogs with those names in the same sentence or even the same paragraph, eh? Happier days.
Dad's tea things cleared away and someone shouted come and get it. I tried and immediately remembered that getting up from a settee is best done slowly but Bob had just shot the sheriff, swore it was in self defence and it was the deputy anyway so the moment waiting for the body to join the head was entertaining.
My brothers do's are legendary. We sit around a huge bowl centrally placed. This bowl begins with a mountain of chips rising above all else. Everyone dives in but the mountain remains constant. I don't think we ever run out of chips we just get so tired lifting them we can't raise the energy. Not just chips. Platters of breads, sliced, rolls, I don't know what else, but seeing as I can't do either any more I just watch. His other frying pan relentlessly fries eggs, beautifully, real farm ones. I can do those and then there's the ham, delicately hacked into manageable chunks and slices, artistically arranged on a platter for seconds. I can do ham too. I just can't do as much of either as I once could. I didn't have to take pills with every other mouth full either. Happier days.
I sit and watch, my brother frying, filling bowls and sandwiches, constantly switching between frying pan, chopping board and deep fat fryer, his wife busily ensuring that no one lacks anything, water, wine, coffee, whatever needs filling she's there.
Opposite me my niece what's appraising her industrially busy husband of all that transpires, or I assume that's what's happening, in between chip butties with mayo, next to her my sister asks if I've seen this photo or that one at which point an iPhone, worn as a ring is thrust to within a few millimetres of my eyes which if I had my glasses on may have been worthwhile but even if I had them I wouldn't have time to look at the photo, merely seeing it would be a struggle for one whose brain has slowed so much, next to me my brother in law recites tweets with short sharp generally disparaging comments, I keep wanting to ask who wrote that, when, to whom, why, what was next, what preceeded it and so on, context is everything but irelevant in tweets it seems. Besides there's photos of a bruised arm and an x-ray of his recently dislocated shoulder to see in between chip butties with added egg. To my left a bloodshot left eye silently asks if I've had enough, is it time to make a move, have I had this pill or that, do I need this potion yet and so on. She, too is failing to lower the chip mountain despite a degree of vigour.
I sit. I watch. I listen. I look. I enjoy. Perfect comfort, perfectly at ease, perfect in our understanding of one another, banter unchanged regardless of the technology. Happy days.
I take notice when my sister wheezes, enough, no more chips, I'm stuffed. She's not, of course, the frying may cease but the mountain remains. Over the next few minutes tired hands let chips fall onto buttered bread as experts all demonstrate the effortless construction of chip butties with an infinite variety of additions, tired hands manage chips directly to the mouth but however it is done the chip mountain gradually diminishes until finally there is the undignified scrabble for the crunchy crispy slivers left and silently even those are dispatched.
Much leaning back, breath catching before the shrapnel of the feeding processes are levered into the dishwasher and then puddings are dragged out. A monster slab of hot brownie and a large dish of pineapple upside down pudding are unwrapped. My niece notices the missing pineapple ring and has the nerve to accuse me of being responsible. Moi? As if. My sister looks up from her phone j'accuse written large in her expression. I feel happy that I didn't let them down. It seemed the right thing to do. It was nice and as long as my chunk did not include the missing ring I was happy. Custard almost floated it but there was just enough sponge to accept a dollop of cream without it sliding into yellow obscurity. Lovely. I tried a lump of brownie, too but a bloodshot eye raised questions, easily ignored. It was rich. Happy days.
Bloated, the withdrawal to the front room saw dad glance up, I hope he knew us all but vagueness overrides all else I think. I had to sit on a kitchen chair opposite him and he seemed content, at peace. To his right an absent husband was what's appraised of the latest move, next to her photos were looked at, fleetingly displayed and ignored by glasses less eyes. Next to me a bloodshot eye told me it was getting near dark and should we make a move? No. To my right tweets continued to be offered as worthy of consideration. My brother sitting next to dad thought he could squeeze in another slab of brownie and his ever attentive wife continued to fill glasses, beakers and mugs. Bloated. Happy.
The bloodshot eye asked the question, my mind wondered how long it had been since I'd driven in the dark and the tiredness of effort made itself felt. I was so happy to feel that as I'm so used to fatigue that mere tiredness is a great feeling. Tired, content, happy, it was time to go. Getting in the car I looked to turn the lights on but was a bit flummoxed. They are on, they come on automatically, you can't turn them off. Oh, yes, I recall that bit of the manual. What a silly idea. The inside looked strange, beautifully lit but we are unaccustomed to seeing it thus. Quite smart actually a very nice place to be.
Driving off gently down the hill and over the bridge back into the foreign land we call home the car glides in as close to silence as you can get. The rain spots the screen and letting them build up I was pleased to be able to select a finger to gently tap the stalk and the wipers silently swept the water to the a pillar and then to the screen scuttle. Is there anything as pointless as automatic rain sensing wipers? I think not, except automatic lights. There's something sadly pleasant about judging the density of rain drops needed to ensure that the wipers blades do their task with silent efficiency. Things like that make me happy, too. Not as happy as being in a car that glides along minor roads West of Dartmoor with effortless ease, allows such delicate control and permits such precise placement that you can start to think that you are a good driver. I'm not, the car is. You are left wondering quite how the last 30 miles were covered so soon but such is the reality of driving a car that far exceeds the ability of the driver. Were it not dark I'm sure a bloodshot eye would have noticed a satisfied grin. Dual carriageway dispensed with in silent efficiency, smooth comfort and awesome confidence inducing happiness home arrived sooner than expected.
