CHRISTMAS? WHAT CHRISTMAS?

So here's hoping that my blog readers haven't forgotten all about me! I checked and discovered that my last entry was posted on November 12 - which is over six weeks ago. In those six weeks I've lived a whole lifetime and experienced one of the most dramatic upheavals of my life - moving house after thirty-one years. 

Well, I might be exaggerating just a tiny bit here, because as it turned out I haven't really looked back once. I think the whole process of moving - clearing out, throwing away, then living for a while among packed boxes, the actual removal, the horrible mess, the huge effort of it all - it is such an incredibly exhausting job, and the relief of getting yourself, your family and all your belongings safely under a new roof is overwhelming. Not to mention taking in the grim ugliness of the old house when it's been emptied. That's when you really spot all the flaws!

My three daughters threw a joint "Burning down the House" party in their empty childhood home, placing candles everywhere and playing loud music that reverberated all through the neighbourhood. No complaints from the best neighbours in the world, who will be sadly missed. We did live in Paradise, I realise that now, after having moved to an apartment block with hundreds of rules and regulations and plenty of self-appointed janitors to enforce them. We managed to receive angry heated complaints from four different people in as many days, not even knowing exactly what we did wrong. (Well, one of the mistakes was placing my husband's wheelchair in the corridor outside our front door - I should have known that was offensive)… 

First evening in new home

First night in new home

Veranda in new home

My husband spent the moving week in a Hospice in Oslo, a brilliant suggestion from his cousin. At one point in this process there is nowhere to sit, nowhere to lie down, nowhere to cook, no towels or soap to have a shower. He was wonderfully cared for by the angels who work in the Hospice, and was happy not to be in anyone's way or have us stress him. 

The removal men claimed they'd never moved such a huge load before - I don't know if I believe them! They used 8 hours the first day and 3 the next. I thought that was pretty quick! I've never seen such efficiency, I don't think they took a single break! And I had fantastic help from daughters Sophie and Julie and son-in-law Josh. I couldn't have done it without them, and on the Friday I took them out to dinner at the atmospheric restaurant of Tranen, complete with pre-dinner cocktails in the Speakeasy bar, several courses and three bottles of wine. Well deserved!

In the midst of all the craziness and hassle of moving and settling in, my husband had two appointments at the cancer hospital - the brain scan and a week later the doctor's for results. We knew it wouldn't be uplifting because his eyesight is deteriorating. And not surprisingly we were right - the tumour is growing and spreading its tentacles into the visual cortex of the brain. So not only is his left side mobility getting worse, but he's now only able to vaguely discern his surroundings. TV-watching and reading are out of the question. But the real blow for him is not making out the playing cards properly at poker. He will be seeing an optician after Christmas, to explore the possibilities of attaching magnifying glasses to his spectacles, or something to that effect.

Colourful gingerbread created by my grandchildren

Decorating the Christmas tree with what we managed to find - very minimalistic!

Table set for our Norwegian traditional Christmas dinner on the 24th December - fun and laughter and great food

But we have enjoyed Christmas so far after all, not least because my husband has a remarkable will and way of mastering his fate and his reduced faculties. An admirable reconciliation with his limitations, which are not limitations to him, but challenges! Not least because we have an exceptional family surrounding us. And not least because his friends support him to the end of the world and back. They never stop phoning, or visiting, or taking him out. 

But I must admit that on the day I was bitched at for leaving the wheelchair in the corridor, only minutes before we were due at the cancer hospital for the scan results, I lost it completely with the rude complainer (a man), who never even introduced himself, and I yelled at him that his timing was so bad and I would place the wheelchair on the veranda the second I came back from the hospital (if that wouldn't be another provocation), and that in addition I would move out again as soon as possible from this hellhole of an apartment block. (I'm sure he didn't sleep too well that night, and I'm glad if he didn't)… Then later that evening - when my husband stumbled and fell up the stairs to the poker room while I was assisting him, I simply burst into tears, uncontrollably.

Small challenges can simply bowl me over these days, while those big challenges seem to keep me going. Is this what is called fighting for survival? Perhaps.

Merry Christmas to all of you! I love you!

NOVEMBER GIFTS

We've been celebrating a birthday since my last blog post - my husband's. It was on Monday, but a Monday birthday (let alone a November birthday…) is always a bit boring, so we're planning a more elaborate dinner later on in the week.

A new check-up at the doctor's went ahead as planned last week and a new round of chemo was prescribed. This type of chemo medicine, called Lomustine, is not even commonly available in Norway and has to be applied for, but apparently it's promising in the treatment of brain tumours. The cycle consists of four pills that are swallowed as a single dose, then six weeks without, then a new dose, and so on. The drug is long acting in the body, so side effects may occur continually. Though I must say - as he's been through one cycle already - my husband seems to deal well with these lethal looking blue capsules. Also considering all the other medication he has to take!

