I've given up chocolate. No it's not for Lent: it's for health and agility. I drove number-one son and three of his sons towards their camping spot on Loch Lomond today; I even got out of the car and walked...yes I said walked, along a lovely wooden boarded path, through the woods - in the rain I should add, under my big umbrella. All very earthy and natural (not to me) and I did enjoy breathing in fresh air - as opposed to the cloying lily-air in my flat (someone gave me lilies). So, when they climbed the stile and set off in a more difficult direction, I continued along the path to see the pretty view I'd been promised.
And it was nice but not really interesting enough, light-wise, for photography. The wind belted right across the golf course at me and my umbrella; it turned us all upside down and outside in. Definitely time to go home. Oh my legs! I must've walked all of 500 yards. So that's my exercise done for this weekend.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Another Memoir Extract: TRAVEL
1993 : Sitting by myself, wearing white leggings and big T-shirt; bare feet up on the opposite seat, boots under the table and a pile of library books in front of me. I’m watching a man with dark hairy arms, in the seat next to my feet. He has a pinky ring on his left hand and a sturdy beard buried in The Scotsman. Long hairs seep out of the neck of his cotton shirt. I wonder about his hands, how the long fingers would feel on my neck, tangled in my hair. Men like women with long hair. The glint of gold on his collar bone brings me to my senses; I can’t bear a man in chains. A child is grizzling further up the carriage - please let them get off at Berwick. Farmers are out hosing their fields. Still in the flat countryside of England, windbreaks of young trees laze in the beating sun. Fields of rape-seed turn the landscape into a painting with pylons etched between long looping power lines like suspension bridges.
Our table is littered with Yorkie bars, plastic glasses and orangeade. We were lucky the train was empty. I’d forgotten to book seats and had been worried but soothed with the idea of us all in separate carriages. Lee, Paul and Claire spread themselves out around the car but are now sitting together playing cards.We have become civilized travellers. I used to be the-mad-woman-on-a-train, screaming at my children under my breath, between my teeth and kicking their feet under the table. It was a case of, ‘Sit there, be quiet, give him that, leave her alone, don’t say things like that, look at the sheep, there’s the seaside, don’t, you’re the oldest, don’t talk to him then, play cards, shut up, leave me alone, give him some paper, see the mist rolling in, no you can’t, just because, shut up and sit down, Jesus Christ, you’re disgusting, blow your nose, I don’t know, another hour, watch my coffee, WILL YOU GIVE HER SOME PAPER!
'‘There’s the sea!’ Claire stands up. We’re coming up to Berwick. I like coastlines; see myself as The French Lieutenant’s Woman standing on the edge of land, pointing my tragic but beautiful face out to sea, watching for my future; waiting for something to happen. I want a house where the air is on the move: not stagnant - well-travelled air and a great expanse of sky. Sometimes I stand on the pier at Tynemouth. I’ve never been further than one night in Amsterdam.
Lee is 16, Paul 12, Claire 11…and I’m still alive. I dreamed the other night that I was smoking; I haven’t smoked for six years. The skin on my fingers is white/pink – nicotine stains long gone, nails white-edged. I dream a lot; sometimes they’re so strange I fear for my sanity – not the usual crazy feelings but real questions. I once dreamed that I halved Claire in two, put the bottom half inside the wardrobe and sat the rest of her up in bed. A day or two later a loud knocking on the door made me so afraid of what I’d done. I imagined a social worker at the door demanding to see my daughter. I tried to put her back together but the bottom half had withered slightly. Selotape held her together for the interview, which I don’t remember and everything turned out all right! I don’t know why I halved her in two.
A gypsy told my fortune last week. I saw her coming but couldn’t make my body avoid her. She grabbed my hand and talked fast with a strong Irish or country accent into my face. I couldn’t break free and could feel passers-by watching us as we stood beneath the hot air vents in the shopping centre. She said everything would be okay, that someone long-dead watched over me, that a man loved me and I would move house but not far. I kept asking her how much it would cost and she continued talking. As she tucked a small bunch of lucky white heather into my fist she asked me for three pounds. I couldn’t speak throughout the spiel, my chest was bursting into my throat. She took the money and I walked hard for the Haymarket exit, stumbled into Northumberland Street gasping for breath, trying to hold off tears. Why am I crying? I said to myself over and over again.
I glance at the children, ‘Look at the cows, they’re lying down. That means it’s going to rain.’ Lee is teaching them to play Chinese Patience. They’re not listening to me. I press my face to the window as the train curves. I can see its head and tail until my breath clouds the glass. Berwick is behind us now, only half an hour to Edinburgh. We spent a week in Berwick when Claire was one – she had her first birthday in a sand pit. The beach was impossible; it reeked of rotting seaweed, fumes waving up the cliff to keep us away from the edge. How many edges can there be in any one life?