A beer, bed and in the pre dawn gloom as I reached for the syringe I came up close to the photo of Paul and his sister as I do every day about this time. Paul smiling, his sister laughing. For the first time I can remember I was able to smile back, no tremors, no moist eyes, just overwhelming gratitude to family, for family and especially today as it's Paul's son's fourth birthday.
The last few years have seen happiness become a stranger, sometimes even feeling guilty for considering happiness something to be searched out but in the last few hours happiness has found me. Family, a bit of crant, some aspects of life as it once was and still is, in all this happiness searched me out and with the able assistance of family and the help of friends, it's found me.
Happy days. Indeed.
Once the post lunch nap was done the thought of a Dartmoor drive appealed, a visit long overdue to see Dad. A phone call ended abruptly, as it would when words like panic, escaped, wandered off, I'll phone back were the ones left ringing in the ears.
An hour and a half, two? However long once comms were restored calm had descended and I suggested that we'd have visited but it was a bit late, now. No, come, the whole crowd's coming later. Normally I wouldn't have considered it so far from my comfort time zone but today had been a good one. We couldn't stay long as my cataract recovering better half was not happy about having to drive anywhere no matter how necessary.
A drive around the north and western edges of the moor is always a joy enhanced with the roof down but cataract recovery needs a draught and dust free environment so the roof stayed up. It was still a joy as it's almost Lexus silent and by far quicker and more comfy. Arriving, parking, slowly and carefully walking into the kitchen and coffee. Nice. Haven't visited my brother for ages. Remembering that I was there to visit dad too, I dutifully wandered into the front room. Alright? I asked. Where you from? I told him. He said he knew someone who lived there, I was relieved at that.
My brother has a Linn with a Naim and now speakers that do them justice so he put on Bob Marley, not an artist I'd choose to while away hours with but the quality of the musicianship shone through, the mastery of the recording engineers art and the cohesion of the soundstage was magnificent. Decent sound costs. Really great sound costs lots.
The irony of being sat in his front room with my dad listening to Bob Marley was not lost on me, a man who once bought me a copy of Val Doonican's greatest hits on that well known mfp label from Woolworths for Christmas when I bought Led Zeppelin. I still have both. One comes readily to hand. I can still remember Patrick McGinty, an Irishman of note, fell into a fortune and bought himself goat, says he lots of goats milk I'm sure to have me fill but when he got the nanny home he found it was a bill and so on. Doesn't quite have the ring of Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true, wanted a woman never bargained for you. Val Doonican, Robert Plant, I bet you won't read any blogs with those names in the same sentence or even the same paragraph, eh? Happier days.
Dad's tea things cleared away and someone shouted come and get it. I tried and immediately remembered that getting up from a settee is best done slowly but Bob had just shot the sheriff, swore it was in self defence and it was the deputy anyway so the moment waiting for the body to join the head was entertaining.
My brothers do's are legendary. We sit around a huge bowl centrally placed. This bowl begins with a mountain of chips rising above all else. Everyone dives in but the mountain remains constant. I don't think we ever run out of chips we just get so tired lifting them we can't raise the energy. Not just chips. Platters of breads, sliced, rolls, I don't know what else, but seeing as I can't do either any more I just watch. His other frying pan relentlessly fries eggs, beautifully, real farm ones. I can do those and then there's the ham, delicately hacked into manageable chunks and slices, artistically arranged on a platter for seconds. I can do ham too. I just can't do as much of either as I once could. I didn't have to take pills with every other mouth full either. Happier days.
I sit and watch, my brother frying, filling bowls and sandwiches, constantly switching between frying pan, chopping board and deep fat fryer, his wife busily ensuring that no one lacks anything, water, wine, coffee, whatever needs filling she's there.
Opposite me my niece what's appraising her industrially busy husband of all that transpires, or I assume that's what's happening, in between chip butties with mayo, next to her my sister asks if I've seen this photo or that one at which point an iPhone, worn as a ring is thrust to within a few millimetres of my eyes which if I had my glasses on may have been worthwhile but even if I had them I wouldn't have time to look at the photo, merely seeing it would be a struggle for one whose brain has slowed so much, next to me my brother in law recites tweets with short sharp generally disparaging comments, I keep wanting to ask who wrote that, when, to whom, why, what was next, what preceeded it and so on, context is everything but irelevant in tweets it seems. Besides there's photos of a bruised arm and an x-ray of his recently dislocated shoulder to see in between chip butties with added egg. To my left a bloodshot left eye silently asks if I've had enough, is it time to make a move, have I had this pill or that, do I need this potion yet and so on. She, too is failing to lower the chip mountain despite a degree of vigour.
I sit. I watch. I listen. I look. I enjoy. Perfect comfort, perfectly at ease, perfect in our understanding of one another, banter unchanged regardless of the technology. Happy days.
I take notice when my sister wheezes, enough, no more chips, I'm stuffed. She's not, of course, the frying may cease but the mountain remains. Over the next few minutes tired hands let chips fall onto buttered bread as experts all demonstrate the effortless construction of chip butties with an infinite variety of additions, tired hands manage chips directly to the mouth but however it is done the chip mountain gradually diminishes until finally there is the undignified scrabble for the crunchy crispy slivers left and silently even those are dispatched.
