Be Gentle, Be Kind

That there, is a rather indulgent coffee for 4.30pm, made with single cream and some salted caramel syrup. First, I rarely drink coffee in the afternoon as I won’t sleep. I also don’t have syrups in my coffee as they’re too sweet. And cream goes in coffee at Christmas.

As I spent 12 hours overnight in the A&E departments of two hospitals, I think I deserve it.

I originally started a post at 6.30am, sat in a treatment room of the second hospital. I’d been awake all night. My son was sleeping on the ‘bed’. Here’s what I started writing:

How dare I start to feel happy again, finally. My anxiety was slowly being controlled. I am happy at work. Things with Wildcard were steadying.

I'm sat in A&E with my son and it's 6.30am. We left for the hospital at 10.30pm. We've been awake ever since and this is our third hospital (although the first doesn't really count as they sent us away as apparently 16 years doesn't equate to a child.)

I won't say why we are here. Just like I didn't tell you when my daughter was in A&E just four days ago for an on-going illness that became acute.

There's nothing quite like thinking your child may be seriously ill. I'm going to allow myself to feel sorry for myself. However, I know thinking does nowhere near compare to knowing - my heart goes out to anyone whose children is poorly.

Yes, I was kind of bitter and angry there, wasn’t I? Angry at the world.

Since we arrived home at 10.30am (he is fine by the way), I’ve slept for a few hours, showered and started some stew:

This is comfort food at its best. It’s made from chicken – bones and all – vegetables and herbs. Full of goodness. What’s more, it’s easy to make and – more importantly- it’s what my dad used to make.

I’m being kind to myself. I hope you noticed the drops of cream on the counter (although that was a little exaggerated) and the dirty pan behind the stew (reality). I ~~should~~ could have got up and cleaned yesterday’s dishes. I haven’t. I made the stew, then made the coffee.

I need comfort and gentleness. The stew is all that, wrapped in a warm Dad hug. I don’t make it much, mainly because it never tastes quite like Dad’s (it is impossible to replicate) and also because it used to make me feel guilty. Dad used to make this regularly – a few times a week with different meat – and I got to the point where I was sick of eating it. I pretended to and binned it. It was one of my sad confessions on his death bed. I loved the stew, loved the fact that he cared enough to make it for me, but sometimes didn’t want it again (sorry Dad).

Now of course, I’d do anything to come home to the smell of it, Dad bustling in the kitchen.

I was angry this morning at the world. Now, I’m not. I’m still exhausted but I’m relieved that my son doesn’t have a life threatening bleed in his neck. I’m grateful for the kindness and understanding of many of the staff which cared for him, and me.

I realised before, walking into the kitchen that I had left dishevelled when I rushed him to A&E last night, that this is the saddest part of depression. You spend months, years trying to fight a mental illness. By the time that you start to recover, you then have to try to wade through the mess of things you neglected because you couldn’t cope. Recovery is hard enough, but having a mountain of unfinished business on top of the gargantuan issues that possibly caused the depression and are still there, is heartbreaking.

I’ve decided to be kind to myself.

I’m slowly, slowly working through the things I put to one side. There are many of them. They worry me. But, I’m being gentle to myself in recognising that I couldn’t manage them then, and expecting a magic wand to resolve them instantaneously now is unhelpful. It will take time and that’s ok. Slow and steady.

So, I made my stew and made my coffee and I sat down to write. I allowed myself time to write this post. The pans will be washed and the cream mopped up, when im ready. They will be done at some point. Leaving them because I’m lazy is not acceptable. Leaving them as an act of kindness to myself when I am physically and emotionally exhausted, is .

The coffee has long gone and my stew is smelling like my childhood home. I’m going to make a fire and bask in the warmth of my home and the luck that both my children and ok and with me.

Time to say goodbye

Beautiful, isn’t it?

Any florists or gardeners out there will not be as impressed of course. This little posy is made from the very few flowers currently growing in my garden.

It’s a symbolic little posy: I like symbolism.

