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.
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