Much leaning back, breath catching before the shrapnel of the feeding processes are levered into the dishwasher and then puddings are dragged out. A monster slab of hot brownie and a large dish of pineapple upside down pudding are unwrapped. My niece notices the missing pineapple ring and has the nerve to accuse me of being responsible. Moi? As if. My sister looks up from her phone j'accuse written large in her expression. I feel happy that I didn't let them down. It seemed the right thing to do. It was nice and as long as my chunk did not include the missing ring I was happy. Custard almost floated it but there was just enough sponge to accept a dollop of cream without it sliding into yellow obscurity. Lovely. I tried a lump of brownie, too but a bloodshot eye raised questions, easily ignored. It was rich. Happy days.
Bloated, the withdrawal to the front room saw dad glance up, I hope he knew us all but vagueness overrides all else I think. I had to sit on a kitchen chair opposite him and he seemed content, at peace. To his right an absent husband was what's appraised of the latest move, next to her photos were looked at, fleetingly displayed and ignored by glasses less eyes. Next to me a bloodshot eye told me it was getting near dark and should we make a move? No. To my right tweets continued to be offered as worthy of consideration. My brother sitting next to dad thought he could squeeze in another slab of brownie and his ever attentive wife continued to fill glasses, beakers and mugs. Bloated. Happy.
The bloodshot eye asked the question, my mind wondered how long it had been since I'd driven in the dark and the tiredness of effort made itself felt. I was so happy to feel that as I'm so used to fatigue that mere tiredness is a great feeling. Tired, content, happy, it was time to go. Getting in the car I looked to turn the lights on but was a bit flummoxed. They are on, they come on automatically, you can't turn them off. Oh, yes, I recall that bit of the manual. What a silly idea. The inside looked strange, beautifully lit but we are unaccustomed to seeing it thus. Quite smart actually a very nice place to be.
Driving off gently down the hill and over the bridge back into the foreign land we call home the car glides in as close to silence as you can get. The rain spots the screen and letting them build up I was pleased to be able to select a finger to gently tap the stalk and the wipers silently swept the water to the a pillar and then to the screen scuttle. Is there anything as pointless as automatic rain sensing wipers? I think not, except automatic lights. There's something sadly pleasant about judging the density of rain drops needed to ensure that the wipers blades do their task with silent efficiency. Things like that make me happy, too. Not as happy as being in a car that glides along minor roads West of Dartmoor with effortless ease, allows such delicate control and permits such precise placement that you can start to think that you are a good driver. I'm not, the car is. You are left wondering quite how the last 30 miles were covered so soon but such is the reality of driving a car that far exceeds the ability of the driver. Were it not dark I'm sure a bloodshot eye would have noticed a satisfied grin. Dual carriageway dispensed with in silent efficiency, smooth comfort and awesome confidence inducing happiness home arrived sooner than expected.
A beer, bed and in the pre dawn gloom as I reached for the syringe I came up close to the photo of Paul and his sister as I do every day about this time. Paul smiling, his sister laughing. For the first time I can remember I was able to smile back, no tremors, no moist eyes, just overwhelming gratitude to family, for family and especially today as it's Paul's son's fourth birthday.
The last few years have seen happiness become a stranger, sometimes even feeling guilty for considering happiness something to be searched out but in the last few hours happiness has found me. Family, a bit of crant, some aspects of life as it once was and still is, in all this happiness searched me out and with the able assistance of family and the help of friends, it's found me.
Happy days. Indeed.
Monday, March 09, 2020
Fake mantras, true friendship
No plans, no expectations has been a mantra of mine for a while now. Not really a mantra in that it isn't a religious oft repeated saying but it does colour the thinking in that it recognises that the place where I am is as good a place as it can be but it would be unwise to make plans and even moreso to confidently expect their positive outcome. All our friends are aware so if we say yes and don't it's OK, our intentions do not always match our desired outcome.
However, it doesn't stop me from having a go. Not often and only when considered extremely important accepting that I may fail to fulfil and fall far short of what I'd like. This last Friday the delight of my eyes had to have hers looked at and a cataract removed. For weeks I've been stating that I can take her and collect her. Initial scepticism saw me told that she'd go by bus and if I was up to it she'd call for collection.
Then word got out. One of her glorious garden centre coffee companions was going to collect and deliver at both ends of the procedure. She was not the only one offering her services but she is one you don't argue with. She is to music what Rembrandt is to light. Both know how they want the finished article presented. Not because they're better than anyone else, but they are, nor that they have more talent, although they do but because the depth in their art lies in the fact that they can see the finished painting before the first brush stroke and hear the final performance way before it takes place. This is what separates the merely good from the truly great. Their dedication to producing a work of art is what drives them and recognising that is why wise people keep out of the way and let them take you somewhere you otherwise couldn't go. They carry an authority gently yet fragility is acknowledged but not given in to. Rare character seldom seen quietly recognised humbly enjoyed.
I reluctantly, but wisely acceded to my wife's wishes to be transported by someone able, reliable and infinitely better company as well. She is a remarkable lady, one from whom I have learned so much. On one occasion she rang the doorbell just to give me a hug. No coffee, no tea, just a hug. Another occasion saw her at our door with a box of steak, really good steak, all the niceities and a bottle of red as we had just come back from Paul's at what was a very difficult time. She, too has suffered terrible family tragedy and bereavement but there she was providing, helping. Sympathizing, empathising, driven by experience but sadly reminded of it too no doubt. I remember being in awe of that lady, and still am.
