muppinstuff

what happens when you forget how to breathe

You know how I said on Friday that I was a tad anxious but getting better. Well I wasn't (but think I am now). When I went to see my doctor and she asked me how I felt, the first word that came to mind was, messy. Then as I began to tell her why, she halted me momentarily and reached for her notepad. Always a bad sign. So I'm off work for the rest of the week. I'm not depressed, just really quite anxious, with some signs that I could become a little manic. So I'll probably get some sewing and shopping done.

It feels very strange to be allowed to take some leave from work for my head to clear. Sometimes I feel as though I'm shirking, like you mean that the cure for my illness/condition/way I feel now is to relax and do some things I enjoy? Like sleep alot, sew and go to the beach? Huh? It's so logical yet so at odds with the way our culture functions. When I called work, I was fairly up front. The euphemism we use is that I think I'm becoming unwell. I guess when you've been in hospital for a psychosis and are under a psychiatrist's treatment then you have a certain permission that way. But I've been thinking quite a bit about how the work I do affects me and my colleagues. There's a  lot of talk about resilience and of course I wonder whether I've been slotted into the not very resilient slot. Then again, I always get points for being up front and managing my condition.

Don't get me wrong, I like what my work brings; money, independence and that feeling of being out in the bigger world. I enjoy talking to people (workmates and customers), making decisions, having morning tea and getting things done. But it is also true that in a day I'm likely to see a lot of people who are ill, mad (quite unwell even), needy, cranky, pissed off or just down on their luck. Or have never been very lucky to begin with. And my job might be to ask them some intrusive questions or tell them that they have to do something or that they can't have what they feel they are entitled to. Most of the time though, I'm happy enough about going to work. But I just can't face it at the moment. I don't trust myself to remain anywhere near level, my brain has moments where it feels all tingly, like fairy floss with edge, or it just stops working and I'm a total blank. I teeter between feeling too much sympathy for others and not caring at all. Simple things fluster me. And if something doesn't go to plan or if one of my family members isn't contactable by phone or someone or something is running late, I panic. Most of the time I look like I'm doing OK, but underneath it's all quite frightening.

Anyway, back to this idea of resilience. If I make a list, there's been a lot happening around here over the last month or so. Two of Gerard's friends died, first Steve after a long illness, then Julie, quite unexpectedly in her sleep. Sad and intense. We've both had major dental issues, I had two weeks of higher duties at work, which was pretty awful and has left me wondering whether I should be looking at something else to do after we find a house and move into it. G has started a new part-time job and although him working is a good thing, my life was easier when he wasn't.  And it's a new routine. Again.

We just missed out on a house at auction and although a better one is looking likely, looking through dead people's houses (deceased estates) takes up a good part of each weekend. It's been tiring. Especially with a child who would not wear her new shoes, so had to be carried or left in the car with the other parent. So really, a lot has been going on. I think anyone might get a bit stressed and I actually think that G's had it harder than I have. My doctor thought that was a reasonable enough thing to say but then she said, you have a genetic disposition to... I forget exactly what, but the gist of it was that I am in some special category, meaning I have to take extra special care. Which I don't necessarily think is true. Don't we all have to take care? Does being resilient mean that when life gets tough (as everybody's does every now and then) you just go through it with a stiff upper lip and an extra glass of wine at night? Or that you stop caring and become a teflon person? Or that you simply choose not to be stressed? There are times when you can reframe your thinking but it's not always that simple. Not for me, not for most people. Perhaps part of being resilient is knowing when you need to pause for a little while.

I'm wondering how I make the work I do more sustainable in the medium term. More balanced. More excercise would help, but it's hard to take the extra time in the morning or after work because it cuts into the part of the day I have with Grace. It might have to be after she goes to bed. Definitely focusing on some more fun activities as a family would help too. I loved going to the beach yesterday. Swimming in the ocean was a glorious feeling, as was the rough sand on my feet. Grace has been telling me about it all day; beach, have cake (date scones), take clothes off, water, see fish, mummy go swimming, boats hold on (as in tied to the pier), chips for lunch, go home, sleep in nana's car. Oh gosh, we're going to have to do that again. It was pretty nice. Maybe it's still just a matter of letting some time pass.

