Forgive me writing this note to you here on the blog but when we met on the beach yesterday I didn’t catch your last name, and I feel I must apologise.
I’m so sorry that I became that person yesterday. Nitro bounded up to your dog and I hurried as best I could to reach you before you recoiled from the big black Lab bullet that he is. Thankfully, you didn’t recoil. Instead, we started chatting.
Well, you clocked my tear-soaked cheeks, and you listened as we walked the dogs.
Of course at first, we talked about the dogs.
-Sorry about him running up to you like that. He hasn’t been out and off the leash in days.
-It’s alright. He’s a lovely dog.
-Yes, and he’s normally well trained and generally comes back when I call but he’s just so pent up. My husband’s in hospital.
-Oh. Is he going to be OK?
-I don’t know.
You glanced at me and saw the tears escape. I have no idea if he or we are going to be alright.
-He’s in the mental health system and they won’t give me any details about his condition.
-What? Why? Are you the next-of-kin?
-I’m his wife.
-Yeah, I know. But I’m just so tired now. If they don’t want me to know, or he doesn’t want me to know…..
-It’s hard. How long will he be in hospital for?
-I don’t know.
-You need to look after yourself. You’re burnt out. You need rest.
And then we talked some more and said goodbye and you wandered down the beach, your wings hidden inside your hoodie.
Eve, I’m so sorry I became that person who offloads on a complete stranger, but thank you so much for being there.
Day 2 in the saga of the broken leg. We have no further information. Adrenaline is still coursing through my body and I startle at anything – the cat sneezing, the dog barking, a creak on the floor. I spent most of the night willing myself to sleep, but I finally dozed off all I could dream about was all the problems and how my hands were tied.
I have never felt more vulnerable in my life.
Went to work thinking a change of scene would be good for me. A long staff meeting, the perfect time to agonise over the ifs and buts and try to process, constantly trying to process all that has happened. In my break, I returned a call from Counties Manukau Police. The officer was lovely. Supportive, kind, helpful. In fact, ALL of the officers have been incredible. Shout out to Nia who reminded me I wasn’t broken just dented at a time when I really needed it.
I raised the problem of my husband’s car which is presumably in the small regional town down south. He advised me to ring their local police and they could help me locate it. The conversation went like this:
-Hi, I’m ringing from Auckland about my husband who was admitted into XY hospital yesterday. He had a broken leg and has been moved somewhere. Could you help me locate his car for him, please?
– Your name and date of birth? (Children are born before she gets to the end of the sentence.)
I’ve been through the drill five times since Friday. Until Friday I had only once visited a police station, and that was years ago when I was a witness to a bank robbery. Now I feel like an old hand talking to the police.
I give the details and pre-empt the next question and offer up my husband’s details.
-Stop bombarding me with information.
There’s more snail pace typing as chastened I sit shaking in the meeting room. Why do I feel as if I’ve done something wrong? I answer her questions, she finds the file and then proceeds to ask the very same questions all over again. Rattled I wonder if she thinks I’m lying?
-Why can’t your husband just drive his car home?
-Well, he has this broken leg and I don’t think he can drive.
-Is it a family car?
-Well yes, it’s his car and I’m his wife. We’re married.
-Yes, yes I get that. Please wait.
For swimming camels, and Haleys’ comet’s return and the second coming and all of the above.
-Ok, the file hasn’t been updated. Where was your husband found?
-I don’t know. I don’t have any details. I think he self-admitted but I don’t know.
-And what is his condition?
-I don’t know.
-So why can’t he find the car and drive it home instead of the police locating it for you?
-Well, he has this broken leg.
-Oh, I don’t want to disclose any details about the broken leg.
This conversation goes on for twenty minutes and by the end of it, I am drained. I feel like a criminal who’s trying to do my husband harm. I know it’s the broken leg poisoning his blood but all these people, the professionals, the ones with a duty of care shouldn’t they be more aware of this? When they first handed me a pamphlet for victim support I thought it odd. I’m not a victim. Now, I understand.
Driving home the police call back and I have to say I can’t talk. The officer sounds annoyed he will have to call again, but he does.
-I am calling with regards to your husband the hospital and his broken leg.
-He has the car with him and he has taken it with him to the new location.
-But how? He has a broken leg and most probably out-of-it!
-I cannot disclose any details at all because of the privacy act but he will return the vehicle to Auckland.
How the eff is he going to do that?
-But I cannot tell you when, where or any other details. Goodbye.
It appears likely that one of two things has happened – he’s removed me from his care plan or he hasn’t been asked to sign a release form. Both are likely and I am not entitled to know which it is.
I know the Mental Health System is under tremendous stress and staff work hard for very little reward. Burnout and turnover are huge. I understand why. It is in marriages where one partner is mentally ill too! I know the clinical teams are pressured to process clients (as patients are now called) as quickly as possible. They don’t have the resources to spend time or involve the whanau. They are constantly aware of falling foul of the legislation and potential for being sued. They are themselves in survival mode. They can only focus on stabilising the client, (usually with heavy duty sedation) then a little group therapy or perhaps some mindful colouring then two days later plonk a review form in front of them, beg them for a five-star review then ship them out into the exhausted arms of their next-of-kin.