For the life of me I couldn't really work out why she did so much for us. What had we ever done to merit such love and kindness? Being a bit thick it took a while but you realise that such actions have nothing to do with our goodness, merit or anything to do with us. They are a product of a person who is living out goodness, kindness and constantly giving of themselves. It is because they are so good that we are blessed through them, it is not because we deserve it, it is because it is the natural out working of a person steeped in kindness. A person whose default is to give, unconditionally and wholly but it is given, never forced, never insisted upon just gently offered, completely as a perfectly thought through whole solution.
That artistic vision once again permeates everything. The end is envisioned before most of us have even considered the beginning. The whole event was sorted, collection, delivery, collection delivery and her life so arranged as to ensure that our lives are made more comfortable, more secure, more relaxed and just better. No thought of her own needs to rearrange whatever plans may have been laid but all put in subjection to our wellbeing. But there's far more to it than that, there's the total faith that we have in her, she has said, she will do. It will be done we can rest assured. If there's any better living example of how Christianity is shown in daily life I don't know of it. Total security because of the goodness of someone else prepared to make sacrifices for someone else. Just to see it is wonderful, to experience it a privilege.
That's what friends are, people who give not because they must but because they can. People who always and ever go that yard further than they need, who give wholeheartedly and look strangely at you when your jaw drops (again) and shake their heads when thanked. Such people display the goodness of God without even knowing it. We are so fortunate to know so many, and, no I'm not worthy, nor is it deserved and that is why I'm so glad that so few are like me and so many like her.
Thus, it was my only duty to stay well enough to be able to make tea, light fire, drip drops and do whatever else was required by the casualty upon her return. I even got that so wrong.
Early night on Thursday, then. Unfortunately I was not awake for her departure, the phone rang judiciously placed alongside my ear at 1000 to tell me to take my pills and that I'd been up in the night. Nor was I awake for her return. I became aware of noises below so assuming I ought to be on coffee duty I descended the stairs at about 1530. Half way down I knew it wasn't my best move but I wobbled to the kitchen anyway and offered coffee. Alas, intentions and ability met in opposition and I was sent back to bed. Eventually an hour or so later I sallied forth for another go. It must have been OK as I was entrusted with the eye drops. Tea appeared but by 1930 I was back and comatose where I remained, I think, until 0600 ish this morning.
Plans planned, expectations diminished but even they were thwarted. All in all on the very day when I thought I could be of some use, when I thought I could in some insignificant way pay back a tiny bit it was not to be.
Thinking about it was not a happy time until it dawned on a thicket like me that even when I'm here I'm not a lot if good and she is still looked after so well, when I'm not here she will be still looked after. Friends will see to that as they respond to show God's goodness to others every day of their lives.
Thus on a day of such great significance I was rendered totally useless but even in that there was such a depth of encouragement that my mind is still swimming in the goodness of friends, the over ruling of my plans by one who knows infinitely better, indeed, the only one who can make plans sure in their execution.
As the old hymn asks, how great is the God we adore? Very.
However, it doesn't stop me from having a go. Not often and only when considered extremely important accepting that I may fail to fulfil and fall far short of what I'd like. This last Friday the delight of my eyes had to have hers looked at and a cataract removed. For weeks I've been stating that I can take her and collect her. Initial scepticism saw me told that she'd go by bus and if I was up to it she'd call for collection.
Then word got out. One of her glorious garden centre coffee companions was going to collect and deliver at both ends of the procedure. She was not the only one offering her services but she is one you don't argue with. She is to music what Rembrandt is to light. Both know how they want the finished article presented. Not because they're better than anyone else, but they are, nor that they have more talent, although they do but because the depth in their art lies in the fact that they can see the finished painting before the first brush stroke and hear the final performance way before it takes place. This is what separates the merely good from the truly great. Their dedication to producing a work of art is what drives them and recognising that is why wise people keep out of the way and let them take you somewhere you otherwise couldn't go. They carry an authority gently yet fragility is acknowledged but not given in to. Rare character seldom seen quietly recognised humbly enjoyed.
I reluctantly, but wisely acceded to my wife's wishes to be transported by someone able, reliable and infinitely better company as well. She is a remarkable lady, one from whom I have learned so much. On one occasion she rang the doorbell just to give me a hug. No coffee, no tea, just a hug. Another occasion saw her at our door with a box of steak, really good steak, all the niceities and a bottle of red as we had just come back from Paul's at what was a very difficult time. She, too has suffered terrible family tragedy and bereavement but there she was providing, helping. Sympathizing, empathising, driven by experience but sadly reminded of it too no doubt. I remember being in awe of that lady, and still am.
For the life of me I couldn't really work out why she did so much for us. What had we ever done to merit such love and kindness? Being a bit thick it took a while but you realise that such actions have nothing to do with our goodness, merit or anything to do with us. They are a product of a person who is living out goodness, kindness and constantly giving of themselves. It is because they are so good that we are blessed through them, it is not because we deserve it, it is because it is the natural out working of a person steeped in kindness. A person whose default is to give, unconditionally and wholly but it is given, never forced, never insisted upon just gently offered, completely as a perfectly thought through whole solution.