come sail your ships around me

It's good to be home, but I'm glad we went. Time seemed to pass very slowly and quickly, all at once, distorted by an intensity of emotion, by holding in and letting go. A reminder that grief is not a linear state but a country all of it's own. Julie's funeral was surreal as funerals are, but as G said, it's not the having of a funeral that makes people so sad but the reason for it. Which is obvious really, but I found this one particularly hard. Perhaps because we'd been going about normal life all week in our little world here in Melbourne; being sad (and stressed and anxious too) of course but more or less going about our usual business. Then suddenly, after being in a rush to get packed after work, Shan arriving and G taking Grace to Nana's (she wasn't at all unhappy about that) and after a quick drive through the rain to the airport, we're on the plane. We sat in a row, a quiet three amongst people mostly happy to be going away for the weekend. An hour later we were in Hobart, a town that's quite familiar, especially to Shan and Gerard who grew up there, but where nothing is as it was before.

On Friday afternoon, the chapel at the Cornelian Bay Cemetary was packed to overflowing and there were lots of red eyes and muffled crying. Some laughs too, as Julie's friends and family talked about Jules and her life. There was live music, of course, from some of the Mooks. And then at the end, as Julie's white coffin sank from the podium, the wail of her mother. Oh God.

Afterwards, people milled in the sunshine and hugged and smoked and greeted and talked. And then repaired to the pub for a drink and more hugging and greeting and talking and drinking and smoking. As you do. And although Julie's passing makes no sense at all, indeed there has been no cause of death found; no heart attack, no embolism, no aneurism, no identifiable cause, it feels right to come together, to all feel sad all at the same time. What else can you do? I don't imagine any of those closest to her are going to feel anywhere normal for some time, but that's not the point. It's a big thing when someone dies and I guess I'm saying here that I'm a believer in proper funerals. Steve didn't have one and I wish he had. Of course we don't want people around us to die, but when they do, it's better to honour them properly. We don't want to go but are drawn nonetheless. Once you're an adult, funerals are one of those times when you really just have to turn up. And be present as best you can. Well, that's what I think anyway.

My heart is heavy again. And although I feel more committed than ever to this life and those in it, I find myself thinking some dark thoughts. What about those who don't have anyone to mourn their passing? Or those who lose family member after family member in war? And how might it feel to be in a strange land, struggling with a new language, new ways and still in sorrow. Where people don't always see your grief because you have different coloured skin. Sigh. It's been a long week. I'm quite glad tomorrow's a holiday. Even if it is for a bloody horse race. I plan to spend some of it pruning the daisies, some of it sewing and good bit of it playing run run with Grace under the clothes line. And maybe some time for quiet reflection.

It wasn't an out and about type trip, but I did find myself with quite a bit of time just hanging around with the camera. Five beers and I can't hold the camera steady, although I was very careful not to drop it. You can see pictures here. Probably only of interest to people who were there.

Julie

Our friend Julie died in her sleep on Sunday morning. No-one had any warning or premonition that this might happen, so it's been deeply shocking. And heartbreakingly sad. Her husband Kim woke up to find his wife and love gone from this world. If I even try to imagine how this might feel, tears well up in my eyes. And the background fear I feel of losing those nearest returns as a feeling of panic and anxiety. Love always carries such a potential for loss and grief and Julie's passing has bought this back to me in a big way.  Kim and all of Julie's family and friends have been uppermost in our thoughts this week. You wish there was something that you could do, but there isn't.

Julie didn't really like having her picture taken and I sneaked this one last April, when she and some other Mooks were in Melbourne for the Wilco concert. It's blurry and a bit dark, but in it I can hear her distinct voice talking about this and that. Enjoying the ambience of the Palais, rattling on, having a good natter. It was a rather good weekend that one. Anyway, as you can see, she's still young and full of life. Just a couple of years older than me. As well as being rather stylish (which I admired more than I ever said), Julie had a really kind heart. She also loved a party, being out and about with friends. Their home was more often than not the centre for gatherings and parties; full of warmth and hospitailty. And she loved her cats.