The three red-pink roses are from a rambler that my Dad loved, growing on a fence that he and my uncle build 15 years ago. We placed some of these roses in my Dad’s coffin when he died 4 years and 2 days ago. The purple aquilegia – bright, cheerful and independent – sprout everywhere in my garden, self-seeded by the wind. I hated them at one point for their pesky weed-like determination to flower wherever they wanted. Dad loved them for the same reason. I do now, too.

The yellow iris is actually a water iris that has taken over 3/4 of my pond. My sister threatened to dig them out 5 years ago to my Dad’s protest. She never did and they’ve continued to take over ever since.

The little pink candy-puff flowers, as I call them, were planted by my dad. I think the plant originally came from my uncle, but I’m not sure. Either way, its fluffy cuteness made a welcome addition. Plus, there wasn’t much else I could put in.

The posy was wrapped in a wet piece of kitchen paper, then in foil and then a piece of chiffon ribbon. It went in my handbag.

Throughout the service, I kept checking it was ok..not too squashed as I delved in and out for my tissues. At one point, my son alerted to me to a small aphid crawling on my black cardigan, no doubt from this little bouquet.

At the end, as “Time to say Goodbye” by Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli played, tears ran down my face and sobs threatened to erupt into hyperventilation. It was one of my Dad’s favourite songs too and the words were scarily poignant for more than the obvious. I watched the sheer curtains close and the lights dim. As the people in front of me – family – moved out of the crematorium, I pulled out my little posy and stared at it as I blindly walked towards the coffin. Looking up, I asked the funeral director to place it on my uncle’s coffin and I left the building.

He was the last one, the last of my father’s generation.

He was probably my Dad’s best friend and definitely his closest sibling. My Dad respected and trusted him and looked up to him. My uncle visited my Dad on his dying bed, a fact I had forgotten until sat in that crematorium.

My uncle was the hardest working man I knew. He was generous, intelligent and strong. For reasons unexplainable here, I barely saw him in the last few years and I regret that. I have many, many memories of him from my childhood. Memories I will always treasure, like the rose bush he apparently treasured, which I had bought him 10 years ago for his 80th birthday.

Today, I felt like I said goodbye to him and my Dad. I don’t really remember much of my Dad’s funeral and I am the one who organised it. More than that, I feel like I have said goodbye to a whole swathe of life – of my life. There are no holds now, no anchors, nothing left.

I’m too sad today to even know how I feel about that.

Underwhelmed

You never thought that I would write that, eh?

My state of being seems to be constantly overwhelmed although I do an amazing job of ploughing through it 90% of the time.

So why the title? Allow me to explain.

Today is the three year anniversary of my dad’s death. It’s a weird one, because I actually count yesterday too. On the 6th June 2018 we made the decision to end my dad’s suffering and take him off the respirator which was prolonging his life. He was tired, bruised and had suffered for two weeks in attempt to pull through. He was staying alive for us. Fighting, but ultimately losing.

That day we said our goodbyes. And then my sisters and I stayed with him all night, watching him fall unconscious, singing to him, talking to him, loving him the best we could at his bedside. So although he died at 1am on 7th June, we lost him on the 6th.

My eyes are stinging as I write this, but there are no real tears. Maxed out antidepressants will do that to a girl. If you remember, a month ago when all the crap with work started I was reluctant to up my dose – defiantly not wanting work to be the thing that put me on max dose. Honestly, I’m still not sure I should have agreed – I’m not the walking zombie I was four years ago. But I have taken them and today I am coping.

The fact is, for the first few years, every significant date seemed like a massive hurdle, a tsunami of emotion. Today, I realise it doesn’t matter what day it is. I miss him every single day. I wish he was here every single day. So the date is irrelevant.

Except of course it isn’t. And I probably will cry at some point. But, I’m not the mess I was last year, or the year before.

And I’m convinced dad sent me a little gift last night. Late at night I received a message from a friend telling my that Wildcard’s borders are finally opening and that at present, the UK are on the list for entry.

You know I believe in the power of coincidences. And for me, at this time, being told that is a gift, a message….