Given that 1 in 4 people will probably suffer a broken leg of some kind in their lifetime that’s a huge toll on the families. I’ve seen elderly pensioners fearful about what will happen when they die to their 40-year-old Schizophrenic son. Who will look after him then? Who will look after the huge waves of people now reaching their thirties who have been permanently mentally damaged by Meth and are now struggling with a toxic mix of addiction and mental health issues?
The current system is dehumanising and exhausting and that’s just for the families.
Imagine how desperately hopeless it must feel to those return clients who keep being failed and keep going back to be served up the same old broken treatment and are waved out the door with a hearty ‘Next!’?
In November ’17 and July ’18 our family experienced a brush with the Mental Health system in NZ. This is kinda how it went.
Ah Mrs Jeffels, great news. After a weekend that must have been most difficult for you, on account of your husband being a missing person and all that time you spent speaking to the Police, we are very pleased to be able to advise you that he is safe.
Cue relief. Some desperate grateful howling. A great deal of embarrassing snotting.
– Where is he?
-Ah well. We can tell you that this afternoon your husband acknowledged that after three days of being lost he did indeed have a broken leg and self-admitted himself into our regional hospital.
-I am beyond grateful to hear this news. (Cue – more howling and snotting.) So, how is he?
-He is safe and receiving treatment for his broken leg. He is not in great shape.
-Yes, I am aware of the broken leg. It’s the same broken leg you told me was a problem in November when you released him from Mental Health Respite, into my care. Though, I must say you missed a trick there as you didn’t hear him say that he was motivated to do away with the pain of the broken leg for good. You missed that bit because he entrusted that raw information to his wife. Along with the information that he’d out-psyched the Psych by the way. When I advised you, you released him into my care and advised me to hide all the pills and sharps in the house. For three months I had panic attacks if he was out of my presence for fear that he still wanted to do away with the broken leg pain, for good. You did follow up of course. You rang to ask him if he felt like causing himself harm. I was the one who put the sharps away and prayed for safety and desperately worked and begged for enough income to pay the bills and provide for us all. How is the broken leg now?
-Well ah, that’s tricky. You see, as he self-admitted and he didn’t sign a release form we cannot tell you much except he’s here and he has a broken leg.
-Right. When can I see him?
-Can’t tell you that.
-When will he be transferred to Auckland?
-Can’t tell you that.
-You say he’s in ‘bad shape’. What does that mean?
-Can’t tell you that.
-But he drove his car down there, where is it and can I pick it up?
-Don’t know sorry. Don’t have details.
-Can you put me through to him.
-Can I talk with the nurse who was going to call me with all the details but kinda forgot. (I know, you’re busy!).
-No. I’m not Anita so I can’t say anything. Anita’s not here right now.
-But you are aware that he has been a missing person and has been missing for three days. That the police were concerned about his safety and his ability to deal with his broken leg without medication and yet they entrusted me with the details, because y’know, I’m his wife. I’m the one who has been living this broken leg with him, day in day out in sickness and health, for the past ten years.
-Sorry. No form signed. There’s nothing I can do.
-But you are aware that this particular form of broken leg is clinically known as deceptive and sneaky and unpredictable? It lies, cheats, distorts reality? I mean, you’re a broken leg specialist, you know this, right?
-Yes. But we’ve examined him and our professional opinion is – we do not want to be held accountable for breaching patient confidentiality.
-But the police and other emergency services have acknowledged that I am the woman on the ground, the one who deals with the broken leg and all the pain and harm it causes him, me and our family, for the past ten years, why can’t you?
-No signed consent.
-Did it occur to you that he was so broken and ill and suffering in pain with the broken leg that he was not compos mentis enough to even think of signing a release form? Or perhaps the broken leg was whispering paranoid thoughts into his head. That’s happened before. I have been the bad guy when the broken leg is playing up, for the past ten years, in two countries. You’ve examined the broken leg for five minutes. I know this man, the good stuff and the bad. Despite all the crap – and believe me there’s been truckloads – you really think I can’t handle the truth and don’t deserve to be party to the information I need to care for my husband once he leaves your fine politically correct establishment?
-No form. Don’t get stroppy. We will not tolerate our staff being abused. There’s nothing I can tell you.
-So, it’s good enough for me to live under the extreme stress of this kind of broken leg, the trauma of a missing person and grave fears for his safety, and to be expected to cope and provide for the treatment and the day-to-day care of my husband and broken leg, but now that he has actually been found (thank God) and is alive I am not entitled to any information about his condition?
-No form. Sorry. It’s the rules.
And that my friends is why the mental health system is failing us as a community. You see the people on the frontline – the Mums, Dads, wives, husbands, children, brothers and sisters – we carry it all yet when we ask for the information we need to cope we are told we do not require that information. We are the broken down wine-drinking terrified ambulance at the bottom of the hill. We silently advocate, cry, love, pray for our very ill loved ones yet when it comes down to it, we are not privy to the information we need to provide our family members with our full support. We are the epitome of the nurses who clean up the shit and are never able to gain insight into the patient notes. Obviously, we wouldn’t understand them, doctor knows best.