That artistic vision once again permeates everything. The end is envisioned before most of us have even considered the beginning. The whole event was sorted, collection, delivery, collection delivery and her life so arranged as to ensure that our lives are made more comfortable, more secure, more relaxed and just better. No thought of her own needs to rearrange whatever plans may have been laid but all put in subjection to our wellbeing. But there's far more to it than that, there's the total faith that we have in her, she has said, she will do. It will be done we can rest assured. If there's any better living example of how Christianity is shown in daily life I don't know of it. Total security because of the goodness of someone else prepared to make sacrifices for someone else. Just to see it is wonderful, to experience it a privilege.
That's what friends are, people who give not because they must but because they can. People who always and ever go that yard further than they need, who give wholeheartedly and look strangely at you when your jaw drops (again) and shake their heads when thanked. Such people display the goodness of God without even knowing it. We are so fortunate to know so many, and, no I'm not worthy, nor is it deserved and that is why I'm so glad that so few are like me and so many like her.
Thus, it was my only duty to stay well enough to be able to make tea, light fire, drip drops and do whatever else was required by the casualty upon her return. I even got that so wrong.
Early night on Thursday, then. Unfortunately I was not awake for her departure, the phone rang judiciously placed alongside my ear at 1000 to tell me to take my pills and that I'd been up in the night. Nor was I awake for her return. I became aware of noises below so assuming I ought to be on coffee duty I descended the stairs at about 1530. Half way down I knew it wasn't my best move but I wobbled to the kitchen anyway and offered coffee. Alas, intentions and ability met in opposition and I was sent back to bed. Eventually an hour or so later I sallied forth for another go. It must have been OK as I was entrusted with the eye drops. Tea appeared but by 1930 I was back and comatose where I remained, I think, until 0600 ish this morning.
Plans planned, expectations diminished but even they were thwarted. All in all on the very day when I thought I could be of some use, when I thought I could in some insignificant way pay back a tiny bit it was not to be.
Thinking about it was not a happy time until it dawned on a thicket like me that even when I'm here I'm not a lot if good and she is still looked after so well, when I'm not here she will be still looked after. Friends will see to that as they respond to show God's goodness to others every day of their lives.
Thus on a day of such great significance I was rendered totally useless but even in that there was such a depth of encouragement that my mind is still swimming in the goodness of friends, the over ruling of my plans by one who knows infinitely better, indeed, the only one who can make plans sure in their execution.
As the old hymn asks, how great is the God we adore? Very.
Wednesday, March 04, 2020
Scrambled eggs, head, mind
Questions, questions, questions, so many questions. Yesterday the doctors secretary phoned, questions . . . . . Whoa, hang on here's one who can answer I said handing the phone to one far better than I. Fortunately she's usually on hand but when she isn't I really struggle. It's not that I can't answer it's that I can't answer in a timeframe expected by a busy person with umpteen calls made and umpteen to make. Although they don't put any pressure on you I'm painfully aware that I take ages and then I think and need to answer again.
Then there's the response, instructions. What to do with them, where to write them, what was that, again, sorry. I'm pretty rubbish at most things but questions are my nemesis. After a very few I just give up nowadays as I can't cope and my brain gets scrambled, especially when I start to answer and no sooner started than words in the head fail to make it as far as the lips. I am so fortunate that my better half is really my better half and then some.
I'm good at facts and can cope with poo, wee and sick questions but then they ask about pain and that's it. I can explain or indicate where but degree of? On a scale of 1-10, yeah, what? 1 is just noticeable, not pain, then and 10 is as bad as. . . . what? Often they will say as bad as you've experienced.
I was a 6 or 7 yr old when I got my right index finger stuck in a power mangle as I tried to flatten my sister's monkey. My hand stopped, the mangle didn't. Nana heard, rushed to the scene, stopped the mangle, got my finger out, folded it into my hand and got someone to drive us to hospital. Loads of blood, a dozen or more stitches. Now that hurt, but Nana was there so it wasn't a big deal.
As a mid teen I put a Mustad 17 1/2 spade end hook into my palm. It wasn't done on purpose. I was on my own whiffing so I had a pound full of mackerel aboard and a whiffing line in me. Once I'd calmed down and cut the glove off with a gutting knife I shoved the hook through to expose the barb. That hurt. Boy, did that hurt. The pliers in the aft locker were as rusty as every other tool in the aft locker. I'd intended to cut off the barb and pull the hook back out. Alas, with the barb in place I had to cut off the whipped horsal and pull the spade end through. That hurt. That really hurt. A lot. Bled a bit but with a whole ocean to put your hand in it eased quite soon.
Nope, I suppose my 10 would have to be a Boxing Day tooth extraction, solo using a pair of long nosed pliers. I'd cracked the tooth on Christmas Day, by Boxing Day it was rammed with paracetamol but my sister had a party to which everyone went. Except me. By early afternoon I'd had enough. The tooth had to go and go it did, albeit in pieces. I collected them in an eggcup, bled profusely and chewed a wad of cotton wool and paracetamol. By the time the partygoers returned I was comfortably numb. A few days later the dentist complimented me on my thoroughness and described my actions with words not normally heard in a dentist's chair. I was so relieved that I cast the tooth in pewter as a keepsake, if a photo appears here you'll know I found it.
