There but for the grace of god – an introspective

So, I’ve been ill for some time. From the beginning of December I felt off. Thought maybe I’d eaten too many Xmas cherries. Just wanted to get through the last two weeks of work before leave so slogged on, as we do.

My energy was so appalling that I resisted starting any significant projects in case I couldn’t think them through. Then it was annual leave time & off I went to Tassie. I didn’t have the kind of energy I wanted to have to spend with my family and my pain levels were severe. Still didn’t understand. Is this sounding familiar, women?

By the time I returned home, I knew something was very wrong & finally went to an emergency doctor as mine was not available. Without ordering any bloods or scans, he decided I had diverticulitis and gave me strong antibiotics. I dutifully took them. I did not get better.

The pain was so bad that I went to another GP I was familiar with (still couldn’t get hold of mine, there’ll be words about that) & told him what had happened. Even though I had had melena from before Xmas, he did not ask me their colour, order bloods or scans. His treatment made me far more ill.

I was so ill by mid January that I could barely stand without passing out, was so pasty it was shocking, nausea & throw up were my constant companions & still melena. Finally, I got hold of my GP. Finally, I was heard. He was extremely concerned and ordered bloods immediately. When he got the results he woke me the next morning telling me to call an ambulance.

I’d actually called one the day before when I found myself on the bathroom floor after my shower. (I got dressed before they came, of course.) They said if I didn’t feel right they’d take me to hospital. In my very ill state that sounded like I didn’t really need to go, so I didn’t.

The next ambos, the following morning, realised that I could barely walk, let alone step up into the ambulance & carted me away. By the time I got to hospital my haemoglobin was 54 (it can be between 121-137). I had so little haemoglobin that I had little oxygen & my poor heart was desperately struggling to feed my body what I didn’t have.

Four units of blood, multiple bags of solution, scans, bloods & two hospitals and one medical procedure later, they’d stopped the internal bleed that was losing the blood they were pouring into me & worked out a plan for healing the large ulcers caused by the anti-inflammatory medication I took for my severe arthritis. We all rolling our eyes now? Mine are.

Right now it appears to be solvable, thank god. I am so grateful to the four people whose blood I now call my own. I’m keeping it, thank you. When I am well I’m going to organise a blood drive. You never know until you really know, you know?

I’m so grateful to not have joined the angels’ chorus just yet (& yes, of course that’s where I’m going) & flummoxed at how close I came to doing so. I am also so grateful to my friends & family who sent light & love & offered help.

I’m really looking forward to feeling better. So many summer projects I haven’t got done & beaches I haven’t visited & dog walks I haven’t taken. Things to do, places to go, people to see.

A New Chair – an introspective

In a swelling ocean of blogs of health concerns and health history, I’m going under. At this point in this year, I cannot think of one more thing to do with my health. It consumes my everyday. I am what we are warned about, health wise, with all the conditions we are threatened with if we do not stick to regimes.

So, I got my recliner recovered. My big old electric recliner, that tips me back so gently, lifts my legs and allows the animals to pile on. My big old recliner that was a bit worse for wear after many naps and cats hauling themselves up. After much thinking, because that is what I do, I selected an upholstery service and decided to just do it. It was expensive but they took it apart and rebuilt it, better than before. I console myself that it is money well spent, will last for years and the colour and comfort is superb.

I’m doing it for my health, you know.

Little Doggy Hero

My little mate, Wally, died. 36 hours ago. In his sleep, his little giant loving heart gave out. He is my forever hero.

Heart failure, lungs full of fluid, enlarged liver, failing kidneys, tumour on his adrenal glands, going blind, gone deaf, tiny legs chunky with arthritis, my little hero squeezed every ounce of joy from his life, never giving up. He is the most chipper person I have ever met.

Just last week I watched him drag his little body determinately up into the garden bed to bury a chicken drumstick for later. His nose still worked, if nothing else did. He stumbled, fell back, got up, pulled himself up into the bed and buried that sucker. Satisfied, he came back in through the dog door, that was just the littlest bit too high for his lowering undercarriage and trotted off to his favourite position on the carpet under my bed.

