F i r s t W a k i n g

 

It’s undeniably the hardest time, no question of that, those first befuddled minutes after waking.   Initially always a feeling of normality punctuated only by irritating little question marks queuing up anxiously to unmask the slight unease that begins as just a murmur and rapidly becomes a scream.  That’s how memory works for some of us.  Long ago conversations come to mind - one with the friend from when the children were still young, memories of sitting in Phoebe’s kitchen in her smart new house in Epsom, chosen specifically because it was in the Right School Zone.   She had never spoken of the cot death before but on that day tears coursed down her cheeks unchecked as she described waking up each morning crying and initially wondering what those tears were for, then the unbearable pain of memory.   Back then I could only make what I hoped were the right noises because I had never suffered such a loss and had little understanding of the anguish she described.   Now of course I have a better handle where sorrow is concerned.

 

That time that directly follows waking can become darker than I ever could have imagined and so I make concentrated attempts to navigate a path forward and tell myself that empty aimless hours are entirely of my own making.   I should answer the phone and that is something I am still most unlikely to do unless of course it is someone I really want to speak with and now with ever present Caller ID the favoured few can be whisked to the top shelf of togetherness effortlessly.    Those who deliberately hide their identity are largely ignored even though that is something I do myself from time to time when I can remember the required code.  To be completely honest the landline rings less and less as days go by.  I should abandon it completely and thus save money. 

 

By midday I usually begin to feel a little less despairing and note that it is generally during the mornings when I pace about the place talking to him, berating him for leaving me at a time when I so clearly still needed him.   How could he do that?   And by afternoon I am once more consumed with self-reproach for the wrongs I did him.  Why did I make so much fuss when he piled up cushions around him and never ever returned them to their original positions?    When he ate handfuls of sultanas at midnight and invariably trod half a dozen across the kitchen tiles?   When he held firmly onto the TV remote month after month so that I barely understood its most basic functions?  No need to ask the questions because I know why – that self-absorbed streak of mine has always been there, no doubt about that.   I am at this very moment compiling a list of those things I most regret.  

V e s p e r s

 

Like many children of similar age and ilk to myself I was brought up to say my prayers although overall our household would not have described itself as particularly religious for the times.   It was simply that most of us leaned closer to organized religion in those days and largely we were aware of which spiritual groups our friends and neighbours favoured.    A great many were what we then loosely termed Church of England although my cousin Pat was heard to proclaim on more than one occasion that in fact we were each and every one of us Church of England whether we liked it or not because that’s where we lived and nobody could argue with that.   The fact that our family was firmly Roman Catholic and she and her mother were at least arbitrary Mass attendees made little difference to her logic on this matter.  To be honest Pat was not a particularly cogent thinker.   But to be totally fair to her we were back then a community that felt it necessary to attach itself to more precise views and attitudes than would be deemed necessary today.   For instance we were expected to take definite Sides when it came to events like the Oxford Cambridge Boat Race each Spring and we did so with enthusiasm though none of us had ever witnessed it except glimpses from time to time on Pathe News and had little idea of the complexities of it.  What we did know was that we either supported the Light Blues (Cambridge) or Dark Blues (Oxford) and we stayed that way.  The boys might even organize fights in support of their team.   Considering that none of us were ever likely to have anything to do with either university in retrospect there seems little common sense in all the excitement the race generated.   Little wonder then that our religious affiliations were demonstrated equally ardently.   

 

A scant few of our neighbours resolutely described themselves as Chapel and had aunts and uncles with exotic names like Bronwen and Rhys who spoke with funny accents and were disapproved of for some reason by my mother.   A few were involved in The Salvation Army known as The Sallies where the men learned to play musical instruments to amuse us with carol concerts at Christmastime and were wholeheartedly approved of.   Then there were the Baptists and the Methodists who seemed interchangeable at times each running Sunday Schools to which all local children were welcome.   A mere handful of residents identified themselves as followers of Judaism and none of these lived in the streets around York Road, favouring instead the smarter houses in Robinia Avenue or even those in London Road near the Library.  Well who wouldn’t?    My grandmother said that you could always trust the Jews to fall on their feet and rise to the top like double cream.   I had little idea what she meant by that and she wasn’t the kind of grandparent who went in for undue explanations so I didn’t ask.   But I did begin to realise, as we all did, that because Adolf Hitler and his cronies had hated the Jews with a vengeance and we hated him, we were obliged to support them.   At school Billy Elliot who was known for being what my mother called quick on the uptake, announced that it was the Jews who had killed Jesus and looked around to see what effect this had on us.   We were as one quite silent, exchanging apprehensive glances and Mr Clarke said to get back to reading The Golden Fleece and not to be so inane Billy because nobody could be sure of that and anyway nobody thinks you’re clever.    I did think he was clever but I wondered what inane meant.