We'll be going to Hobart for the funeral this Friday. Sigh.

in catering mode

In a previous life, I worked as a cook. We had a cafe. Me, my mum and my sister.  I had planned on becoming a writer, but one day I found myself in front of a big stove with four burners and a side grill and there I was managing a kitchen, dealing with suppliers, hiring (and firing) staff. With no commercial training or experience. Just blind faith and some very firm ideas about food. To say that the next year was a learning curve is a massive understatement, but learn I did. We all did.

And one of the things I learnt was how to cater an occasion. You start with a reason, a time and a place. Numbers, how many vegetarians, vegans, rabid meat eaters. And a budget. Then you talk with the client. Work out a menu, maybe an alternative menu. A shopping list. Refer back to the the budget. Make a plan of when you will do various bits and pieces. Who will help and when. Back and forth, time permitting, until everyone more or less agrees. Because on the day, there's no time for democracy. If I've planned well, it will go smoothly. And I do plan well, even now, because otherwise it all ends in tears and chaos.

In this photo, I'm icing some yo-yos I made the night before. G is out dropping Grace at Nana's. I'm working methodically, listening to Endorphin and thinking about the afternoons event. Thinking about our friend Steve who won't be there. Steve, Gerard and I organised this event months ago. Steve insisted on giving us cash to buy the food. I remember I tried to convince him that a simple funeral followed by the wake would be a good idea, but he wouldn't have it. He was adamant that he just wanted a party with all his friends and family there. He requested a cake and I wish I'd had time to make it myself, because the bakery really didn't get the colour right. I knew they wouldn't. Still, even organising a cake was touch and go at such short notice. We couldn't find a set of miniature drums to put on top. So G went out in the shed and made some. Steve would have liked that, I think.

Of course, when we rocked up with the big esky of sandwiches, the other esky of antipasto type things, the fruit platter, the bags and boxes, I thought I had massively overcatered. Eventhough I knew I hadn't. There just seemed so much food and there was a peculiar intensity in the atmosphere. All the emotion that people express together at a funeral just seemed to be leaking out at the sides. More than one person had a cry in the laundry. An hour or so in, I put the sausage rolls out and bang, people started eating. After the speeches, we served the cake and then as we were re-organising the food table and cleaning up, we sent out the rest of the sandwiches. By the time we were ready to leave, there were just a few people left. Someone started a fire and it looked like the night was just beginning again.

Such a sad time, but it was good to feel like we could do something useful. I'd also like to thank everyone who's commented or emailed. It's very much appreciated.

More food here.

Steve

Our friend Steve passed away on Tuesday night. We knew he was sick, but we thought he'd be around for a while longer. Long enough for a few more conversations about art and music and life, long enough for a few more afternoon parties with kids romping around, with food and wine; all the important things.

Steve, your departure feels quite sudden and shocking, a reminder that death is absolute, no matter how forewarned you are. People might say, and with kindness in their hearts, that with an illness like cancer, it's a blessing that you didn't linger at the end. But I know that you would have liked to have been around for a bit longer. You still had plans. And a wicked sense of humour.

You and Gerard go way, way back, to a life in Tasmania I only know about from stories. Even so, we had our own conversations. Something to be cherished with a friend of your partners. I'm doing my best with the tasks we talked about, although I worry that the bakery won't get the shade of pink you asked for on your cake: the palest of pink, you said, a lustre rather than a colour.

I hope it's a drummer's heaven on the other side, full of interesting people to talk to. And music. Lots of music, especially the weird stuff. 

new do

It's been one of those weeks at work. Not a bad week per se. Just emotional. Which I guess is part of the deal for me working for an organisation that touches peoples lives the way it does. Sometimes I really wish I could talk about work in more detail. Suffice to say, on Wednesday, I had a long interaction with a customer that at one point had us both in tears. In the middle of an open plan office, rather than at my desk up the back where I sit every other day. It was like we were in a little bubble. I did manage to collect myself and go on to do the necessary tasks with bureacratic efficiency. Which is important, because at such a time, you really don't want to get caught in some bad administrative loop.  After the interview ended, I went to the tearoom for a mental health moment and for the rest of the afternoon I was pretty good. I was fine on the first tram home, but when I got to the park, to catch the second tram, I just sort of dissolved. I took some photos and thought about my customer and thought about my own sadness. And I thought about how, five years on, I'm really not sad anymore. Except for at odd times, and when I hear about the sadness of others. Especially people who are beginning a journey of sorrow.