On Sunday I took them all to Cockatoo off-leash dog park to get the sniffs and see their friends. Since we moved, the early dark after work and weather have conspired against our visits. They were all pleased to get there. He sniffed, got pats, saw old friends, made new ones and ‘played’ with the new pups. ‘Play’ consisted of tiny jumps in place and arfing at them. In his mind, it was a grand romp. The pups just looked interested and confused.

Wally was my fluffiest floozy. Pepe is actually fluffier, but Wally made no secret of his demands to be petted by all and sundry. If you didn’t notice him noticing you, he’d sit on your foot, if that didn’t work, he’d roll over to display his belly for appreciation. Occasionally I have had to prompt people that he was communicating with them. Don’t know how they resisted him, I never could.

I met Wally 9 years ago, a year and two months after my previous elderly gentleman dog, Mr. Rupert Scruffaluffagus, died. I had waited a year as I wanted to be sure I was looking for another dog person, not a replacement. It took Youngest Daughter and I two months to find him. One Friday night as I fell asleep I heard, go to the RSPCA. That’s a long way, I thought sleepily, but okay. I woke up at 7 on a Saturday morning, bright and ready. I woke the kids and off we went. I caught myself smiling on the drive and reminded myself sternly that we may not find our dog. We got there before they opened. It was adopt a senior free day. I had no idea but it was a senior I wanted. I had younger dogs and needed one near their age, not too old, not too young. I saw him straight away. He was similar in colouring to Scruf but so sad. I was intrigued immediately. While the kids went to find a staff person to let him out to meet us, I stood in front of his cage and blocked other visitors’ view, redirecting their attention to dogs further along. Finally we got to meet him. He was just the right size, just the right everything. i was besotted. We raced home to get the other dogs so they could all meet. It wasn’t love at first sight. It was friendliness all around. He didn’t play ball but he enjoyed sniffing. We loaded him up and home we went.

The best bit was when we got home. He peed inside. That wasn’t it. We went outside. My dogs rang down to the very back of the yard to bark at the dog there. It was their funnest game. Wally’s little ears and curly tail perked up and he scampered after them, as fast as his ten centimetre length legs could take him. I began the traditional voice over, “What are we doing? Oh, we are barking at this dog? Okay. Arf Arf Arf Huff huff that was fun. What are we doing now? Oh we are running over here and barking at this dog? okay Arf Arf Arf Huff huff. Who’s this coming through the little door in the fence? Oh the neighbour dogs? I can go through to their place? Alright! oh, more people, more pats! Hurrah!”

And so began his time with us. He had been the good boy of two elderly men in succession. They’d both been unable to continue to care for him. He’d been returned to the RSPCA twice. He’d never got to dog. With us he was talked to, talked for, played with, chewed bones, arfed, went for walks, got yummy food, got pats, brushed, loved, carried, petted and adored. And he made friends.

I love that my dogs have their own friends, both dog and human. Wally made even more. He had a penchant for older men still, liked but avoided children and definitely had his favourites wherever we went. There were some people he ran to meet. I was his absolute favourite, I’m glad to say. He is/ was my favourite Wally in the whole wide world. I liked to have him with me as much as possible. He had to stop sleeping in my room though.

I once dreamt that the house was full of dog poo and woke myself up to find it. After racing about the house in the middle of night and finding nothing, I realised that Wally was sleeping under my bed, farting. His farts were memorable and sometimes, to his horror, came with contents. The more ill he became, the more his bodily functions featured. On occasion he would look so shocked and guilty that I never had the heart to tell him off. I knew he would have gone outside if he could have made it. He was still a good boy.

I’ve moved twice recently. This elderly gentleman handled it with aplomb (and a bit of inside peeing). Daisy Dog showed him how to get through the new dog door and fetched him when he was too long outside or had wandered too far away on a walk. Pepe Pup kept Wally’s eyes and ears clean, whether Wally wanted it or not. I made sure he was brushed, groomed, petted, fussed over, fed, got his good boy treats morning and night with all his medications, had time with his friends, carried him to bed so I could cuddle him and just loved him to bits.

We’ve only been here two months and he already made firm friends with neighbours who walk my dogs. His preference was still for older men and he bonded quickly with the husband. They are so sad that he is gone.

