The Reckoning

I can’t remember feeling young. 

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.

Seriously?

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.

And me?

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?

 

Begin again

Image from Pixabay CC

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.

What Mum Really Wants on Mother’s Day

Mother-love

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.