It has to be a good thing that I'm not still sad, but there's part of me that is surprised about that. Or a bit uncomfortable. Even though there will always be a deep feeling for our son Frank in my heart, letting go of that big sadness is hard in itself.There were quite a few tears in the park and when I got in the tram to go home, my eyes were still sort of leaking quietly.

So I'm on the tram, thinking my sad thoughts and my I'm not sad any more thoughts. Thinking about writing a book one day, after buying a house, after settling in, one day... The light is streaming in through the scratchy windows. I look across at a woman talking on her phone. And I think, right out of the blue, I want that haircut, I want her haircut. And I want it soon. No more bobby pins, or hair elastic. It's time to go short. The next day at work, I asked around for a hairdresser in the area and found somewhere that was reasonably priced and that could fit me in today. And ta-da... From the deep, to the most extraordinarily shallow...

The colour's still fresh, it's full of product that smells like coconut and has been ironed with what looked like a flat version of the old fashioned curling wand. The hairdresser thought it most amusing that I'd never had my hair flattened straightened and that I don't own a hairdryer. No doubt it will look a bit different once I return to my scruffnut ways tommorrow. But it feels really good to lose the hair. I'm really pleased with how it looks. And how it feels. Different. Lighter.

And it really is OK to be (mostly) not sad anymore. Maybe one day soon, I'll be able to not cry at work when I hear sad stories and just be helpful and considerate. Without crying. Which isn't really helpful. But happens. I am in awe of how people in some professions do it, you know nurses, social workers, shrinks... etc

's spring

Sort of like a meme I suppose, September seems full of s's round here. And most of them 'aint good.

Like sadness, (which is why I have a special category for it). September is the month our son, Frank was born and died. Sad day, as we call it round here, is next week and has sort of crept up on me this year. I thought I might get through the month with dry eyes and just a few sad thoughts. But yesterday, just before I left work, I rang G as usual to see if he wanted anything from the supermarket and he told me some heartwrenching news concerning some friends of ours in Tas. They've just found out that their baby, expected in about two months, has died and will be born this weekend. I sat at my desk in the corner of the nearly empty office and cried. I so wish there was something I could say or do that would make everything better for them, but I know there isn't. You are in our thoughts.

Shadows. Eventually, I went and washed my face and said my goodbyes and walked out onto the street with my blurry eyes behind the big sunglasses and just missed a tram. So I decided to walk a bit. I kept on walking, thinking, watching the light and seeing the shadows everywhere. Took some pictures, my camera being a smoking substitute when I'm stressed. Walking is also good, I need to do more of it. I was halfway composed when I got home.

Snot, sinuses and soldiering on. I'm on week three of my cold. I seem to get better and then catch something else, or else it's mutating. Half the office is sick and soldiering on, the customers and the interpreters are ailing and the checkout girl at the supermarket didn't look to good either. It's everywhere. Grace is on week two and G has just caught it and although he says he's getting better, he sounds and looks pretty crook.  It's starting to affect my moods so I've decided to stop soldiering on. Today G went back to bed in the morning and I lay on the couch and watched videos with Grace, and then had a nap in the afternoon. Next week if I'm not better, I'm taking some time off work. Bugger it.

Smoking sucks. Tonight we had an early dinner with a friend of ours who is on his second round of lung cancer. He used to be a furniture maker which may have contributed, but definitely smoking is a factor. I didn't think he'd want us to come and share our lurgies but he seemed to think it wasn't going to make any difference. He's thinking of his life in months now. I can't tell you how sad this makes me. Or how it feels that my my mother won't give up smoking, or even cut down, which would be a start. I know it's hard, really I do but then so is dying before your time (and I know I need to lose some weight, glass houses and all).

Sunshine. The air is full of it. Jasmine and blossoms of all different kinds. Even though it brings hayfever, the air feels soft and scented, a promise of warmth to come. We need more rain, but the sun on your shoulders in the park of a morning is pretty darn nice. It isn't all doom and gloom. The warmth that still feels gentle, even though summer may well be really harsh. It's nice to delude yourself for a while. I like it that the days are getting longer.