Yet most of us know our loved one’s illnesses well. We know when it twists the truth in their heads and stirs them to fear us, or hate us or abuse us. We know when the glass turns fun-house glass and the truth is distorted. We dodge the verbal (and sometimes physical) punches and we keep going. Not because we are martyrs but because we truly love them and that’s what family does.
Beyond the social media campaigns that champion asking for help always shot in clean, warm kitchens, we are the unsung force that keeps our families going. Our kitchens are not clean, by the way. There’s dog fur on the tiles and last night’s chips left in the pan on the stove. We are tired and stressed and scared and yet no one thinks to ask us what we think is best and right for those we have sacrificed our peace, for.
When the Tvc’s and Facebook campaigns are done advocating for awareness about suicide and mental illness, we are the ones cleaning up the shit and the vomit and the drink and the mess. We are the ones who cry as we pray as we bargain for sleep. You’d think respect and access to the information we need to help our loved ones, would not be too much to ask for.
A day after the Las Vegas shooting, a good friend of mine, who had cowered at the Mandalay all night, posted a pic of herself on Facebook, and I applauded.
She’s a good-looking woman Lori, and she looks good in pics, but in this pic she looked spectacular. Strong, Resilient, Determined.
She had her war paint on.
A flash of bright red defiance carefully outlining her lips, she looked every inch the Warrior Princess. Xena would have been so proud. I was, and in the month that followed, when everything turned to custard in my own DownUnder world, I had the need to follow her example.
The day after taking my man to the hospital I woke and dressed carefully. I was reeling. My face was wan, my eyes red and bagged, but on my lips, I applied my favourite red lipstick.
In applying the lippy I was screaming to myself, to the world, to God to everyone – I will not lie down and be defeated. I am strong. (Even though I don’t feel it.) I am hopeful. (Even though I can’t always see how it will be OK in the end.)
I. Am. Brave.
And all of a sudden I realised the power behind Rosie the Riveter’s red lips.
And the power of raising a generation’s morale during World War 11 with Victory Red (Elizabeth Arden).
Perhaps, more movingly, I remembered this story about lipstick and the part it played in giving hope to the women in Bergen Belsen.
When the Allied forces freed Bergen Belsen on April 15, 1945, they were horrified by the brutal destruction. Men, women and children were dying at a rate of 500 per day. The soldiers were devastated by what they saw, and Lieutenant Colonel Mervin Willett Gonin DSO who was among the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen in 1945 said in his diary
I can give no adequate description of the Horror Camp in which my men and myself were to spend the next month of our lives. It was just a barren wilderness, as bare as a chicken run. Corpses lay everywhere, some in huge piles, sometimes they lay singly or in pairs where they had fallen. It took a little time to get used to seeing men women and children collapse as you walked by them and to restrain oneself from going to their assistance. One had to get used early to the idea that the individual just did not count. One knew that five hundred a day were dying and that five hundred a day were going on dying for weeks before anything we could do would have the slightest effect.
But after the Red Cross visited the camp – no one knows if the visit was somehow connected with the event that came after – a large supply of red lipstick was donated to the female concentration camp survivors. As Gonin says, it was a stroke of genius.
I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tattooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.
Even at the brink of destruction women used their self-expression through the application of red lipstick, to scream – we are still here. We will not simply fade away.
The Top Ten Things You Can do to Help Mental Illness sufferers
The crisis is over. The prayers and thoughts have, no doubt, been said and thought, and we are returned to normal life. Our new normal. It’s like the old normal, but if you peer closely at the window you can see the cracks – tiny, ominous cracks – in the glass pane.
Someone once said that no-one brings a casserole to the family of someone who has had a Mental Health crisis, and that has been my experience. That’s not because they don’t care, but rather they don’t know what to do. Instead, they say –
“..let me know if I can help…”
“…what can I do?”
“…you’re in my thoughts and prayers…”
All good and all appreciated. After all, who doesn’t want to be prayed for and thought of? But the other phrases are problematic, and it’s not because they are uncaring. Most often, they are said with great love and thought.
They just don’t actually help.
In saying this, I’m not trying to get at anyone. I completely understand that life is busy and demanding and people have their own shit to wade through. Believe me, I understand. I don’t doubt that people are genuine and really want to help, it’s just there are better ways of helping. Here are a few ideas of how you can help when someone you know is suffering through *Dante’s tenth circle of hell – mental illness.
1/ Don’t ask how you can help
I’ve asked this question many times myself and thought I was being kind, but I’ve just recently thought of something that might dissuade you from asking this.
When you ask the person (usually the ill one or their close relative/friend) how you can help you are actually transferring the decision-making process to that already burdened one. Hell, the sick one doesn’t even know what day of the week it is and their spouse is likely to be too concerned about real practical matters – did I feed the dog this morning? Can the kids let themselves in? Will there be cops on the road who will pull me up for having an out-of-date rego?
They don’t know how you can help! Hell, they don’t even know what they need!
2/ Be practical
If the ill one is an adult member of a family you can be sure of one thing – the family is likely suffering financially. They probably have suffered financially for quite some time as the ill one has become increasingly unable to contribute to earning. In some mental illnesses, an irrational attitude to money can take over and the ill one can end up spending the rent on library fines, or on Lotto because God told them they would win big this week, or maybe they stopped contributing to the household groceries because they thought everyone had to go on a starvation diet.