Now when asked about the degree of pain I have my references but no one asking has the same references, do they? So to answer with worse than mangling your finger but without Nana on hand, not as bad as pulling a hook through your hand or as bad as pulling your own tooth with a long nosed pliers? It only makes sense to me and as for numbers, forget it, that's why I married a mathematician.
Then they ask, how are you? It's far better than being asked how are you in yourself? That leaves me perplexed. What on earth does it mean? Have I to imagine how I would be if I was someone else? Can I answer wishing I was someone else? In myself? Silly question. Speaking as me I'm fine. Except I'm probably not.
Once the place and degree of pain is noted the rest is in the mind, is it not? The question is inextricably entwined with my mental state at that moment. How do you answer that one, and for how long will the answer remain valid?
Sometimes you feel good, the way ahead obvious if not completely straightforward. Clear minded, the route lies before me, well defined but with far too many options. Too many choices to be made, not all insignificant, not all inconsequential, not all logical, rational or tidy. At least I'm thankful that the path before me is clear, lit enough to avoid trip hazards, bright enough to ensure that a spot to catch your breath is not too far away before endeavouring to complete the course or get as far along as you can.
Other times you don't feel at your best, apprehensive about what presents itself before you, unsure, a bit wobbly. That's when you look and it's all a bit opaque. These are the days which are just such a struggle to get through. You can see enough to know there's something there, something going on, something to get involved with. The effort, though is sometimes just too much to make bothering worthwhile. Sometimes you know you should but you don't and sometimes you know you shouldn't but you do. I hate these scenarios. Again, too many choices. Too many decisions. Too easy to take the easiest option, too tempting to just give up, too important to ignore, too much time to ponder the wisdom of your action by which time another set of choices make themselves apparent. You can hope the need for input goes away but it never does, it just adds complexity to a mind that's already stretched and searching for simplicity. In the opaque world nothing is as it seems, nothing brings comfort, nothing dampens enthusiasm as quickly, nothing drains your energy as swiftly, nothing requires more effort for less reward. But it does demand a response. It is unfortunately impossible to wholly ignore.
The trouble with opacity is immediate, do I or don't I and what follows? I just can't cope with the opaque. Clarity is good and so is blank.
These are the bleugh days, the leave me alone days, the really can't be bothered days, the days when you just feel plain rotten. The days when any effort is too much. When you take refuge in the blankness that envelops you. Your mind is blank, in many ways it is like a comfort blanket. It is darkness with a degree of solidity. Impermeable. Impervious. Nothing. No idea. No choices, no decisions, no angst, no repercussions, no debate. Just blank. Calm. It may not be the best but it is an easy option. The blank mind is best left alone. Let it remain blank. Days can pass in this way. Last Friday, most of Sunday and Monday for example.
You never know what a day will be like till you get there, once there you don't know how long it'll last but that's all OK because we are promised grace for today regardless of what sort of day it is. Which is just as well because there is always the thought that one state can become another in an instant and rarely does it go from blank to clear but from clear there's only one way to go and often it does. Sometimes it even misses the interim state.
How do I feel? How can I answer in a way that anyone can understand? What does it matter, really? My friend Terry in NZ only ever asks, are you still vertical mostly and with a pulse? To which the answer is not mostly and yes.
Then there's the response, instructions. What to do with them, where to write them, what was that, again, sorry. I'm pretty rubbish at most things but questions are my nemesis. After a very few I just give up nowadays as I can't cope and my brain gets scrambled, especially when I start to answer and no sooner started than words in the head fail to make it as far as the lips. I am so fortunate that my better half is really my better half and then some.
I'm good at facts and can cope with poo, wee and sick questions but then they ask about pain and that's it. I can explain or indicate where but degree of? On a scale of 1-10, yeah, what? 1 is just noticeable, not pain, then and 10 is as bad as. . . . what? Often they will say as bad as you've experienced.
I was a 6 or 7 yr old when I got my right index finger stuck in a power mangle as I tried to flatten my sister's monkey. My hand stopped, the mangle didn't. Nana heard, rushed to the scene, stopped the mangle, got my finger out, folded it into my hand and got someone to drive us to hospital. Loads of blood, a dozen or more stitches. Now that hurt, but Nana was there so it wasn't a big deal.
As a mid teen I put a Mustad 17 1/2 spade end hook into my palm. It wasn't done on purpose. I was on my own whiffing so I had a pound full of mackerel aboard and a whiffing line in me. Once I'd calmed down and cut the glove off with a gutting knife I shoved the hook through to expose the barb. That hurt. Boy, did that hurt. The pliers in the aft locker were as rusty as every other tool in the aft locker. I'd intended to cut off the barb and pull the hook back out. Alas, with the barb in place I had to cut off the whipped horsal and pull the spade end through. That hurt. That really hurt. A lot. Bled a bit but with a whole ocean to put your hand in it eased quite soon.
Nope, I suppose my 10 would have to be a Boxing Day tooth extraction, solo using a pair of long nosed pliers. I'd cracked the tooth on Christmas Day, by Boxing Day it was rammed with paracetamol but my sister had a party to which everyone went. Except me. By early afternoon I'd had enough. The tooth had to go and go it did, albeit in pieces. I collected them in an eggcup, bled profusely and chewed a wad of cotton wool and paracetamol. By the time the partygoers returned I was comfortably numb. A few days later the dentist complimented me on my thoroughness and described my actions with words not normally heard in a dentist's chair. I was so relieved that I cast the tooth in pewter as a keepsake, if a photo appears here you'll know I found it.