Sweetness. Chocolate self saucing pudding. Ridiculously easy to make. Yummy even if you leave the egg out because your brain isn't working as it should.

Ah, spring.

On sharing

The other night I was watching Saving Babies on telly. A show I haven't been able to watch before because eventhough it's advertised each story will have a happy ending, the stories themselves have me weeping in my seat. The sight of very tiny babies will do that to me now I'm a mother. Anyway, I'm watching and tearing up and then there's one story which didn't have a happy ending. The mother had made the decision to cut off the blood flow to one of her twins (who was not thriving) to save the other twin. She gave birth to the live baby and then to the much smaller baby that had died months ago. Considering that it was on channel ten, this part of her story was actually handled with a lot of dignity and was very, very moving. But the bit that touched me in an unexpected way was the scene where she discussed with the doctor whether or not to go ahead with the filming. The mother clearly wanted to tell her story and she wanted to help others who might be feeling very alone in a similar situation.

And I do remember a certain aloneness, a feeling that I had already told my sad story to anyone who could listen, yet needing to tell it again and again. That people wouldn't know who I was if I didn't. And I think that for many of us, telling the story is a major part of the healing journey. When you tell a story, those parts that cause the most pain and sorrow become translated into a narrative which I think becomes a handle with which to carry the story around.  Difficult stories probably need to be told many times over before they become a part of us that is bearable to carry. There are other stories that are just so profound they also need to be told a fair few times, like for example birth stories. I've noticed that since becoming a mother, this is often a bonding point with other mothers (do you sense I might be looking forward to writing Grace's here on the interweb? ooh yes. Friday). Indeed, our mothers goup did not even begin to gel until we'd told our birth stories and and a fair bit of our reproductive histories.

Not that eveyone tells their stories the same way. I probably fall well and truly into the spill your guts style of blogging. I've always been like this, but it's a trait I've learnt to curb in my daily (as in offline) life as I've got older. This tendency to tell all has probably also been muted by having a partner who knows it all anyway. So when I started blogging, I thought it would be a refined sort of craft blog. Perhaps I even had a fantasy of my life being like that and maybe I still do (laughs), but you know, you go with what you've got. Which definitely has it's good points. And I do love to read blogs where the writers are way more circumpsect about their affairs and reveal their stories in more subtle ways; creating a garden, making art, with music, through the very actions of daily life. Just because the expression is different, doesn't mean it isn't there.

So back to sharing on the internet. When I was in the darkest months after the birth and death of our son, I read every single piece of writing I could find that was even close to what we had been through. My hunger to hear the stories of others was insatiable. I didn't know about blogs then, which is a pity, because I think it would have helped. This is one of the reasons I don't make my blog unsearchable, even though after reading some of the search strings, I'm very tempted. Because every now and then I read a search query and I know there's a woman (or man) out there desperate for a story, wanting to know that they are not alone. And now, a few years on, when I read the difficult stories from other bloggers, I am always deeply touched. Saddened too, because although I may feel some bond of shared experience, obviously I would never wish this sadness on another. But it's also a great honour to be part of their healing journey. Even if sometimes I don't feel I can comment because I don't know them or because I've clammed up with my own feelings. So thank you to everyone who's read my story, thank you to everyone who's shared their story and thank you for the lovely comments. The internet can be a beautiful place. 

   

why I love my belly

One of the reasons I keep doing the self portrait challenge is that I like the way it makes me think on a theme for a month and then takes my writing and photos somewhere out of the routine of daily life. Yet sometimes it all intersects.  Grace's second birthday is in less than a week and I find myself reflecting somewhat on my journey as a mother, how I got to be here, living this life with my precious and beautiful daughter and her Dad. This month's theme is the body and I started thinking of those parts inside of me that make life and I thought, wow wouldn't it be great to look inside. Then I remembered that I had, on maybe thirty occasions, and it wasn't always that great. Grace was born when I was 41 and is the result of my seventh pregnancy.