What you can do
Instead of asking if they need meals, perhaps give them a voucher for the local supermarket. This is likely more helpful than money, especially if the ill one has access to the family funds from the hospital. Or maybe offer to make a deposit into the relative’s private account – if you have access. One of the nicest things anyone has done for me was giving me some cash that I could spend on myself. Granted I spent most of it on groceries for the family, but the thought still makes me well up.
3/ Be moral support
It can be easy to forget the ones left at home. After all, they’re not ill, are they? Actually, they could very well be ill, and only just coping. Research suggests that mental illness affects everyone in the family group and that often couples match when both of them suffer a mental illness. Bummer! It is not uncommon for the Bipolar sufferer to have a clinically depressed husband, or for the Schizophrenic patient to have an Anorexic girlfriend. Birds of a feather flock together.
What you can do
For the time being the hospitalised one is getting treatment and care (we hope!) but the ones left at home are usually left to cope with an extremely difficult situation. Things that can help – take them out for the day! Not for deep and meaningful conversations but rather to a movie or for a drink somewhere nice or even for a walk in the park or beach. Do something nice for them. Or if time is lacking, send them a pedicure voucher or a massage treatment voucher – something frivolous and mood-lifting.
5/ Ditch the shaming
No one asked for this! Not the ill one, or their spouse or their family. Whilst it’s understandable that some people in the extended family can feel huge embarrassment about one of their own suffering a mental illness, it really isn’t on in this day and age. Shame helps no-one. Just as the ill one shouldn’t be told to ‘sort themselves out ‘ so to their wife or husband shouldn’t be reprimanded for feeling sad, grieving, or sorry for themselves. Shaming people who are already suffering just isn’t helpful. Stop it! Our society has come a long way from the days of Bedlam and the looney bin, we need to start being more supportive and more open of families touched by mental illness. We can all start by calling it what it is – an illness! Not a character flaw, moral failing or demonic possession.
What you can do
By all means, keep praying – everyone can do with some prayer – and thinking of them, especially if that thinking leads you to do practical things for them. Be open and honest about your own mental illness experience. Don’t give up on your friend or relative, they will get there, it just might take some time. Don’t be discouraged if they relapse. Don’t keep it a secret. Call it what it is and if that’s not possible, then be discreet. If you tell the curious that your loved one is in the hospital for treatment for a long-standing illness then they would have to be socially inept to push for more details. Let’s talk publically about mental illness, just as we talk about diabetes, cancer and broken femurs.
6/ Don’t speak
I admit it. I’ve been doing this one wrong for years. I always thought that sharing my understanding (and often, my story) with the suffering ones enhanced empathy, but reading this article blew me away. I didn’t mean to be conversationally narcissistic!
What you can do
We have two ears and one tongue for a reason. This is a very good time to employ the ears, not the tongue.
Mental illness, like divorce and cancer, is not contagious. There really is no need for the isolation ward. Whilst it’s true that some families prefer to suffer in silence and in private, others don’t need or want to be excluded from society. The same applies to the ill one when they return from the hospital. They do not need to be left alone, rather a great deal can be achieved with their return to normality. One of the most healing things we experienced as a family was spending a sunny afternoon with our neighbours, their kids and the dog, just hanging out. For a few brief hours, no one mentioned the war and it was bliss.
What you can do
Ask your friend if they’d like to join you on that trip out, or over for a BBQ. Don’t panic that the conversation will be awkward and there is no need to hide the ill one away from children, or elderly relatives. For a moment pretend they have a broken leg. Now, how ridiculous would it be to exclude them because their leg was in a cast?
8/ Don’t judge
Yes, it might be wildly inappropriate that your ill son’s wife drank a bottle of Chardonnay got messily drunk and wrote sadly passive-aggressive posts on Facebook, and that one of their kids punched the schoolyard Dennis the Menace in the nose. Inappropriate sure, but also understandable. People do weird things when they’re stressed, or grieving.
What you can do
Instead of judging (and seriously, who are you to judge?) be kind. Help them fix the mess and remind them that they are a fallible, stressed-out human who is struggling to cope. Remind them, they’re not on their own and you are there for them.
9/ Support Crew
There is this wonderful app out there called Support Crew which gathers together a posse of helpful humans and dishes out jobs they can actually do to help the family. Jobs like walking the dog, washing the car, registering the dog, making a meal, taking the kids out etc. I’ve not seen it used for Mental Illness only for families stricken by cancer or sudden death etc. but it should be used. It’s awesome. It completely takes away the need for the family to constantly ask for help. (see 1/)
10/ Don’t be obligated
It’s only natural you want to help, but if you were brutally honest with yourself, can you? Are you able to help? It seems the way of things that those who have too much on their plate end up being the helpers, and those who really could pitch in, don’t even think about it. Thing is if you go ahead and help out of your own lack and your own stressful situation that help will end up causing bitterness. Brene Brown talks about boundaries in her work and makes the salient point that if you give too much you’ll end up causing an indebtedness and eventually bitterness.