Now when asked about the degree of pain I have my references but no one asking has the same references, do they? So to answer with worse than mangling your finger but without Nana on hand, not as bad as pulling a hook through your hand or as bad as pulling your own tooth with a long nosed pliers? It only makes sense to me and as for numbers, forget it, that's why I married a mathematician.
Then they ask, how are you? It's far better than being asked how are you in yourself? That leaves me perplexed. What on earth does it mean? Have I to imagine how I would be if I was someone else? Can I answer wishing I was someone else? In myself? Silly question. Speaking as me I'm fine. Except I'm probably not.
Once the place and degree of pain is noted the rest is in the mind, is it not? The question is inextricably entwined with my mental state at that moment. How do you answer that one, and for how long will the answer remain valid?
These are the bleugh days, the leave me alone days, the really can't be bothered days, the days when you just feel plain rotten. The days when any effort is too much. When you take refuge in the blankness that envelops you. Your mind is blank, in many ways it is like a comfort blanket. It is darkness with a degree of solidity. Impermeable. Impervious. Nothing. No idea. No choices, no decisions, no angst, no repercussions, no debate. Just blank. Calm. It may not be the best but it is an easy option. The blank mind is best left alone. Let it remain blank. Days can pass in this way. Last Friday, most of Sunday and Monday for example.
You never know what a day will be like till you get there, once there you don't know how long it'll last but that's all OK because we are promised grace for today regardless of what sort of day it is. Which is just as well because there is always the thought that one state can become another in an instant and rarely does it go from blank to clear but from clear there's only one way to go and often it does. Sometimes it even misses the interim state.
How do I feel? How can I answer in a way that anyone can understand? What does it matter, really? My friend Terry in NZ only ever asks, are you still vertical mostly and with a pulse? To which the answer is not mostly and yes.
Monday, March 02, 2020
Contemplating calendars
A year or three ago our calendar would be oft reflected upon, longingly gazed at, impatiently glared at and resignedly sighed at. In particular days alongside which were written such things as BRS1415ALC, BHM0610IBZ or PH 1945 Armorique Roscoff, Pont Aven, PH 1345 Santander that one only on a Sunday. Such events were legion, anticipated with increasing excitement, even involving planning and packing for one of us.
For a year or two it became the repository for hospital appointments around which everything else had to fit. Trips became noticeably absent not because they didn't happen, although flying and ferrying ceased, but because they were always a last minute event, taken as opportunity arose. But the calendar remains as it always has, a site for reminding us of what may lie ahead. In that it remains a source of inspiration, delight and eager anticipation.
We are so fortunate in life to have been the endless recipients of the company of the good and the great. I don't believe in coincidence, luck, chance or fortune nor do I believe that any experience is wasted. I do believe in what used to be called Divine Providence and it has always been that we have been exceptionally well catered for. As I've often said, gratitude just doesn't do it justice but then, what does?
From people long passed like Peggy who would look slightly sideways at me when I was speaking and with hardly a movement, and only ever once with words would appraise me of exactly how it was going. I have never forgotten those words, either. Then there was Trevor. One of life's gifts is to have known him. Always encouraging, never blindly so, always building, always wise beyond measure. Never more so than at one of life's lowest ebbs when, with his wife a life was put into context, put back together again with a gentle godliness that you don't come across very often. Just the once in my case. And then within a week or two he was taken to heaven. He was kept going long enough, just long enough to be there when I needed him. No coincidence. Not a chance of that. Another example of divine providence working out every day.
It carries on and will continue to do so. Nearly every day we are privileged to have someone visit, frequently multiples of someones. There are those who visit almost daily, local, usually retired who just pop in and, I hope, enjoy the coffee or tea. The conversation flows with ease, the gaps are comfortable and if they see me on a bad day there's tomorrow, or there has been thus far.
Then there's the occasional visitor, not always local as in on your doorstep local and often still working. It is so easy to become embarrassingly unaware of the world of work. People who are still in a rush, people who are still busy and who are aware of so much going on. It is wonderful to be visited by these as you are taken from the now familiar to what was once our experience, too. The excited rush to inform, reaquaint, reappraise, reminisce is such a joy.
There is so much going on that once you are stood back from the immediacy of life it is too easy to think that it is the same for everyone. Especially when you reconsider how real the stresses and anxieties are for those still in the crush of the daily grind. Such visitors are a very precious blessing and one is so thankful to them for taking the time from such busyness to spend it with an old bloke who isn't what he once was. Fortunately I can still make coffee and my nearest and dearest is still far more interesting than me so she is well able to add so much more to any visit than mere coffee.
Then there are those whose names go on the calendar. Those who travel some hundreds of miles just to visit us. Names that mean so much, names that once on the calendar give a date meaning. A date looked forward to like holidays once were, only more so. You can buy a holiday but you can't buy a visit from a friend. You can't force anyone to come through the front door or the back. I am in awe that anyone would drive for hours and hours just to visit us. It could be the pasty, the roast lamb or the lasagne, indeed I'd have travelled a while to visit me last weekend had I known that the red was so special, but I didn't and it was. That's the trouble knowing nothing about red, bar the colour the first sip was a wow moment. So wow that the daughter in Amsterdam this weekend had to be txtd to find out why it was so wow. Mt.Etna has a great deal to do with it as has the fact that you have to go there to get it.