Life changes. It has its ups and its downs. It ebbs and it flows. And you just have to ride the waves, keep your head above water and keep swimming.

Being honest though, the underwhelmed title is less about me and more about Wildcard.

Last night, whilst morosely but stoically remembering the pain of my dad’s passing, I was also filled with an excitement and happiness about the news. (As someone with anxiety and depression, I am a pro at feeling conflicting emotions at once.) I went on to Ryanair to see the flights and allowed myself to reach in to the now no so distant future to when I can fly to Wildcard.

So this morning, I was even more looking forward to speaking to Wildcard. I sat, drinking coffee and attempted to complete a painting I had started of me and my dad. Up until this week, I haven’t had the strength to finish it (thank you antidepressants).

So when he called and we had got the daily ‘good mornings’ and ‘how are yous’ and ‘did you sleep well?’, I waited for the moment…

‘So, do you have any news?’ At this point he is in the car driving to work. He is a little late, as always, and 19 months in, I know the exact moments of his drive to speak and when to wait whilst he manoeuvres out of a junction etc.

He hasn’t mentioned the borders. Maybe he doesn’t know yet?

So I tell him.

“Ah yes, around the 15th I think.”

So he did know. And that was that. No hasty discussion about when I was coming, not even excitement that it won’t be long until we are together.

I was stunned. There was a few moments of silence.

“What baby?” He glanced at me as he drove.

Maybe this isn’t the time. He’s driving, he is late for work. It is my Dad’s anniversary. His friend died yesterday. We are still on amber.

“Nothing, I’m ok.”

And so, today, that is what I will settle for. An underwhelming ‘ok’.

Stressed to self-satisfaction

It snowed last night. Not excessively, but enough to cover the ground and add an extra chill to the house.

Problem is, I have ran out of wood.

My house is heated by a multi-fuel stove which is attached to the central heating system. Dad always maintained the heating. You’d hear the familiar sound of him making a fire every morning and the sound of him cutting wood in the afternoon. It was a source of pride for him to do that until he became too ill to.

From that moment until now, I have bought wood. It is not cheap and a bone of contention as there is wood stored in my Dad’s shed but most is too big for the fire. The log splitter broke recently, as did the mitre saw.

I have replaced the mitre saw. But it is still in its box since I discovered there would be some assembly needed and I have no idea what I am doing and am scared of cutting my hand off.

This last week or so, I’ve been going out and breaking up wood with a rather blunt axe. Obviously, this has limitations. Up until yesterday, there was enough narrow wood for me to use.

Today, I woke up to the beauty of the snow and the sinking feeling that I have no wood.

Why have I not bought wood, I hear you ask?

I tried to. I ordered some over a week ago. It still hasn’t arrived and I have no idea why. The man is now ignoring my texts. It is Bank Holiday Monday and I refuse to pay £6 for a small bag of logs at the garage that won’t last half a day when I have a shed full of wood outside.

So, I glumly stayed in bed this morning, stressed and wondering what I was to do. I felt sorry for myself. I felt alone. I missed my Dad and the knowledge that he was always there to help me and I have no one to ask for help.

Eventually, I got up, put on my warm coat, walking boots and bobble hat and made myself go outside. Maybe, maybe, I would find some if I looked hard enough.

The brightness of the day, the crunch of the snow underfoot and probably the pride in myself for getting up and trying, put a little bounce in my step.

I searched, I put some effort in and managed to fill a large bag with wood. I also managed to find a bag of coal which I also thought I had ran out of.

I could have stayed in bed sulking and feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I made myself get up and get motivated and this time it paid off.

I’m stronger than I think.

Stressed to self-satisfaction

It snowed last night. Not excessively, but enough to cover the ground and add an extra chill to the house.

Problem is, I have ran out of wood.

I have replaced the mitre saw. But it is still in its box since I discovered there would be some assembly needed and I have no idea what I am doing and am scared of cutting my hand off.

This last week or so, I’ve been going out and breaking up wood with a rather blunt axe. Obviously, this has limitations. Up until yesterday, there was enough narrow wood for me to use.

Today, I woke up to the beauty of the snow and the sinking feeling that I have no wood.