 

Followers of Islam, Hinduism, Sikhism and Buddhism were generally absent from the ranks of the Northfleet underclasses at the time and years were to pass before I became aware of any.   There was certainly no local building known as a Temple and in any case that term in itself we only associated with New Testament stories about the life of Jesus which we came across on a regular basis when we lined up for Sunday School.    It would have been unheard of back then for anyone to describe themselves as a Pagan or even realise that Paganism had anything to do with spiritual beliefs.  Few admitted to Atheism or Agnosticism primarily because although such beliefs existed they were not something anyone tended to boast about and perhaps just a bit like harbouring divorce or illegitimacy in the family.   We were completely aware that unpleasant family facts were better ignored than discussed.

 

The principal spiritual camps were decidedly Catholic or Anglican both as familiar as Christopher Robin himself to us at least as far as bedtime prayers were concerned.  The two groups were also proudly different and easily identified by their local schools where large groups of students cheerfully despised each other and created offensive couplets and verses with which to incite local hostility.   We had a vague idea that the school adjacent to Northfleet High Street known as The Board School was not affiliated with either church but were ignorant as to how this idea actually worked and had little will to find out.   My friend Molly, from a less devout family than my own said that in her experience there was bound to be a church of some kind lurking behind the Board School no matter how little importance appeared to be placed upon it.

 

By the time I was three years old I had confidently learned The Lord’s Prayer, later observing that my version differed only minimally from that tripping from the tongues of the Anglican children.   Fast on its heels came a firm grasp upon Hail Mary then Matthew, Mark, Luke & John and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.    The only one of these verses unfamiliar to my classmates at St Botolph’s was that pertaining to Mary, Mother of God because Protestant schools did not place as much emphasis upon her place in the Holy Family as we Catholics did.

 

As I became a more confident rote learner our household vespers themselves became more protracted.   Praying was not something that I disliked because I assumed that the ritual of kneeling in prayer before sleeping was simply what everyone did.   In those early days my mother supervised to make sure that my interpretation of wording was correct and I can only assume that surprising as it later seemed to me, her own mother had done the same which would have been quite an undertaking with the many children involved.    It was most important to my mother that there were should be no mondegreens.  I think my only one was the ubiquitous ` blessed art thou amongst women’ which for generations of Roman Catholic five and six years olds was so easily distorted into ` blessed are now the monks swimming’.   I nightly conjured up teams of monks all robed and minus hair and seeming intent upon contesting for an Olympic team.     Later my brother was to deftly turn `Jesus makes us fishers of men’ into `Jesus makes us vicious old men’ which he declined to abandon for some years.   The accompanying images in this case were quite menacing.  

 

Old habits die hard and it was years before I completely discarded bedtime prayers although I neglected to kneel on a regular basis once I reached my teens and failed to teach my own children any of the routines that my mother taught me.    The end of day observance itself I conformed to until at least my mid-twenties.   This was most probably because I was in the habit of tacking on to the end of the ritual particular entreaties to God to look after members of my family and of course to take very good care of me!   Even when a growing doubt as to the actual existence of a Christian deity trickled through my thoughts on the matter I was never able to totally desert the idea.   A basic belief in the hereafter coupled with the presence of a genial creator has always seemed like a harmless enough notion to me though I do find myself wondering how many of today’s children are familiar with evening prayers or have any thoughts at all on the idea of a Divine Being.  As for myself I am still hovering on the fence of debate as to the existence of God – though I definitely don’t Not believe!        

Is It Normal.......?

 

It is now six long weeks since Himself departed this life.   I wish I could say I was becoming accustomed to his absence but I can’t.   I’m still of the opinion that snatching him away before I had actually properly absorbed the fact that he was terminally ill was unreasonable, unwarranted.   I was always hopeful that something, somehow would save him but of course that wasn’t going to happen.  Is it normal to be so naïve?  