Fifteen years old, Wally lived five years after his diagnosis with heart disease, then all the other ailments piling on. He was so determined to squeeze every bit of enjoyment out of his life. He was so determined to keep going no matter what. He was always ready to greet everyone happily no matter how much he hurt. He was always keen for an adventure and a treat. His teeth were awful but he hoed into his chicken drumstick every night. He thoroughly enjoyed a cat poo snack if I wasn’t quick enough. His nose was what allowed him to find his way around our new place and choose his spot. He was/ is an inspiration.

Wally is my hero. Boy, I miss him.

Dreaming, an introspective

Our minds are strange things. Especially in our dreams.

Whenever my mind is sorting fear, I dream of something terrible happening to Youngest Daughter. When I am sorting hurt and betrayal, I dream of my ex. When I am in emotional pain, I dream of small animals being hurt and feeling frantic to rescue them. All are disturbing.

Learning the symbolism of my own dreaming has assisted me in separating fact from fiction. What gets to me though is having to learn how I’m feeling through my dreams

As a survivor of abuse, I learnt early on to compartmentalise my feelings, to keep functioning. It took a great deal of effort as an adult to reintegrate myself and learn to recognise each feeling. For example, fear, hunger and nausea felt the same to me as a young woman. It took quite some work to unravel that.

Waking from a dream and recognising the feelings, doesn’t always give me the reason. I do not know why I am feeling hurt and betrayal, it just appears to be something my sleep brain is sorting. It may not even be current. Perhaps it is to do with recently moving house and sorting through memories.

I do pay attention, just not let it take over. My internal night time filing system is a mystery to my daytime logical self.

Enough pondering, things to do.

It’s time to go…

I’m selling my home.

The children and I moved here 11 years ago. In that time I have parented 5 children, ranging in age from 6 weeks to 28 years, done some yelling, crying, laughing, silliness, been afraid and fearless, became less physically able, and learnt to live on my own and love it.

There were 4 dogs and 5 cats (not counting the visiting grand kitties) at different times. There were birthday parties, round the fire parties, handbag parties and sumptuous afternoon teas. There was quiet meditation, Meetings for Worship, playing chase in the dark, hiding in The Box Thing and crazy dancing. There has been veggie gardens, fruit trees, mud slides and herb gardens. There have been experiments, art work, loud games of Uno and the occasional mishap. This house has seen a lot.

When I found this house, it was dark and gloomy and sad. I am leaving it bright and airy and full of expectation of the next family to fill it. There’s room for swings, trampolines, climbing frames and forts (we had those too). There’s room for kicking the ball or batting it, room for running around and having fun.

As I move into the next stage of my life, I wish for this house a family full of hopes, dreams and wishes. Blessed be.

The Jumbly Man – an Instrospective

I have been invited to enter one of my Jumbly Man tales for an anthology. I am so happy that someone likes him. His stories only appear on this blog and no-one has ever mentioned it before, so I stopped putting them up. There are so many of them.

Often when someone reads a piece of writing for you, they feel obliged to critique it, rather than just enjoy the characters. That’s true even of told stories. I recently told one of my short tales to a friend and she was completely baffled by it and labelled it ‘cute’. I suspect she is trapped in the idea that storytelling is just for children. It was not a child’s story I told her. I find with people like this, you have to sit back and wait for the immersion and conversion.

Told stories are significantly different to read stories. In a read story, I can picture what is happening and see it for myself. There are occasions where what is being read in the story is so intense, I have to put the book down for a time. I know not everyone experiences reading a story like that and not everyone can visualise. When you are told a story, it is mesmerising. You cannot take your gaze or your ears away. You can experience a full gamut of emotions and the intimacy of being told a story and what you visualise for yourself is entrancing. So it is for me and all of the storytellers I know. It is not the same experience as going to the theatre (fourth wall and all that). Your audience is right in front of you, you are looking into their eyes, telling the story to them. If you have not experienced storytelling as an adult, I highly recommend it.

The Jumby Tales are not told stories. Yes, I visualise them, I see him, Deirdre and all the events as I write. I know his full story to old age, even if I haven’t written it down yet. Even so, he is not a told story. One of the tales that spins off and crosses over his is though. What makes the difference? Is it that the protagonist in the told story is female? Possibly. Is it that the told story has implications for me that weave in and out of my history and identity while not actually my personal story. Maybe. It will be a written tale too, eventually. I have been working on it for two years and there is still some way to go. I hope to complete it and perform in the next year.