What you can do
Be realistic. What can you do that you actually want to do? Making a casserole might not be your thing right now with all those balls you got in the air, so why not schedule a coffee and cake with your friend. Or send them a take-good-care voucher. Or open your home. Or send them flowers (if they’re flower-liking folk) or chocolate or wine. Or take the kids out to play with yours. Or to school. Or make lunches for those kids. Or get Woop in for a week’s meals. Or walk the dog, wash the dog, feed the dog. Send them a card with true real tangible ‘thoughts and prayers.’ Or a Spotify Cheer Up Playlist. But whatever you choose to do, do it with love and in a way that’s mindful of your relationship with that person and what you can actually do.
So that’s my top ten things you can do to help someone and their family in a mental health crisis. Do you have any other things you’ve done that went down well? Would love to hear your thoughts on Facebook, or under this post in the comments.
*Dante didn’t mention Mental Health in his tome, but if he’d known about it he would have.
I didn’t answer. I could fill in the gaps. She would want this and that done and done well and done pronto, but there would be no further payment.
She wanted it for free. For love. Because well, we’re both women.
It would all be done because, well, women support women in business. Don’t they?
I’d love to say ‘yes, of course’ but to be honest I can’t. I’ve been in business as a self-employed entrepreneur/consultant for two decades in NZ (my home country), Australia and the UK, and during that time I attended numerous women’s networking events. I have numerous clients – all around the world in all kinds of industries and one thing remains constant – women don’t seem to take it as seriously as their male counterparts.
I’m not sure why that is, but I have a fair idea.
I started working for myself in the spare room of my little Remuera townhouse in early 1990’s when working from home meant that you’d been retrenched, or just downright fired.
I hadn’t been either. I did however long to prove myself as a businesswoman, and to make the money I ably made for big corps like Microsoft and Telecom, for myself and my family. Family. Well, yes, there was that. I wanted a family and I knew that there was no way I’d be able to have a baby working 60hrs week at Microsoft, so I left. It was incredibly hard at first but by the time I was staring at a positive pregnancy test I was signed on to one of the largest corporates in the country, albeit as a contractor working from home.
Of course, being in the IT/Telecoms industry the majority of my colleagues were male, and I found them easy to work with. They were straightforward they didn’t bullshit they set expectations and stuck to them. These men were not for turning.
Sometime after however, with my son gurgling in the background, I secured more contracts – a couple of them for female entrepreneurs. I felt we had shared experience in common. I expected they knew the challenges facing a woman business owner with a baby, working in a male-oriented industry. I expected rapport and empathy, to laugh over spilt milk on my jacket sleeve and trials of nannies and baby crying at the wrong time. I expected all this and, well, ….I expected too much.
I did not expect that they would be flighty with instructions and briefs and almost impossible to nail down. But most of all, they drove me to distraction by not paying in full on time.
I wish I could say that a great deal has changed in my twenty years in business, but sadly, it hasn’t. But why is that?
These days we celebrate the female entrepreneur, and the location independent female consultant (try and do that with your baby in the backpack!) and the female Head of Department. Though, have you noticed how many senior women tend to be childless? Do we extol the virtues of the gurus, the talking heads – all attractive and persuasive and to be fair, genuinely wanting to help – who promise that women who just follow the script will, wham bam thank you ma’am, be halfway to being a millionaire in their first year of business?
And yet, that doesn’t happen. Why do women let fellow female business owners down? Why can’t they be trusted to play according to the rules and pay according to the terms?
Why do they see your terms and conditions as general advisory and not the actual terms and conditions. And woe betide you Molly Woppy if you enforce them. If you actually down tools, or take the website down or refuse to work with them until they’ve kept the financial agreement, you’re in for no end of strife!
Aren’t they business owners too? Don’t they feel the same pain when someone doesn’t pay them and they can’t pay their rent or mortgage? Or when they sacrificed time with their children to work with clients who take four months to pay their bills?
Is it churlish of me to think sometimes that they just don’t? That so many of these women rely on their husbands/partners to pay the bills and therefore don’t really need to worry about the internet being turned off or need to come up with ingenious recipes that feature lentils to feed the family because their pantry is bare. They don’t seem to need to be paid, on time, if ever.
They have the settled married privilege of being taken care of and being able to choose whether they want to take on a contract or do the work.
They don’t need the money.
They can attend networking evenings and breakfasts and charity lunches and suffer no ill consequences or need for ROI. Their business is for those women, a hobby. Something to make them feel worthwhile and busy. One of those side gigs my Dad used to always suggest to me.
Is that why many women are so, unprofessional?
Or is it because we suffer from an excruciating need to please? Do women business owners quote low so as to not offend? Do they offer discounts and freebies to win not only the business but heart and mind? To feel validated? And because we don’t take ourselves seriously, we overlook the need to take other women business owners seriously?
Is that it? Are we a soft touch? Do we lack confidence?
I honestly don’t know but I wonder if you do. Why do we not take ourselves seriously? Why do we not cut free the clients who don’t pay, who don’t work out, who squeeze dry the ROI?
And why, oh why is it women business owners who don’t pay?