 

Sometimes when I walk down the stairs, for a moment or two thinking of something else, just for a milli-second I fancy that I see him sitting in his usual place, hunched over a book and I am stopped in my tracks.   There follows a searing flash of pain because it is just a momentary illusion and I remind myself that the self same whim followed the death of a long ago cat, Heidi, who always sat beneath the Feijoa tree in Kohimarama – and continued to do so in the months that followed her demise.   Is it normal to imagine things?

 

At times I am eclipsed on all sides by well-meaning people, good friends who want to help me and are undeterred by my rudeness and lack of response.   I still resist answering the phone because largely I just wish to be left alone.   I don’t know how to decline kind offers and company.  It seems preferable to simply fail to engage than have to explain.  If and when I recover from the worst of this onslaught of misery some of them might still be there and willing to re-engage.   I know that many will not and am surprised at how little I care.   Is this lack of concern normal?

 

I admit to cherry picking the occasional company of a select few and surprise myself with the choice that seems to defy rhyme or reason.   Though communing with those who demand little is easy and comfortable, whereas others can unexpectedly provoke endless memories of times shared – little pools of tears.  And my reservoir of sorrow grows and extends into a future that seems bleak and black.   Is this lack of hope normal?

 

It is as ever, comforting that in the final months of his life Himself was supported and loved by the presence of two of our three children.  I could not have managed without them.  I now have to wonder if my present level of despair is because that time was not as perfect as it should have been – because he was not loved unreservedly as a good father should be and as he deserved to be.   Are these feelings of bitterness normal?

.....Only Because of the Lockdown

 

…. It was definitely only on account of the Lockdown and it had certainly been a long time since anyone asked my opinion on the possible consequences of home education.  Under such circumstances as an ex-devotee you want to display that particular concept in its very best light because who wants to be seen as part of an old fashioned outmoded idea?   I was glad Andrea was there as well although she wasn’t strictly in the same category as me because she had always followed an exacting programme dictated by the Church the family were involved with.   There were times when I had envied her.   No wondering what next Monday morning would bring for her – the plan was there laid out in easy to understand language that even Emmanuel the six year old would understand.     Mathematics followed by Creative Writing no matter how much you objected.   I wondered if my more haphazard approach had in fact been responsible for what some might politely describe as a touch of irresponsibility in at least one of my own students.

 

A young woman called Sara asked if we thought that the lack of normal socializing opportunities resulted in some students developing unusual social responses in years to come.  Andrea said she sometimes wondered if her older son’s lack of empathy for those who should be closest to him was a direct consequence of not being part of the normal classroom hurly burly.    He had apparently shown little concern when his sister was knocked off her bike and suffered a fractured skull, at times when he rang home not even asking how she was faring.   There followed at least one gasp of surprise so I decided to opt out of giving either an example or an opinion myself.  

 

Margot who had organized the discussion said in her view empathy or the lack of it had more to do with who you were as an individual and nothing whatsoever to do with whether or not you were required to attend school.   A young woman of her acquaintance had taken three months to contact the family of a cousin she had grown up with, killed in a road traffic accident.   And she, apparently, had attended the very best school in the area and was even deputy Head Girl at one stage.   Andrea said well maybe that was correct, some people were simply totally self-obsessed and then she mentioned Donald Trump.   Judy said well he surely hadn’t been home schooled and Andrea agreed but added that he did appear to be rather more than mildly narcissistic and definitely socially askew.    Just the sort of individual who would fail to ask after the health of an ailing sibling.    We discussed other prominent home schoolers – the Queen and Princess Margaret, Agatha Christie and possibly Greta Thunberg although nobody could quite recall if she attended school or not.    

 

And instead of outlining various home curriculums and the advantages of the more regimented and Christian based as opposed to those that followed the child’s interests, we found ourselves vigorously discussing aspects of mental health.   Was it possible that home education at times triggered undesirable syndromes that may have lain dormant within the more random structures of the local primary school?    The group ended up equally divided with some vocally supporting the necessity for freedom to educate your own children your own way.   Others were convinced that the cosseting, cherishing and sheltering of the home schooled child resulted at times in the kind of human beings who are better avoided. 

