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.

COOKIN' 'N' LOVIN' - OR THE OTHER WAY AROUND

Once again I find that some people regard my husband's and my intelligence as proportionally worse as his condition deteriorates. It's as if our IQ and the illness are connected - the more energetic he is the better his (and my) brain work apparently, and the sicker he gets, so do his (and my) mind. Apparently.

Well - it doesn't work like that. But it makes me wonder how Stephen Hawking must feel sometimes.

This is all about giving us practical advice that we by now have checked out a hundred times over. It's about telling us what to do to get our house sold. It's coming up with bright new ideas of how to handle our daily routines. Oh bingo! Why didn't I think of that?! (Irony). Believe me. I have thought of EVERYTHING. Called EVERYONE. Checked out EVERY single medicine, city council aid, carers, stairlift, wheelchair, handicap parking, subsidised taxis, levered beds, innovative ways of selling our house - you name it.

It's not that I don't appreciate good advice, far from it. It's the way it's presented to us, patronising, pathologising, making us seem childlike and incompetent. Having always been in control and on top of most things it also takes me by surprise. I'm just not used to being talked to this way!

 

The other day my brother Harald spotted a jumping trout in the stream that runs past our house. It pleased me immensely. Never saw one myself during the 31 years I've been living here.

When I went to my psychology sessions this spring I spent about one session ventilating this. The therapist said: "It's well meant and it's just a way of showing concern. It's difficult to find topics of conversation." Yes. I know. I realise this. But why isn't everyone like that then? By contrast my husband had a visitor this afternoon - a childhood friend he hadn't seen in a long time, who came by with beautiful roses and time to sit down for hours. They talked about old times, reminiscing about boyish pranks, exchanging stories of children and grandchildren. I cooked dinner while they talked. The atmosphere was languid and pleasant in this dark and rainy autumn day that went from afternoon to evening with warmly lit candles. Not once did he challenge my husband or me on practical topics - and he's a plumber and probably knows practical solutions better than anyone.

I'm tired and exhausted and oversensitive, I know. On Monday this week I went with best friend Grete to a talk on next-of-kin to cancer patients. The occasion was the 20th anniversary of Hospice Lovisenberg here in Oslo, and Grete has photographed for the brochures. Oh, the photos touch me! The colour of cobalt blue that runs through the photo series like a vibrant nerve. Incredibly beautiful and poignant.

The talk - two bereaved husbands who spoke about losing their loved ones to cancer - the panel of experts - the very experience of putting a name to sorrow and grief. Even the laughs in between. Everything just hooked me up because of the recognition. Well, it would have done at any rate. Afterwards we went up the road to visit a new flat! Grete's handsome youngest son William and his absolutely gorgeous and intelligent Italian fiancée Lisa, whom I loved from the first time I met her, have bought an amazing place just around the corner from where I had my own flat after having moved back to Oslo in 1980. Nostalgia too! And contrast again - moving quickly from talk of death to wonderful life. I love the spirit of my own children and the children of my friends. It makes me appreciate eternal continuity, and then there is that huge recognition again.

Home made tomato soup - the easiest there is

Slow cooked pork neck!

Slow cooked lamb shoulder   

I've had a week of terrific cooking. I love to cook according to season, and now is the time for lamb. Sorry, vegetarians! I have two of them in my own family! I made a fantastic discovery on Thursday. I've noticed that all my favourite chefs cook pork neck filet these days, and when I found this in my local supermarket there was no going back! Oh wow…. the best meal ever. I checked the internet for guidance, then made my own version. Recipe will follow. This is comfort food no end, I think I discovered the trendy dish of "pulled pork." 

We even managed a dinner party a week ago, with our closest friends. I cooked lamb of course. My husband was host - looking after everyone, in his usual cordial gentlemanly way.

Strange this. At the same time as mastering good cooking I've been down and despondent. Perhaps I'm becoming an expert on contrasts.

Or perhaps it's called survival.

New York 1958

 

This suddenly reminded me of a small chopping board  - bought in New York in 1958 - that my expert cook mother always hung up on the wall in any kitchen she had (and she had many):

"Kissin' don't last - cookin' do."

It challenged my understanding (and grammar) of English from the time I could read. Hah! And kissing. And cooking.

FOUNTAIN OF SORROW

The other day I was suddenly, out of the blue, reminded of a favourite song of mine by the American singer/songwriter Jackson Browne. As a matter of fact he's one of the finest poets in the songwriting business, and his lyrics are worth listening to because they are loaded with profound meaning. This particular song - Fountain of Sorrow - is supposed to be about his short lived affair with Joni Mitchell, but the words will fit any frame of mind, any thought and feeling.

"Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light, you've known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight."

I think the reason it cropped up in my mind is the absolutely brilliant title. That same day I'd had a message from best friend Grete telling me that she'd lost her father-in-law. Her mother-in-law died only six weeks earlier. I knew them both - they were lovely people who welcomed me right into their home and their hearts when I went to England to visit Grete and her coming husband way back in 1975.

Grete wrote in her message to me: "A lot of sorrow this year. I have this wistfulness, but at the same time I'm incredibly grateful for all the love that lies embedded in that sorrow." I weep at the way she puts it! She's a true poet, just like Jackson Browne.

We had talked about all this sorrow just a few days earlier, and that was even before her father-in-law died. Mine, hers, her husband's, my husband's. When people ask me these days how I'm doing I find it hard to lie, to pretend I'm okay. Because I'm not. Things are going shit actually. I'm going through the hardest time of my life. It's inhumane, and not least unfair, the way life has given us this blow. We are on death row, simple as that.

I also find it hard these days to enjoy myself. Should I? Can I? Do I even have the strength to? My life is flooded with sadness. But - enjoyment can consist of so many things, so yes - I escape into books, music and films. But meeting friends for an evening out, or a girls' weekend away…. well, I cancel those. I have no wish to be away from my husband for any long period of time either. Yesterday he offered to accompany me on a 2.5 hour drive to the mountain cabin to show it to potential buyers, then 2.5 hours back again to Oslo. I so appreciated it! Just having him there, next to me in the passenger seat, meant the world. I would have been lonely and worried if I'd made the trip without him.

Still flowers in my garden - what a gorgeous autumn we're having here in Oslo!

Then suddenly I find I'm heeding Grete's words. Love lies embedded in the sorrow. Because lightness comes easily to me - heaviness is not a prominent part of my character - I am quick to turn my thoughts around and not sink into darkness. I laugh easily, and when my wise beautiful friend Tove came around yesterday and spent the night here, our giggles combined effortlessly with deep existentialist topics.

Tove's words to me are: "Don't fight life as it happens to you. Don't resist. Go with it. Move along with it. It will make everything easier to bear."

My Irish friend Addie - my sista from another mista - says to me: "Come to Ireland both of you and stay with us for as long as you like." She's practically prepared to remodel her house for us so that my husband can move around more easily!

It's exactly one year ago today since our lives were turned upside down. Coming down from the cabin yesterday afternoon I recalled the phone call from a very worried daughter Sophie when I was driving that same winding mountain track one year ago, after having spent half-term holiday up there with oldest daughter Johanne and the grandchildren:

"There is something really wrong with Dad."

Little do we know of what awaits us round the next bend of that winding road called life.

Fountain of sorrow. Fountain of light. This is what I am right now. Overflowing with both.

 

I cooked my grandmother's signature dish tonight - "brun lapskaus"- beef stew with autumn vegetables. The colours reflect the outdoors reds, yellows and browns. And it makes me think of the generations of wonderful people that come and go and leave their mark forever.