Why have I not bought wood, I hear you ask?

Eventually, I got up, put on my warm coat, walking boots and bobble hat and made myself go outside. Maybe, maybe, I would find some if I looked hard enough.

The brightness of the day, the crunch of the snow underfoot and probably the pride in myself for getting up and trying, put a little bounce in my step.

I searched, I put some effort in and managed to fill a large bag with wood. I also managed to find a bag of coal which I also thought I had ran out of.

I could have stayed in bed sulking and feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I made myself get up and get motivated and this time it paid off.

I’m stronger than I think.

My heart

Needless to say if you read last nights post, I was feeling low this morning and fearful of how Wildcard may have reacted to my very late night text (which I didn’t think he would see or respond to until the morning) and our subsequent tear filled phone call.

As always though, he called, he was fine and I remonstrated with myself for doubting him. I’m not sure what he needs to do to stop me thinking like that -and that is the answer. It’s me that needs to change.

Somewhat happier but still overcast with the gloom of cancelled flights and the unknown future, I went into my Dad’s shed to cut some wood for the fire. Apart from the addition of more wood, it is exactly how he left it when he died. I go in there only when I have to and that tends to be when I have ran out of bought wood so need to cut some. Dad wouldn’t be happy with either of those facts. In this large shed, I have memories of packing potatoes, Halloween parties, Dad’s flatbed truck and in later years, Dad’s beautiful wood carvings.

So, in I go. I balance a long, thin strip of wood so that I can hit it and split it with the axe. (Don’t try this at home). I managed to split a few before one stubborn piece leaves me panting and frustrated. I smack it a few times whilst it is on the ground, spraying soil and wood shavings around. And then, something springs up from the ground, uncovered by my frustration and ineffectual use of the axe.

I recognise its shape immediately. It’s a large wooden heart.

Dad made heart shaped necklaces (which I wear whenever I need him near me). He made me a beautiful wooden heart plaque made from 3 hearts from different stained wood.

This is bigger though. It’s covered in mud and I don’t know what state it is in underneath. It is now sat on my woodburner, drying out, before I can brush off the mud and see what is underneath.

Regardless, the sight of that heart appearing from the dark soil…hidden for so long, made me smile. Dad is watching me and he is telling me that love can survive the dark times – it is still there, even when it seems hidden or far away.

Thank you Daddy xxx

On laziness and lessons

Dad used to love looking out of his living room window. Before the roadside trees were planted some 25 years ago, the large bay window gave views of fields and woodland – the same that gave me so much peace when in the depths of my breakdown.

Of course, closer to home, the window looks out on to the small front garden- traditional hedges, borders, grass and a pond. Pretty much how it has always been for fifty odd years.

Well, up until recently.

The main change is that Dad is not on hand to a) do the gardening or b) persuade one of his daughters to do it whilst moaning that we shouldn’t.

I used to love gardening with my dad. In fact, my very first WordPress blog was about rediscovering the lost garden of my home when Dad first started becoming ill about ten years ago.

Now, I just can’t do it. It’s not a choice, it’s a great wall built inside. I cannot make myself do it.

So naturally, the grass is long. A few weeks ago (probably months but who’s counting) the many pesky dandelions turned into fluffy white clocks and I sat in my dad’s recliner chair in its new home in the bay window, looking out and thinking that I’m going to have an even bigger problem with dandelions next year if I don’t get rid of them.

I sit in the chair quite often as it has no view of the TV so no-one else sits in it. I feel cosy there and can look out of the window whilst also feeling isolated. One day a long tailed tit fluttered near the window, oblivious to my watching astonishment, and snatched an unlucky spider from the upvc.

Dad loved watching the birds and so I guess he would also have loved the fact that the same long tailed tit was seen weighing down a dandelion clock and thoroughly enjoying eating each of the seeds. Of course, Dad would never have let the dandelion clocks survive long enough to be eaten but you get my sentiment.

So I blame the birds for not mowing the grass again.