 

The underlying problem though seemed to be that it was impossible to predict how any child might develop because it rather depended upon how they coped with the various problems life threw at their feet.   Some seemed unable to deal with quite minor troubles and wanted to blame others because their lives were not perfect becoming ever more inward looking.   But could these traits really be blamed on home schooling?    Something about that conclusion has never sat well with me – but then I was very much a Home Schooling Missionary way back then.  

Time to Bring Back a Reign of Terror

 

Philippa agrees with me as far as attention in hospitals and care homes is concerned – at least I think she does.   She and I have had a considerable and concentrated raft of experience in recent months and for her it’s not over yet.   We both agree that you simply cannot fault the staff because they are absolutely faultless.   Remember how years ago in the bad old days when hospitals still had Matrons and Staff Nurses how those wholesome caregivers turned into fiends and monsters as they climbed the career ladder? - how over time they terrified all in their path as they strode the hospital corridors?   Well it’s most definitely not that way these days because all and sundry – clients and colleagues alike are treated with undiluted sweetness and love.  It's as if the fundamental ideals of the 1960s have at long last crept into every corner of the health services.

Back in the bad old days when patients were not yet described as they would be when visiting their accountant, family members would certainly not dare to ask for something out of the ordinary on their behalf (water rather than orange juice, butter rather than olive oil spread) for fear of withering glances followed by a firm No!    All that has changed and today you can make any request imaginable and it will largely be agreed with.   Not a crushing glance in sight because everyone positively beams goodwill.   Even the timbre of the voices has changed and the tones of assent are reassuringly low and non-threatening.  A great deal of the time the speech is so soft that it’s quite hard to understand what in fact is actually being communicated but at least you can be sure that it is definitely not hostile.  Clearly entire staff bases have undergone more than one training course entitled Be Good & Be Kind or Spread Love Not War.  

The result of this is that becoming a patient is an immediately pleasant experience in the 2020s though all this sweetness and accord comes at a price.   I might be more anxious and frankly neurotic than most of course but it seems to me that one of the more worrying side effects is that it is easier than it once was to become seriously malnourished and at worst simply slip away via hunger if you should be unfortunate enough to remain in a modern hospital ward for more than a week or two.   Nothing wrong with the food because these days you actually get a menu and there are a range of tempting choices.  The problem seems to be that it is often placed just out of the reach of the recipient who is destined to simply remain tantalised by the wafting aroma.   Thirty minutes later it is whisked away by a smiling aide.    Philippa suggests that if this really is the case throughout the system and she’s by no means convinced because she doesn’t jump to conclusions quite as readily as I do, then the trick is to arrange for a family member to visit at meal times.  Someone who can do the job of those 1950s and 1960s nurses and ensure that bowls of soup actually reach their intended target.  Well who can argue with that?    It was disquieting recently to observe that an elderly man no longer able to swallow his Morphine pills was given ham sandwiches for lunch regardless.   After several complaints and days later nourishing looking soups began to arrive ….. and the only problem that remained was that the plastic lids were almost impossible for the hale and hearty to remove.  The seriously ailing had no chance at all!

Very disturbing to note that often those on a regime of intense pain relief like Morphine, which is likely to increase thirst, have mounting difficulty accessing drinks as they become weaker.  Even water poses problems as time after time requests are either not actioned by the smiling helpers or, equally frustratingly, when they do arrive they are once again placed just beyond the sick person’s reach.   More alarming perhaps are the jugs – far too large and unwieldy particularly for the terminally ill to manage.  A family member needs to be on hand most of the time in such cases. 

Most concerning of all as far as I could see were the number of requests both the trivial and the critical that were simply ignored and toppled off the radar.   It would of course be far easier to tackle this problem if people did not smile quite so much and nod assent quite so readily, an alarming degree of passive resistance.   Even when the specialist himself recommended that the tardy Morphine swallower should now receive pain relief via injection it seemed extraordinarily difficult to get this directive actioned by the cheery and genial assistant staff.  

Call me old fashioned but I cannot help thinking that life for both patients and their extended families was a great deal easier and more straightforward in the bad old days of the wicked Ward Sister’s Reign of Terror. 