Adam Jumbles though, I am so pleased that someone likes him as I do. I do hope one of his stories gets into the anthology and is shared. He deserves it.

Perpetually broke, almost – an Introspective

This is a world problem. I am not complaining, I am not even shaking my head at myself. I am wondering how we manage and the strength of the political and corporate will to keep the population perpetually broke, almost.

I recently turned 55. 55! and the magic didn’t happen. I did not automatically become a financially responsible grandma. Nope, it didn’t. Sure, I pay my mortgage, bills, owings and have enough food. I have enough. Except savings, I don’t have those. I re-mortgaged last year and the bank, in it’s wisdom, offered me a mortgage that would make sure it was paid out by retirement at 65 (yes! only ten years to retirement!). However, this makes my mortgage nearly half my income. That’s a lot.

I’ve done everything you are supposed to do, reviewed my bills, taken up steady payment options, reduced my insurance costs and still I cannot make headway. Heaven forbid, I go out for a meal or to a cafe, there really isn’t extra. Or pay my rego or an extra bill? Nothing left, and I have to borrow $50 to get to my next pay. And food costs? Oh my goodness! I grow and purchase food from the Community Grocer and support other food sharing initiatives.

This is not a whinge about how badly I am off, I am not. I earn a reasonable pay and live modestly. This is a shaking of the head that if I am finding it this difficult to manage, and all my children have left home, how are others with dependants making ends meet? I struggled as a single parent and am struggling now. I am asking myself, is this really because I am hopeless with money or is this symptomatic of an economic system that foists all costs onto its people, despite the level of taxes and contributions we make?

We have politicians who are earning hundreds of thousands of dollars per year and creating a punitive society where the poor are punished. Recent data from the Rental Affordability Snapshot showed how little people on Newstart had available to survive on and that there was 0.01% of affordable housing options for them. We have elderly people turning up at our door at work, unable to pay their bills and buy food. We have people with disabilities unable to juggle finances in this terrible transition period to NDIS. We have families in our Shire going without meals every week. (12% in a Shire of 105,000 people is a lot of people going hungry.) And we have average families, like me, who no longer have capacity to save and just barely keep the starving Drop Bears from the door.

There is something very very wrong here. Very wrong indeed.

Surprise hospital visit – an Introspective

Went to the doctor this afternoon to talk about changing medications and happened to mention strange feelings I’d been having in my chest. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Here I am in hospital, awaiting tests that will probably tell me I’m fine. I admit my heart flutters, breathlessness and clammy sweats have not been the most delightful companions. However denial is my forte. I have always believed that if you deny something for long enough, it’ll give up & let you be. The fact that this has never been proven true is beside the point. I’m a wait until it can’t be denied type of woman.

There’s nothing yet but they are taking it very seriously. I did ask my GP if going to hospital could wait until morning. He gave me the hairy eyeball & just said, no. And, someone else had to drive me. I’d been driving all day! Admittedly a little gaspy and distracted but still. So here we are, waiting for the chest X-ray and blood test results.

Okay, here’s the latest, heart is okay! Excellent. They are still working on what is going on but I knew it! I win again!

Blueprints: an Introspective

One of the things that really annoys me is how things that happened so long ago still have impact now.

I understand that our foundation story is deeply routed into our brains and our smaller selves can get trapped in the ruts. It can take all our skill as learned adults to get our smaller selves out of those ruts and moving in a positive and healthy directions.

Our foundation stories keep coming up throughout our lives in our various interactions and experiences, as they are our blueprints and how we recognise our relationships. Changing the blueprints is a lifetime of work.

It annoys me that things my adoptive mother did so many decades ago can still have impact. She’s ancient. I’m well and truly middle-aged. I have a deep seated anger toward her that I rarely touch. I also have deep seated pain that I let go and let go and let go.

I have been through periods with my own adult children where they have been busy separating and blaming. I understand that this is a process we all go through. I am grateful that they have matured and we have settled into adult relationships that are mutually supportive. I did not do to them what my mother did to me and my siblings.