He is very unsteady on his feet now, as his whole left side is dysfunctional - arm, hand, leg and foot. With the aid of a supportive arm from one of us, or his crutch, or his wheelchair, he is still able to stay fairly mobile. But because of the reduced functionality he had a drop-foot brace fitted a couple of weeks ago, and we drove off to pick it up yesterday on the other side of town. It's placed in the shoe (it has to be a shoe with a little extra room) and fixed around the leg, and it's meant to lift the front part of the foot automatically. It's brilliant, but it takes some getting used to. Essentially my hope is that it will stabilise his balance and make him less worried about tipping over and falling. Which, to our horror, has happened a few times, and it makes me writhe with guilt for not having supported him properly. But it's only a matter of letting go of his arm for maybe a second, to bend and pick up something, or to open a door, or to turn around.

Last week we finally sold our house. Not obtaining the price we hoped for, but well… It's a burden off our shoulders. So now it's finally time to move to the new flat, with everything on one level, one of the bathrooms en suite with the master bedroom, which will be just a few steps away from my husband's bedside. One more step in the bathroom and he'll be in the shower! Oh, it'll make things so much easier for him! And for me too, being his "left hand and foot."

We actually took over the flat formally on the 16th September, and these are the photos I took that day. We went through every little fault that should have been corrected since our previous inspection in June. On both occasions we brought with us our friend Per, who's an engineer and builder and an expert on these things, and I honestly don't know what I would have done without him. He discovered everything from the most minute irregularities to the graver ones - on walls, window sills, floors, kitchen fronts, bathroom tiles, doors - in paint structure, in mouldings, skirting, grouting. The builders walked around sticking blue tape on the imperfections, and by the time we left there was a definite aura of blue throughout the rooms… And with Per's photographic memory it was necessary to have him there on the second - and final - inspection, and for sure - up with some of the blue tape again!

Picnic basket on kitchen counter

The sales representative had brought with her a picnic basket to the take-over, and I had a hard time figuring out why. Picnic on the new balcony? Her idea of a practical handbag? Well, as soon as the papers were signed she pulled out the contents - two champagne glasses, a bottle of….. not champagne but apple juice! And a toilet roll. "This is your welcome gift from us!" Hmmm, well… one can never own enough picnic baskets, I suppose.

Our house is bursting with beautiful flowers from friends and family on the occasion of my husband's birthday, and in the midst of it all there suddenly arrived a gift for me too! With my daughter Julie's return from Australia - which was of course the greatest gift of all - there was a "pamper pack" from her mother-in-law Kim. The absolutely fantastic and gorgeous Kim became my soulmate during the four days (four days? It seemed more like four weeks!) that we worked together before, on and after the wedding in July. We became a team from the minute we met, and pulled together - with all the others too of course - towards the one goal of making this wedding THE event of the century. I will claim forever that for as much as the rest of the family also put in their greatest efforts, the two Big Mamas won first prize in organisation and logistics! 

Can't wait to start on the book - the other pamper stuff has already been tried!

Had my hair cut! Quite a bit!

As usual I'm trying - and succeeding, I think - in finding some joy in the little things in life. Although I'm pretty exhausted and sorrowful, there is so much to be happy about. The house burden is gone, though I'll be terribly upset to leave my home of the last thirty-one years. But I adjust easily to a new environment, and the important thing is having my loved ones around me. Home is where the heart is, definitely. 

I will always cherish the atmosphere in my living room this afternoon. Four of us - two daughters, my husband and I just sat around chatting, joking, laughing, planning. I was knitting, one daughter was writing thank you cards for wedding gifts, the other one was practising her card dealing skills while watching instruction films on Youtube. My husband was so much a part of the conversation. 

There certainly is nothing wrong with his mind. 

BLACK IS BLACK

 

"I can't stand the rain against my window…" - a song by Ann Peebles, but one which I associate with Tina Turner. 

Well, it's not entirely true. I really don't mind the rain, as long as it doesn't go on for ages. It can be quite soothing actually, and not least cosy. The above photo, taken through my window from the inside, shows my living room mirror inverted. We always look forward to building a fire in our fireplace, but the weather is too warm at the moment! November with 11-12 degrees, well… Though I do recall the weather the week after my daughter Julie was born on the 28th November 1986... You are not supposed to take newborn babies outside into winter temperatures because it can be bad for their lungs, but the weather that November and December was glorious - according to my standards anyway because I hate the snow and cold - and we wrapped her up in the pram and took her for walks immediately. It was like an Indian Summer!