That kind of visceral experience of wow is how I get whenever anyone drives so far to spend time with us. I do wish we had a reserve of Mt.Etna red to offer everyone but we haven't so I'm just thankful that they take us as we are, even if I'm rubbish the cooking will be great, the red not so special in future.
It's always telling, too, that invariably when friends phone phrases like, if you don't mind, if it's no trouble, if we won't be in the way, we won't stay long and (looking at you Rob) I can't see why anyone would want to see me . . . . They do, we do. You don't measure visits, you don't quantify them, they lift you up, you look forward to them with immense anticipation and you remember them with overwhelming gratitude and great joy but most of all you give thanks to the God of the bible, the Divine Provider for His unbridled and umerited providence.
This is divine providence, friends from miles away or just around the corner. People prepared to give up their time to share their lives with others. Even us. There are no special moments in life, just special people you share moments with.
Our calendar is oft reflected upon, longingly gazed at, impatiently glared at and resignedly sighed at. In particular days alongside which are written the names of those who mean so much.
For a year or two it became the repository for hospital appointments around which everything else had to fit. Trips became noticeably absent not because they didn't happen, although flying and ferrying ceased, but because they were always a last minute event, taken as opportunity arose. But the calendar remains as it always has, a site for reminding us of what may lie ahead. In that it remains a source of inspiration, delight and eager anticipation.
We are so fortunate in life to have been the endless recipients of the company of the good and the great. I don't believe in coincidence, luck, chance or fortune nor do I believe that any experience is wasted. I do believe in what used to be called Divine Providence and it has always been that we have been exceptionally well catered for. As I've often said, gratitude just doesn't do it justice but then, what does?
From people long passed like Peggy who would look slightly sideways at me when I was speaking and with hardly a movement, and only ever once with words would appraise me of exactly how it was going. I have never forgotten those words, either. Then there was Trevor. One of life's gifts is to have known him. Always encouraging, never blindly so, always building, always wise beyond measure. Never more so than at one of life's lowest ebbs when, with his wife a life was put into context, put back together again with a gentle godliness that you don't come across very often. Just the once in my case. And then within a week or two he was taken to heaven. He was kept going long enough, just long enough to be there when I needed him. No coincidence. Not a chance of that. Another example of divine providence working out every day.
It carries on and will continue to do so. Nearly every day we are privileged to have someone visit, frequently multiples of someones. There are those who visit almost daily, local, usually retired who just pop in and, I hope, enjoy the coffee or tea. The conversation flows with ease, the gaps are comfortable and if they see me on a bad day there's tomorrow, or there has been thus far.
Then there's the occasional visitor, not always local as in on your doorstep local and often still working. It is so easy to become embarrassingly unaware of the world of work. People who are still in a rush, people who are still busy and who are aware of so much going on. It is wonderful to be visited by these as you are taken from the now familiar to what was once our experience, too. The excited rush to inform, reaquaint, reappraise, reminisce is such a joy.
There is so much going on that once you are stood back from the immediacy of life it is too easy to think that it is the same for everyone. Especially when you reconsider how real the stresses and anxieties are for those still in the crush of the daily grind. Such visitors are a very precious blessing and one is so thankful to them for taking the time from such busyness to spend it with an old bloke who isn't what he once was. Fortunately I can still make coffee and my nearest and dearest is still far more interesting than me so she is well able to add so much more to any visit than mere coffee.
Then there are those whose names go on the calendar. Those who travel some hundreds of miles just to visit us. Names that mean so much, names that once on the calendar give a date meaning. A date looked forward to like holidays once were, only more so. You can buy a holiday but you can't buy a visit from a friend. You can't force anyone to come through the front door or the back. I am in awe that anyone would drive for hours and hours just to visit us. It could be the pasty, the roast lamb or the lasagne, indeed I'd have travelled a while to visit me last weekend had I known that the red was so special, but I didn't and it was. That's the trouble knowing nothing about red, bar the colour the first sip was a wow moment. So wow that the daughter in Amsterdam this weekend had to be txtd to find out why it was so wow. Mt.Etna has a great deal to do with it as has the fact that you have to go there to get it.
That kind of visceral experience of wow is how I get whenever anyone drives so far to spend time with us. I do wish we had a reserve of Mt.Etna red to offer everyone but we haven't so I'm just thankful that they take us as we are, even if I'm rubbish the cooking will be great, the red not so special in future.
It's always telling, too, that invariably when friends phone phrases like, if you don't mind, if it's no trouble, if we won't be in the way, we won't stay long and (looking at you Rob) I can't see why anyone would want to see me . . . . They do, we do. You don't measure visits, you don't quantify them, they lift you up, you look forward to them with immense anticipation and you remember them with overwhelming gratitude and great joy but most of all you give thanks to the God of the bible, the Divine Provider for His unbridled and umerited providence.
This is divine providence, friends from miles away or just around the corner. People prepared to give up their time to share their lives with others. Even us. There are no special moments in life, just special people you share moments with.
Our calendar is oft reflected upon, longingly gazed at, impatiently glared at and resignedly sighed at. In particular days alongside which are written the names of those who mean so much.
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