Our table is littered with Yorkie bars, plastic glasses and orangeade. We were lucky the train was empty. I’d forgotten to book seats and had been worried but soothed with the idea of us all in separate carriages. Lee, Paul and Claire spread themselves out around the car but are now sitting together playing cards.We have become civilized travellers. I used to be the-mad-woman-on-a-train, screaming at my children under my breath, between my teeth and kicking their feet under the table. It was a case of, ‘Sit there, be quiet, give him that, leave her alone, don’t say things like that, look at the sheep, there’s the seaside, don’t, you’re the oldest, don’t talk to him then, play cards, shut up, leave me alone, give him some paper, see the mist rolling in, no you can’t, just because, shut up and sit down, Jesus Christ, you’re disgusting, blow your nose, I don’t know, another hour, watch my coffee, WILL YOU GIVE HER SOME PAPER!
'‘There’s the sea!’ Claire stands up. We’re coming up to Berwick. I like coastlines; see myself as The French Lieutenant’s Woman standing on the edge of land, pointing my tragic but beautiful face out to sea, watching for my future; waiting for something to happen. I want a house where the air is on the move: not stagnant - well-travelled air and a great expanse of sky. Sometimes I stand on the pier at Tynemouth. I’ve never been further than one night in Amsterdam.
Lee is 16, Paul 12, Claire 11…and I’m still alive. I dreamed the other night that I was smoking; I haven’t smoked for six years. The skin on my fingers is white/pink – nicotine stains long gone, nails white-edged. I dream a lot; sometimes they’re so strange I fear for my sanity – not the usual crazy feelings but real questions. I once dreamed that I halved Claire in two, put the bottom half inside the wardrobe and sat the rest of her up in bed. A day or two later a loud knocking on the door made me so afraid of what I’d done. I imagined a social worker at the door demanding to see my daughter. I tried to put her back together but the bottom half had withered slightly. Selotape held her together for the interview, which I don’t remember and everything turned out all right! I don’t know why I halved her in two.
A gypsy told my fortune last week. I saw her coming but couldn’t make my body avoid her. She grabbed my hand and talked fast with a strong Irish or country accent into my face. I couldn’t break free and could feel passers-by watching us as we stood beneath the hot air vents in the shopping centre. She said everything would be okay, that someone long-dead watched over me, that a man loved me and I would move house but not far. I kept asking her how much it would cost and she continued talking. As she tucked a small bunch of lucky white heather into my fist she asked me for three pounds. I couldn’t speak throughout the spiel, my chest was bursting into my throat. She took the money and I walked hard for the Haymarket exit, stumbled into Northumberland Street gasping for breath, trying to hold off tears. Why am I crying? I said to myself over and over again.
I glance at the children, ‘Look at the cows, they’re lying down. That means it’s going to rain.’ Lee is teaching them to play Chinese Patience. They’re not listening to me. I press my face to the window as the train curves. I can see its head and tail until my breath clouds the glass. Berwick is behind us now, only half an hour to Edinburgh. We spent a week in Berwick when Claire was one – she had her first birthday in a sand pit. The beach was impossible; it reeked of rotting seaweed, fumes waving up the cliff to keep us away from the edge. How many edges can there be in any one life?
Monday, March 09, 2009
Extract from My Memoirs
‘There is a bleed,’ he said.
Not, ‘Your daughter has had a cerebral haemorrhage.’ No, I get the dumbed-down version. Her brain is bleeding into the nape of her neck, where it will disperse. Well that’s nice and tidy, isn’t it? I’m sitting in a tiny room being diagnosed as thick. I want to be bombarded with enormous words and unintelligible language. She’s only been here a couple of hours and has already had two brain scans; they wouldn’t spend that kind of attention on nothing. I’m choking here, trying to be passive and not in the least dangerous.
A new doctor, Mr Surgeon, throws an assortment of options on the table, all of which include the possibility of death. Claire is an adult and only she can make this choice.
‘I’m only nineteen,’ she screams. ‘I can’t make a decision like that.’
My heart is filling up all the space in my mouth.
‘With the operation there’s a fifty-per-cent chance of death.’ His face never moves and all I can hear is a death sentence. He stands at the bottom of the bed – this is nothing like the scenes in TV drama; he doesn’t take anyone’s hand or pat the patient’s arm.
‘What if she doesn’t have it?’ I ask.
‘It could heal itself, or she might fall into a coma.’ He’s a silver-haired automaton. ‘She could live the rest of her life and it wouldn’t burst again but…’
‘I can’t…’ she says. ‘Just do it.’ Her boyfriend is on the other side of the bed, frozen into silence.
The surgeon goes on to describe risks and complications during and after the operation, then in the recuperation period. She is all I can see and hear; her whole life is inside me - I’m pregnant with this beautiful young woman, this busy, loving and sparkling entity. Suddenly I’m a mother again. I’ll be her Rotwieller; she’s too nice; she’ll need me. My head fills with memories of other hospital trips; sons with broken bones, blood and gore and handsome doctors; sexy arms holding x-rays up to light boxes; long muscled thighs stealing my attention. This is different and I am consumed. Death has stalked me all my life but this is my children; I need to stand up and fight. I can’t be that woman anymore, that single parent with one eye on the lookout for the right Mr Right.