What happens when your parent is the cause of significant damage for you? When they put you into such appalling situations of abuse that the blueprints are disastrous? Those blueprints may never be able to be altered. They get shelved. They get dusty. They get frayed and torn at the edges. They are still there.

I have no resolution for this, I’m just irritated. I cannot allow myself to even think about my mother. It makes me sad, especially when I consider what I have with my girls, whom I adore. They are truly wonderful people (and yes, I know I am biased). I wish my mother thought that of me.

And therein lies the niggling doubt. No matter how much I appreciate myself and am grateful for my resilience and strength, the foundation person in my life does not consider me a person of worth. There it is, that thread of doubt that it might be true.

Ahh, now that I know what it is that taints my blueprints, maybe I can get them off the shelf and find those threads and erase them.

My artwork on my skin: an Introspective

At the age of fifty I realised that the long desired tattoo had not been etched upon my skin because I hadn’t drawn it yet.

This was a revelation. I had started drawing and painting again to soothe my mind and develop skills to illustrate my own stories. I had already e-published one of my stories, having purchased photographs from a skilled wildlife photographer. I decided I wanted to do my own illustrations and pencils grew from my hands.

I doodle all the time, if I am not using my hands for anything else. It seems to be a point of fascination in meetings at work, with the mistaken belief that I am not listening, until I say something precisely on point. Doodling keeps my anxiety, at being in a room full of people, at bay. It keeps my “busy mind” occupied, so I can focus on the discussion. More on doodling another time

When my drawing and thoughts of tattoos coincided, I realised that I needed to draw my own tattoos. I had always wanted a tattoo but never liked anyone’s artwork enough to have it needled into my flesh. I started drawing tattoo ideas.

Butterflies are one of my many favourite things. I drew butterfly after butterfly while I searched for an artist whose tattoos I liked. Found one, showed her my drawings, discussed exactly where I wanted it and we were away. I let her have free reign and we were both happy with the result. Original artwork, inspired by my own art, etched into my skin.

The really interesting thing was it didn’t hurt. Not one bit. I had researched where the least painful parts of the body were for tattooing and knew that I wanted to give my hump wings (you know the hump at the back of the neck that comes from too much slouching and reading). It was just right.

I knew that I wanted my next tattoo, knew what I wanted it to be and figured out an approximate cost. I decided they would be an annual birthday gift to myself. The next tattoo was of a seahorse with wings. I played with this image for a long time and came across another artist closer to home. I visited her at the studio and liked her, her art and the studio more. Her take on my design was more appropriate for a tattoo. My drawings and paintings were much softer, her’s are striking. I love my winged seahorse, he divinely sits on my back right shoulder, waiting patiently.

This year I had a round-bellied, silver teapot with a flannel flower design needled into my skin and I discovered that when you tattoo your non-dominant side, it hurts, rather a lot. I am right handed and the work on the back of my neck and my right shoulder became intense but not at all painful. The teapot was painful. Very. It is also perfect.

I have been wondering why I am willing to endure the needles, hours of it, wounding my skin for the image to be permanently placed there. I feel the wounding is necessary as the wound heals and in its place there is an image of my own artwork, on my skin. This is uplifting and delighting in a way I don’t quite know how to express. Every time I catch a glimpse of my work (and I look a lot), I am pleased all over again.

There are many associations with each of the images I have placed. They are also part of what will be a whole piece when I am done. I don’t know that I will ever put my tatts in a place for others to see easily. The only time others see them is in summer or when I am in my bathers (as I swim frequently, they are frequently seen, usually by the grey-haired set, keeping their curls dry. That’s another story.). I don’t have tattoos for others, I have them for myself. Each piece and placement has more than one significance. The next piece will be on the painful side too. I’ve already drawn it.

One question I am often asked is why they are on my upper back where I can’t see them? I can see my upper back by turning my head or looking in the mirror. Don’t other people look at their backs? The pieces are for me, not anyone else. They signify things for me. They elicit a range of stories, memories and concepts for me that are pleasurable. Isn’t it curious that people seem to think I have created them for others? I confess to not really understanding that. They are mine, I know they are there, I know what they signify and I know the whole piece it will become.

This is artwork designed by me, inspired by my design that I get to wear. It has taken more than half my life to get to this place and there is such freedom in it.