Today was All Saints Day, and we bought wreaths and candles and trudged off through the rain to our parents' graves. Me pushing my husband in the wheelchair over the deep though beautiful red gravel paths of the cemetery - and wow, what a physical challenge! This wheelchair is on loan from the district council, and we're waiting for the "real" one (ordered a month ago). I'll make sure I phone them tomorrow to ask them to place a small motor device on it!

An eventful week has just come to an end. Just before last weekend my husband started complaining about pains in his left side, vaguely explaining them as stabbing into his lung, his shoulder, his chest. I was definitely not accommodating - "this is probably just a pulled muscle, you've been lying in bed too long, blah blah…" Besides, Sunday was the day he really started hurting and wanted to see a doctor, and it just wasn't convenient for all our plans that day, also considering it wasn't a weekday, so that meant less people on call in every hospital or emergency room. I convinced him to wait, as we were due to see the cancer doctor on Wednesday anyway.

Oh, my black black conscience!

Knitting at hospital bedside, a relaxing pastime for hours

On Monday morning I awoke with an obvious and sudden thought: Blood clot! Embolism! It simply dawned on me that his symptoms reminded me of the ones he had thirty years ago, when he had a blood clot in his lung after knee surgery. And he'd thought the same.

Phone call to hospital, off after quick breakfast, admission to emergency examination ward, LOTS of tests, blood tests showing infection, lung scans, and yes. Embolism - blood clot in his lung and early pneumonia. Hospitalised for two days.

Hospital meal for me from the kiosk in the foyer - the saltiest and driest omelet I've ever tasted. You can actually see the dry crust here...

What's wrong with my judgment? My trivialisation of a very ill man's pains? My authority phobia? Because that's what it is - I'm basically scared of people in scrubs, or in uniform, or in authority positions of any kind! Afraid of teachers, police, customs (well, that's more natural perhaps). My daughters will tell you that if I'm ever stopped by police in a traffic control I'm immediately guilty as hell. Whatever they'll accuse me of - speeding, drunk driving, car faults - I'll admit to everything easily! Present them both my wrists and ask to be jailed. Arrest me! I've done it all!

And it certainly didn't help when a friend of my husband's called and said: "Oh no. You shouldn't have handled it this way. Never hesitate! Contact the doctor immediately"! Yes please. Do rub it in.

So I didn't want to bother the hospital staff. Even with a husband who's got the worst diagnosis ever. I learnt something this week, and that's a good thing. I learnt not to excuse myself to people in scrubs. Hah! Besides they are all younger than me! The doctor who admitted my husband had long red curls and huge tattoos. What age could he have been? 28 perhaps? I'll deal with the police next!

Bryan Ferry - dancing with hand on thigh. Like all older men do.

Thinking back on this somewhat traumatic week - my husband was released after two days in hospital AND told everything was discovered at an early stage and there was no real danger - I see that I've had a good time after all. Fantastic shellfish meal at sister Kari's house last Saturday - and her delicious sauces are the best! Relaxed and warm atmosphere with those closest to my heart. Bryan Ferry in concert a week ago with good friends (and Dim Sum first - which I love)! Tea and talk on Wednesday with sweet neighbour Lone, school Mum in Sophie's class (though ages ago now), then an unexpected visit and beautiful flowers from old friend Tonje on Friday - we gave birth to our first-borns within hours of each other on the same snowy December night in 1983. That's how we met and became friends! Last night there was dinner with two of my very best friends Anne-Helene and Unni, and we talked and laughed until... well….. None of us looked at the clock…. I'd arranged for two mates of my husband's to stay with him while I was at dinner, and I'd cooked for them and made sure there was enough tonic water in the house for their GTs. What more could they ask for?

Always soothing - "walkin' and talkin" in the Park with best friend Grete

Scary granddaughter Jelena and friend Frances on Halloween night - they won first prize in the contest! 

What I really wanted to say tonight is this: Black conscience or not, traumas or no traumas, ups and downs, rain or shine. I love my friends. I appreciate immensely all the support I get and I revel in a "like" or a comment on Facebook, or a message behind the FB wall. I indulge in sympathising emails, I take great pleasure in every comforting word and feedback. You should know - all of you - that it helps me make it through the night. Or the day for that matter. I honestly don't know where I would have been without you. And I relay it all - well nearly all - to my husband. 

NOT WAVING BUT DROWNING

Today's blog post title is borrowed from the famous poem by Stevie Smith, and the line has kept recurring in my mind this last week. It describes me right now - barely keeping my head above water and not at all waving out there in the breakers. I might just be drowning.