At the moment, I have a flowering ragwort plant right in the middle of the lawn. Yes, the yellow flowers are bright but with a name like ragwort and the fact it is highly poisonous to animals (and probably humans) means it is not a gardening favourite.

Although today, as I sat in the chair talking to Wild Card and again thinking I should cut the lawn, I noticed something odd about the flowers.

These beautiful caterpillars are from an even more beautiful moth. And their favourite food? Yup, ragwort.

There is a lesson in there somewhere.

A lonely place.

Grief is a very lonely place.

The fact is, no one fully understands your grief. Before I lost my Dad, I was sympathetic to my friend who had lost hers, but I didn’t understand.

And even now that we have both lost our fathers, our grief is unique to us just like we are unique as individuals, our dad’s were unique and therefore our relationship with them was also unique.

The same can be said of me and my sisters. Whilst we understand each other’s grief for our dad better than anyone else, our grief still differs because our relationship, our memories and experiences and our personalities differ.

Grief is a lonely place.

I need you to understand, those of you who are lucky enough not to have lost someone close to you yet, that grief never goes away. That pain, that loss… The emptiness and the overwhelming emotions that come with it… They never go away. They don’t get easier.

What happened for me is that I learned to deal with it. I found a way to lock it up inside so that I could carry on with my life. But that comes with a promise – a promise that at the right time, I open it up and allow myself to feel.

The only issue with this is that sometimes you are forced to feel when you don’t want to. Grief has its own strength and power and can never be entirely tamed.

Sunday is the second anniversary of my dad’s death. The grief has been building for days, unknown, in the background. Others have noticed but I haven’t… Until I did. Until it was too much and its threatening to take over. And I have still got three days left until that day.

Be patient with those that grieve because they are trying to fight a war they will never win.

Holiday blues

Being the first day of Half Term, and considering I am exhausted and lucky enough to have the house to myself, you’d think I would be pretty content today.

As my title suggests, I’m not.

I’ve been having a Dad day. I think about my Dad everyday in one way or another, but often they are fleeting glimpses of a memory or a recollection of his loss. I acknowledge the hurt but I tell myself to move on: I have too many people relying on me to dwell.

But today I can slow down: no school for a week. So the flood of emotion I have held at bay breaks its dam and consumes me.

I sat in my living room, oh so still, the only movement the rise and fall of my chest and the trickle of tears. I let it take over me. I pictured him in my mind… In hospital and at home. The funny things he’d say and do. And I swear, as I cried, I could almost feel him hugging me – the memory was so strong.

That was this morning. My eyes are still stinging and puffy from the tears. I feel even more tired than before. And the anxiety-ache has taken residency in my chest again.

You cannot escape grief. You can’t ignore it or out run it. Because just as the strength of your love for your loved one with never wane, neither will the grief. You just learn to build a dam around it.

In our grief we are not alone.

Sneaky grief

The first anniversary of Dad’s death and Father’s Day being a week apart was unfortunate.
I’ve been trying to think of a way to describe how the grief has worked over this time, particularly now – a week later – when my mind has resumed its previous state.
The closest thing I can think of, is the grief being like a balloon. A self inflating balloon. The balloon is always inflated, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot.
When Dad first died, the balloon inflated quicker than I could imagine. It inflated to capacity, threatening to burst. It obliterated and hid everything else in my life. Its pressure made me ache and cry.
Slowly, very slowly, the balloon has deflated. Little by little. Sometimes, it has reinflated again. Then it has gone down again. But it is always there.
In the lead up to that horrible week, that balloon has inflated pretty steadily but much more than I realised. I knew it was going to be tough but just not how bad. And even worse, it’s deflation has been slower, more stubborn. The balloon feels stretched by its recent reinflation.
It’s only now that I realise that as well as the obvious grief and anxiety I felt in the lead up to this time, my body and mind were coping with the grief in a way I didn’t realise, until the time ended.
Today I feel exhausted but I feel positive too. I’m ready to focus on my life again and to lead a life that I know my Dad was proud of.
I’m not saying that balloon is gone. I’m not saying it won’t inflate again. But for today, I can cope. And that’s OK.