I was that kid who seemed to have an other-worldly shift about my drooped shoulders. At University I was the go-to for deep and meaningful conversations about life, the Universe and everything.
And yet now, I even type in old age into Google and I don’t get a sage old woman brimming with sense and wisdom. NO, I get that pic of a Bedouin woman, all dried out.
Dried out? And now I embarrass my children – dried out, really?
I have been wise for as long as I can remember, and that’s OK. It’s just, recently I’ve been feeling old.
It’s not about the silver wisdom streaks I have painted in fire red at the hairdressers’ every six weeks or so. It’s not because of the silver streaks across my expanding flank, or thigh. It’s not about the lack of attention…I was promised invisibility in my forties and yet I still seem to enjoy the cheeky smile or cursive eyebrow that suggests something…
No, it’s not those typical markers of age and stage. It’s these, these new-age versions, of the same.
About two months ago my 40 kg puppy (it’s a mindset, not a body frame!) thumped into me side-on and dislodged my knee cap. Amongst the doctor’s whistles and gasps, he murmured about orthopaedic surgeons and on-going physio. I feigned deafness. (An old age sign if ever there was one).
I muttered and swore all the way, the entire 200m from my car to the x-ray rooms but when the elderly gent offered a kind arm I smiled and said ‘no thanks, all good.’ The x-ray results were good and bad.
I don’t have a torn meniscus (yay) but I do have arthritis.
That means, of course, that I can never again run-off the excess from a weekend of wine and pork. Does anyone know if Pilates can have the same calorie gazumping effect?
Following the arthritis diagnosis, which was by no means a small thing, there was the continuing discussions with my Mum who has been more than a little unwell. We’re not sure how old she is – she says 78yrs, my birth certificate suggests 80 years.
Does it really matter?
What does matter is that she has become increasingly unwell. Oxygen reliant, unwell. Prayers in the 2 am dark, unwell. My elegant, vivacious, character of a Mum. And yet in the midst of the stress and the drama I haven’t reacted well. When asked to transport her to A&E I freaked. Barely breathing (me as well as her) I drove like a nutter through the Brissy traffic to the private hospital. Except, no one told me that there are two hospitals side by side in North Brisbane. I’d arrived in my mercy chariot at the wrong one. In the end, I had to wheel the patient in her chair in 26degs heat from one hospital to the other.
Surreal. And sweaty.
To be fair, I didn’t behave well. I tried, but actually, I didn’t manage to pull it off. I was not Florence Nightingale under fire. More a sweary Nurse Ratchett in need of a drink.
I felt old then.
Tired. But then, as far as I’ve observed old and tired are somewhat the same thing. Tiredness can be physical, mental, spiritual. Sometimes, it can simply be all three.
The patient recovered enough to go home and maintain her independence, as is her raison d’etre. I ring when I can. It’s not easy.
I recovered from my sprained knee, but just this past week I’ve been feeling so terribly weathered.
One child (are they really children now?) has gained a boyfriend, one a ‘proper’ job and another a tertiary future she cannot wait to begin.
This week with the wind and the rain whipping at my heart and mind I’m feeling nest-empty-useless. Oh sure, not working every hour God sends has meant that I can reach out and help those around me, and there have been a few, but in my quiet moments, I wonder ‘what next?’
What’s my mission now? Another book? Sure. But what? What next? What should I be doing?
At 49 years old I don’t feel invisible at all. Perhaps that’s because I have never relied on my physicality, my sexuality. Instead, I’ve relied on my intellectualism. But I’ve never felt physically faded because in reality I never had that physicality at all. Yet, I feel weary. Will a holiday fix it?
My toy-boy husband, six years younger doesn’t suffer the same fate. He wears his wisdom streaks like armour. He should. He’s earnt them. Life’s not been fair to him and he is no longer the carefree young man he once was. I stand by him, and yet, and yet my arthritic knee aches…
Or is it a simple truth – my kids, my parents are moving on. I am no longer the Queen of my environs. And no matter what I do, I have chin hairs and a bloody good starter-beard. I am staring down the reality of an empty nest. Me, my arthritis, exhaustion, and all.
Middle age is a bitch. And no amount of oils, and smoothies and wellness retreats will make it better.
Some women enter the menopausal age with defiance. They are proud crones. Am I? Crone is my second to least favourite c-word. There’s no respect there.
What will make a difference, is a sense of purpose. I’m looking for mine, right now. I’m fighting back the urge to grab a backpack and go save the children. Or fight for the freedom fighters, or to slip the homeless a tenner, or to simply answer the dulcet Facebook Messenger tones when one of the womb fruit need me.
I need a purpose.
Do you have yours? Tell me about it. Inspire me. I have about forty more years on this planet, what should I do with it?
Chris Cornell is dead, and my Facebook feed is full of grief. And posts offering hot cups of tea or coffee and open doors to all who harbour the same kind of desperate suicidal thoughts that plagued the rock star.
But not mine. I don’t feel sad for the man himself.
I feel sorry for Vicky, his wife.
He is gone. He is no longer here to feel sorry for. No, I feel sorry for Vicky, his wife, the one left behind to begin again.
I know how hard it can be when mental health problems worm into the heart of a family, and once lodged there in all that fleshy, juicy love and care, digs in and starts to poison it.