LOOKING AT LIFE EVENTS

 

A death in the family stops most of us in our tracks and compels us to examine our values – especially the death of a life partner, and much more especially perhaps the death of a child.  That’s what Georgina and I were discussing yesterday when we met at long last in our usual Eastridge Mall café.  Yes indeed I am now most definitely making real attempts to ensure that normal life resumes.

However, none of us should be surprised to find that the more significant of life’s events have a habit of forcing us to stop in our tracks to scrutinise what is actually important to us.    Remember how the birth of a first baby suddenly made aspects of our parents’ nurturing skills seem almost comprehensible, their old-fashioned ideas strangely more acceptable?    That’s not to say we were not going to be much better parents than they were – of course we were!   Not always as easy as we thought it might be though.

It's only as our children grow into adults that we fully realise how effective or not our particular blend of rearing skills has been.   Have they developed into appreciative, loving human beings, capable of taking on adult responsibilities, making sensible decisions and facing up to the various slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?    Some need more time than others to cope with problems and will not be adequately armed against misfortune until they hit middle age. Others remain so inward looking and self-obsessed they are never able to make the transition needed - so concerned with themselves that it unquestionably takes your breath away - so unlike their siblings in every aspect that you are forced to stop and wonder where they came from.

Not so very long ago the poorly educated in the community blamed the moon for such offspring as these because the moon could be held responsible for all manner of ills - or the more fanciful might decide that somewhere along the way the child had been whisked away and replaced with a changeling.   My Grandmother was strangely and unexpectedly pragmatic and said she was inclined to blame what she termed the new-fangled idea of going into hospitals and nursing homes to have babies because you could never be quite certain that you would come home with the right one.    There is of course something to be said for this.

On the way home I found my thoughts straying to changelings and inadvertent birthing ward baby swaps.   The advent of DNA would of course provide a cast-iron resolution for the latter – the former dilemma would perhaps be not as simple to solve. 

Grief

 

It is not possible to adequately prepare for the loss of a life partner, not feasible to plan ahead for the distress of the first days and weeks, how best those early morning moments of searing anguish should be coped with.  It is impractical to devise strategies for dealing with the little islands of regret where bare selfishness and self-absorption is laid out for all to witness. The only tangible comfort comes from those who have recently suffered similarly.

I find myself reaching out across the ether to Molly my warmly recalled very first friend and her responses fill the little holes that grief is making.  And a call from Alison, one of the first people I met in this strange new country of nearly fifty years ago brings something almost like a moment of bliss simply because her recent widowhood means she recognises the shock and pain.

Almost as bad as the loss of Himself who was so wholeheartedly loved are the well-meaning offers of help that cause me to frequently decline to answer either landline or mobile.   Sometimes, caught by surprise, I attempt to explain but my anxiously hovering helpers clearly feel such clarification doesn’t apply to them – persistent offers of meals out, beach walks, coffee meetings tumble from their tongues.  Much worse, however, are those determined to `drop by’, `pop in’, to see me and I then whilst fighting rising irritation I search for words that decline these perturbing suggestions but don’t sound too rude, too dismissive.   I shudder at the idea of visitors, of making civil conversation together with cups of tea, of half smiling and wondering just how long they are going to stay, when I will be rid of them, when I will simply be able to return to the security of wallowing in misery.  

   Philippa, currently fighting her own battles with a beloved husband’s serious accident and illness, points out how strangely comforting are those messages of support that state there is no need to respond – just know we are here if you need us, and thinking of you!   How right she is – no need to turn down walks and talks and tea and picnicking, no necessity to couch refusals in a way that will not offend, no need for exasperation with the one or two who feel especially special and simply cannot accept that they too are being kicked to the kerb.

    I have been more satisfied than was necessary that the Virus made it difficult for family to return for a funeral – so none took place, simply a cremation and the ashes returned to me.  I have not had to gather the courage required to face all those intent upon telling me the extent of their sorrow to know of my loss. 

    I am content to simply consider my own wretchedness, to listen to Menuhin and Huberman and early recordings of La Traviata, to contemplate the poetry to Dylan Thomas and Wilfred Owen, to talk on the telephone to Sinead, drink endless cups of coffee with Patrick – and from time to time talk to Himself via his ashes.  And I wonder if somewhere, somehow, some way he actually hears me.