The first time I got pregnant, when our love was still young and when I hadn't really figured out that love could poke holes in your contraceptive resolve, it was all over within a week of taking the test. I imagine we might have kept on with the pregnancy but with the next one everything seemed shakier, so we didn't. I just couldn't see how people like us could be parents. Then followed a year of blackness when we battled our demons and ultimately became stronger as a couple, became people who could make a go of family life. Finding out that I was pregnant in 2002 was joyous for us, our families and our friends.

Our son, Frank was born just short of twenty weeks gestation, after a decision that I still find it hard to be at ease with.  So coming up to Grace's birthday, there's this uncomfortable thought that comes sneaking into my mind that if things had gone as they should have, if there hadn't been all that sorrow on the way, then we mightn't have this Grace living amongst us. Then there's this other thought, that maybe she should have an older brother. But then we might not have had her. And I have to stop thinking because if I do, I can't bear it. Not any of it.

After our son was born, I had another two pregnancies in quick succession, both babies died inside me, one too early to tell and one of gentic causes. We found out that I have a blood antibody which causes clotting and miscarriage (and is helped by aspirin of all things). So I had my age and my blood working against this desire for motherhood, an urge that sometimes consumed every single part of me. My body was racing towars the reproductive finish line and could do nothing right. Could not do this one simple thing (really, I know it's not simple, not at all) and make me a mother, make us a family. I tried to let it go and then became pregnant again, another genetic disorder, another baby dying inside me. Was it my former lifestyle? Too much pot, acid, speed, party drugs? The doctors always said no, and I saw other women who did the same or worse have succesful pregnancies, even before they had left that lifestyle behind, which I already had. No, it was my body, something wrong inside me. In a place we kept looking at but couldn't change.

So when on holidays in 2004,  I accidentally became pregnant with Grace, I held my breath everytime I got up on the ultrasound bed. Steeling myself for bad news and being shunted off into the quiet room with the tissues while we waited for the doctor to come and arrange the next step. In the six weeks up until the thirteenth week, I had an ultrasound every Thursday and I always took someone to the hospital with me. Just in case. Each time we saw the little beating heart, I breathed a little easier. And when she was born in April 2005 (birth story to come later this week), wow and double wow, I knew that I would always love my belly. No matter how wobbly it gets.

Explore the world of bodies here.

Nothing but blue skies

Today was warm enough for sandals and sunshiney, and I spent the afternoon at CERES with Grace, Mum and a friend from mother's group and her daughter. My friend had called on the off chance and as Mum and I had no firm plans, it seemed like the perfect outing for the afternoon. CERES is one of my favourite places in Melbourne; an environmental park with community gardens, orchards, sustainable living displays, a nursery, gardens and a cafe with suprisingly good food (especially the cake) and coffee. Very child friendly without being dull for gardener type adults. And I spotted these pink broadbeans which had me all excited and hopping for the camera. Hopefully I'll be able to get some seeds and grow some next year...

The last few days have been intense, as any who read my last post might imagine. I have been having a conversation with myself (and with mum, Gerard and the rest of my family) for quite a while about whether I should write the truth about our son Frank. I'm glad I did. Although telling such a story is painful, probably both for writer and reader, it has also been enourmously theraputic for me. Translating all those thoughts and emotions into a narrative has taken away much of the fear I felt and most of the blackness too. At least for a while. I still feel sad, of course, but stronger and clearer. Like my head has been given thourough cleansing. I worried that the post was way too long but sometimes you just have to keep adding words until you feel the story has been told. 

At some point I may post Frank's story at A heart breaking choice which I found a week or two ago when my not very adept and somewhat sporadic google searching led me to uncommonmisconception. Finding Julia's site and reading through her "best reads" and some of her archives finally convinced me that I could write our story also. Although I am never pleased to find and read such sad and difficult stories, reading of other women and their families does make me feel less alone. Previously, all my googling had found were disturbing pro-life sort of sites. Not at all comforting. 

Thank you for your kind comments, they are very much appreciated. I'm going to leave you with a corner of our spring garden. This garden is my place of peace and over the next few weeks, I'm going to try and spend a whole lot of time here amidst the greenery; planting, weeding and puttering. And maybe even a little lying around with a book or playing world cup soccer with Grace.