It’s true that I’m not familiar with the star’s music so perhaps that explains my inability to share in the public outpouring of grief. Or maybe it’s just because I am full up with sorry.
I’m sorry for the woman who lost her soul mate. I’m sorry for the days, months, years before his death, that were filled with pain and anger and frustration. For all those bitter tortured arguments that lead to tears alone on a bed wondering if he would ever return from wherever he had stormed out to.
I’m sorry for the terrifying sense of responsibility. When you’re the well one in a relationship common wisdom would have it that you are responsible for the care of the other. You analyse the spat out words. Did he or she really mean ‘I hate my life’? How much, did he mean it? Would he actually act on it?
You’re not the only one who lays the weight of responsibility directly at your feet. Our social services and our overburdened medical services do too. Oh sure, they can write the scripts and deliver the medical remedy, but it is the family who is sent straight back home with their messed-up loved one, to enact the care prescribed by the doctors in their tidy consulting rooms.
They’re the ones asked to monitor the taking of medication. To become immediate medical specialists in recognising signs of deterioration, to try and make do and mend. It’s a mental health crisis out there. So many people hurting. So many people with depression, but God forbid you or your loved one is diagnosed with the less trendy malady – bipolar or schizophrenia.
I’m sorry for the sense of loss. The happy ever after that didn’t happen. The anguish that comes from feeling there’s no way to stop the runaway train and the inevitable tragic end to the journey.
I’m sorry for the guilt. I’m sorry that no matter how hard she tried, how careful and supportive she was, it wasn’t enough to stop him. I’m sorry for her regrets. I’m sorry for her anger. And her soul-destroying guilt.
It never could be enough. We are not responsible for another adult. To ensure the quality and longevity of his life was never her responsibility, but I know she won’t hear it.
All those open doors on Facebook and all those empty tables resplendent with hot drinks and homemade biscuits are pointless hollow gestures. Damaged people don’t often scour the streets looking for open doors. It’s hard enough calling an anonymous telephone number and crying for help. It’s even harder when they tell you, that your pain or your loved one’s pain is not enough. It doesn’t merit immediate attention.
‘But if you could just pop down the road and find an open door…’
And let’s hope you don’t feel that way on a weekend when only crisis teams can help. Is it a crisis? How do you know? When they wheel his body away?
Of course, it is dreadfully sad that Chris’ last days were so tortured, that he so desperately needed help and couldn’t find it. It is tragic, but I still don’t cry for him. Funerals are never for the dead, they are for those still living but dying inside.
The helpers who tried to help.
The helpers who reached the end of their patience and kindness and compassion, and had nothing more to give from the empty shell.
The mother who couldn’t reach the son.
The friend who didn’t want to butt in.
The child who lost his Dad and he doesn’t understand.
The Facebook friend, with her well-meaning door wide open.
The wife who tried so hard and now feels this maelstrom of emotions – anger, guilt, fear, loneliness.
The ones left behind who realise just how temporary this life is. How fragile. Who did what they could. The ones who have to begin living again when they don’t know how. I feel for them with all my aching heart.
She opened the packet with considerably more care than it had been wrapped. Seven-year-old eyes watched closely as she did. Waiting. Lip bitten. Butterfly stomach heaving slightly. Mother’s Day was always stressful.
Will Mum like it?
She’d made it in the lost hours between after-school and dinner time, a time she usually filled with riding her bike to the end of the street and calling out like Tarzan so her voice echoed around the neighbourhood. If not on her bike she would watch after-school programmes on the large square TV that commandeered attention in the lounge. The Brady Bunch, My Three Sons, Worzel Gummidge. The best programming from around the world. She would watch transfixed, only moving if the sounds of the theme to Dr Who started. Then she would race to her hiding spot under the stairs where the Daleks could not reach her.
She had sacrificed these lazy after school afternoons to make this Mother’s Day present. The present itself was the best of three efforts and the product of numerous tears and yelps of frustration.
Mum peeled back the jagged strip of sellotape and opening the crumbled package, she took out a small bright red hand knitted rectangular item.
“It’s a purse for all your money!”
Mum carefully turned it over. The front featured a bright red button she’d knicked from the button drawer and cut out opening for the button to ease through. It was starting to fray.
“Do you like it?”
Mum smiled. “I love it.”
Mum leant over and planted a kiss onto dark curls. “Did you make it?”
The little girl nodded. “All by myself!”
The sound of crockery clattering interrupted the conversation and her older sister appeared at the bedroom door, arms full with a tray of toast and tea and a flower picked from the garden.
“Ah, and here’s breakfast,” Mum said with a smile that reached out like hands and pulled the daughters close to her.
“Happy Mother’s Day Mum!”.
There are only two things every single Mum wants for Mother’s Day, if not every day, and it’s not diamond bracelets, or expensive perfume, or fancy lunches out. It’s simply these two things.
Time off from the responsibility of being Mum. Time and space to just be and to mother herself, attend to herself for a time without stressing about what’s for dinner or whether there’s clean school uniform for the week ahead, or frantically trying to sort out arguments between siblings or even scheduling calls to absent grown-up children.