I'm utterly exhausted and weariness permeates me to my bones. It's both mental and physical. I'm downhearted and most of all scared. Scared as hell. Scared of death, which I'm now walking hand in hand with.

A friend of ours died unexpectedly two weeks ago and her funeral was on Tuesday. After the funeral - a beautiful touching ceremony - I went home and slept for three hours, got up for a few hours, went back to bed. The emotions took completely hold of me and turned me into a useless wreck. To top it all one of our best friends became critically ill earlier this week and was taken to hospital. Fortunately he's getting better, and we visited him this afternoon.

I just want to sleep and sleep and have nice dreams and never wake up to the nightmare that my life has become. This morning I woke up crying. Crying from lack of restful sleep, from all the obligations I have (practical chores don't just disappear), from expectations that I'm supposed to fulfill. I'm so vulnerable that if someone speaks to me in a slightly raised or irritated voice I burst into tears. I procrastinate, push everyday challenges and problems away and bury my head in the sand. Basically I want to be rocked like a little baby and told that everything will be okay.

The torrential rain over our district suits my soul

Everything else than being there for my husband is now only unnecessary noise and tiresome duty. My days revolve around him and his needs. I pull him out of bed in the morning (literally), I put toothpaste on his brush (he still brushes his own teeth, only with his right hand), I dress (and undress) him, I sort his medication and give it to him, I make him breakfast - and cut up his food if necessary - I drive him to doctors' and therapists' and other appointments, I make sure he gets out at least once a day. I roll the wheelchair when necessary, I help him with his crutch, I support him up and down stairs. Most of all I encourage his poker playing, a welcome time out with the boys - who assist him and joke with him - and his beloved cards help him concentrate on other things.

My husband is a good cook, a willing helper, a great cleaner, an excellent driver. As long as I've known him we've pulled together in the same direction in our household. Well, it wouldn't have worked otherwise, all the years that we held full-time jobs and had children in three different schools or kindergartens and at numerous after-school activities. But now he sits in his chair and expresses deep concern for me having to do everything.

No, no, no, my love! I want to take care of you. I know you'd do the same for me.

Still flowers in my outdoor pots towards the end of October!

Did we or did we not get a cat? This one is so unfaithful! It seems all our neighbours ask themselves the same question...

I've thought of my life in times of hardship as moving forwards through two parallel tunnels - one above ground and one way below. The one above comes out in the light every so often and the one below trudges through darkness incessantly. My choice is this: Do I want to stay in the dark one? Because no one would think it strange if I did. Or do I want to see the light emerge and flood over me at frequent intervals? Being who I am - the optimistic and easy-to-make-smile girl, I choose the latter one. But having said that, I know that touching on my deepest fears and saddest emotions must also be a part of my life. They ARE an inseparable part of my life now, more than I ever imagined they would be.

Focusing outwards again today, I was invited by daughter Sophie to the opening of her friend Nora's new shop in our neighbourhood. So inspiring, so beautiful, so well done! Congratulations Nora! I love it! And especially I love the entrepreneurship, the courage of starting a new business, a young girl just diving into it, prepared to work hard. Like our own daughter. Like us, my husband and I.

Furniture, clothes, gifts, trinkets, wonderful books (which both Nora, Sophie and I held as our favourite items), an informal opening meal of Italian cheese and salami from the delicatessen next door, champagne and roses! 

To hold on to my uplifted mood afterwards I decided to have a solitary lunch in a nearby café after dropping my husband off at his physiotherapist. I ordered "Tuscan Style Tomato Soup" and a Latte. Hmmm… even if my spirits are a bit down my modesty certainly isn't - my own home cooked tomato soup is soooo much better! I nearly went over and told them what changes they should do to the recipe…. not a decent thing to do though…. (Honestly - I love coriander - but not in a Tuscan tomato soup for heaven's sake)!

I brought my new Harlan Coben novel for company, and though I haven't read one of his in a while, once again I find it unputdownable. The author himself says he wants readers to get immersed in his books and not find their way out until they've finished, and that's the way they work. Perfect escapism! Coben is from New Jersey, and a great NJ patriot too, and as far as I've noticed he always mentions either Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street band or Jon Bon Jovi in his novels, to honour his fellow Garden State compatriots. He probably likes their music too!

And suddenly this mystery and crime writer spoke directly to me: "This was life though, wasn't it? Death made you crave life. The world is nothing but a bunch of thin lines separating what we think are extremes."

At the local hospital today to visit our friend. Brought back memories of my husband's very first MRI scanning of his brain just here - almost exactly one year ago

This picture of a flower I dropped on the wet tarmac last February is my favourite. It speaks to me with great clarity - and trite symbolism! 

Greyness and colour go hand in hand. So do life and death.