Time off. One whole day, each year. Two days if you count her birthday. Don’t mention Christmas, that’s not a holiday, that’s bought, wrapped, fed and delivered to the family by Mum, not Santa Claus.
The second thing is simply loving appreciation. Not expensive or extravagant displays engineered to give the effect of being seen to be loving. No, a clear expression of what being Mum means to those she takes care of. Not just from her children either. It would be ideal if the appreciation was expressed by her husband and all those others she mothers in the extended family and community.
“She’s not my Mum” shouldn’t be used as an excuse for inattention. After all, if all Mums (biological, emotional, spiritual. ALL Mums!) were to stop giving the world would be a far worse place.
The hand that rocks the cradle rocks the world, they say. If you have doubt about that consider the twisted energy currently commanding world politics, and consider this question: What would the world look like if it was instead a maternal energy?
This Mother’s Day, go tell the Mum in your life (the person who is Mum to you) how much you love and appreciate her. Consider it your contribution to changing the global mood, or at the very least, honouring the person who has been the faithful midwife to your life and dreams.
And the little red, knitted purse?
It pretty much unravelled and never held coins, but rather it held something far more precious – the simply expressed love of a small girl for her Mum.
I have a big black dog. Yes, in the flesh as well as metaphorically.
Each day I attempt to walk him around our neighbourhood, though this very rarely turns out well. In actuality, I am the hair and red cheeks at the end of the lead as Dog (with a very big D) races off to discover the sensory wonders of a leftover ham sandwich that picnickers have left behind.
He’s a good dog. A loving dog with a big tongue and a gentle mouth. He’s quite simply the largest Labrador pup I’ve ever seen, let alone welcomed onto the end of my bed. It’s not that he doesn’t have his own bed, in fact, he has two, but most nights you will find him stretched out between the husband and I snoring loudly enough to wake the dead. He is a good dog though. He is the very best lawn licking, knicker nicking pup there is, and he often teaches me things as he drags me along the suburban streets hair first.
Today was rubbish day. It was a warm but not stifling morning. Clouds sat on the horizon too content to rumble or race . I walked Nitro down the hill past the faux-castle (yes, we are a nation of funny folk) and around the corner towards the track that wends its way over the headland down to the Marina. I learnt many, many things about my neighbours today.
1/ My neighbours like wine. And Bombay Sapphire. And milk. Lots and lots of milk bottles in the recycling. Does the milk consumption ameliorate the alcoholic consumption?
2/ If one should rise in the clothes they’ve slept in (none) one does not need to pull the curtains. One should greet the sun in the altogether and as they do smile at the rubbish man and the woman with the frizz challenged hair walking the dog. I have some pretty unattractive neighbours.
3/ Dogs have a sixth, seventh and eighth sense, but it’s their ninth sense I want to focus in on. Dogs sense evil. Whether supernatural, human darkness, or rabid feline, dogs sense it. There can be no other reason why my puppy duppy stood dead still on the street and barked at a gate. If I’d let go of the leash he would have eaten that gate and spat out the bolt. He might have licked the letterbox for afters…but what was he barking at? No one was there. No one. Not a cat or dog or noxious human. What was he barking at? Resident evil. That’s my pick.
4/ Seagulls can fly, dogs can not. Shame. Suck it up buttercup. In this sucky life, there will always be seagulls, and some of us will always be Labradors.
5/ Midlife angst is alive and well and rearing to go at about 80km per hour in a 50 km zone. I’m assuming the decibel rating of his raceway scream up the road is directly inverse to the size of his manhood. Middle age sucks but please don’t kill a couple of kiddies in your quest to prove your virility.
6/ What’s wrong with people who put out ONE rubbish sack? One. One little bag. It wasn’t even full. Do these people live? Do they bleed? Are they real? One…? I’m still trying to get my head around that as I cross the street with two of my sacks and casually place them in my neighbour’s lineup. And when I nonchalantly push the jangling recycling bin out to the kerb. We have lots of jars and um, cordial bottles.
7/ Little lap dogs don’t pooh. Apparently. That’s the only explanation I have for discovering thousands of cheerio turds along my route. Their owners mustn’t notice when Todd needs a sit. Perhaps they’re checking their phone? Interesting how it’s always little poohs that aren’t plonked into doggy bags and removed. We know because it’s always the little ones that Nitro hoovers up before I have a chance to stop him.
8/ A good life is full of many little things, and in order to really squeeze the marrow out of this life, we should sniff and bite and sometimes inhale every single paspalum sprig, and every single fern. Though Nitro’s determination to sniff every single little thing means my walk around the neighbourhood takes so long I could possibly do it quicker on hands and knees than whilst walking him, he has taught me something. What if we were to stop and mindfully experience our lives instead of just marching on, how much better would our lives be?
I have a big black dog. On good days and bad days, I walk him around the carefully kept gardens of Half Moon Bay. I peer not-at-all-creepily through windows of empty houses and wonder where the people are and I puzzle at the vagaries of the weather that sweeps in off the harbour. With the help of my big Black Dog I see everything, hear everything and feel everything.
I have a big black dog, both actually and metaphorically. It’s a blessing and a curse, but at least I know I am truly alive.