They said she'd have time to rest before the operation but here they are wheeling her bed out of its place, unlocking the brakes.
‘It’s only five o’clock,’ I say, walking beside the bed.
‘Mum! It’s too early. He promised.’ She’s crying, grabbing our hands.
‘My God,’ two of her aunts come around the corridor and fall into this scene. Jean is instantly terrified; her husband died ten years earlier from the same thing – he was sent home from three hospitals, nine visits in two days, to die in his armchair at the age of thirty-two.
We trail through the hospital to Theatre, like the day my mother-in-law was taken to the nursing home; the whole family followed her wheelchair, two-by-two, down the road to help settle her in, all of us trying to hide our tears from the children. My mind is flashing clips of film and all the while I walk beside the bed, holding her hand, shushing her, telling her it’ll be okay even though her voice and face are boring holes in my heart. I am stunned at how quickly they take her from me. Ron, her boyfriend, doesn’t know how to act and I lead him to the front door so someone can give him a cigarette. My sons clasp me in their arms and I am dwarfed.
How do you spend five hours while surgeons are cutting into your child’s head? You imagine anything but the saw that will split open her skull; you call everyone in your phonebook and ask them to send up prayers for your only daughter; you allow yourself to be held and soothed by an enormous extended family outside the building, where they keep arriving; and you attempt to drink the awful coffee, watching your six-foot nephew stand and drip tears onto the café table. Then you have to get away from them to be on your own, just a quick walk around the block, not long enough for them to worry. The traffic flows past me, unaware of my trauma, on its way to the tunnel, belching pollution but I need to take deep breaths; it doesn’t matter what goes into my lungs. I am caught in the glare of a huge sunflower painted on the side of a building – it’s a sign.
‘I won’t lose my daughter. I know this.’
When I come into sight of the family I feel them relax. We move upstairs into a waiting area opposite the lifts. Of course there are arguing factions; sisters-in-law not talking to each other, separating the group, all of us trying to ignore it. A lift opens and I catch sight of Mr Surgeon standing at the back. Suddenly I’m flying at him, aware that he wasn’t going to come out and talk to me. He leans across and presses the button to stop the door closing and walks towards me, still with the calm face.
‘Tell me, is she all right?’
‘Fine. No problems. She’s in intensive care. You can go down there now.’ He gives me this good news without an emotion, no smile, but I want to wrap my arms around him. Maybe I just did.
Only a handful of us stay. This family constantly amaze me at the support they instantly present at the first sign of trouble. I urge them to go home, promise updates. My two sons and Ron gather ourselves and move to intensive care.
This is my daughter; she is complaining about the tubes that are collecting around her neck, hanging down from her head; her hand tries to swat them away. It’s proof of her personality, her repaired brain. Even an atheist’s prayer is heard by whoever is up there; my friends are diverse and odder than normal – thank God for them.
On the day she was born I was surrounded; by the kind of neighbours who were part of normal life then, the knock-and-walk-in; gossip or begging bowl; founts of local knowledge. Meg from next door and Maggie through the wall were keeping an eye on me because I’d been in labour all day – if you could call it that. I’d had a little pain in the morning, regular enough to make me believe. My father-in-law came up to collect Lee for a birthday party. When I told him that I was in labour he brushed it off.
‘You’re not in labour. I should know, I’ve had fourteen kids.’
I made him take Paul with him too. It was a Saturday so Matt had gone off to do his thing but I’d warned him to keep calling for updates.
‘We should’ve paid the phone bill,’ I said. Father and son – nothing like each other and yet the instant deafness makes them twins.
The weight of that child bore me down but I couldn’t sit; I could only wander around the flat. There was no pain. Where I went Meg followed. Flo downstairs ferried messages up to us from Matt until they stopped. My waters broke and we sent her down to call the ambulance. I tried lying on the bed but when the urge to push came I leapt up and held onto the bunk-beds, crossing my legs, trying to keep her in. I was terrified of everything that could go wrong and frightened that the lack of pain was a bad sign.
‘Where’s the bloody ambulance?’ We all said it at one time or another and sent Flo back down to find out.
‘Eddie forgot to give the address,’ she said. ‘He’s out of his face but it’s on its way now. Hold on.’
She’d asked me earlier if I wanted a joint. I said no. It never did anything for me; alcohol had always been my thing.
‘Oh God I can’t hold it any longer. Flo, roll your sleeves up, you’ll have to do it.’
‘Shit.’
Meg was hanging out of the bedroom window watching for the ambulance. I kept ranting about germs and shouting at her to close it.
‘It’s here,’ she ducked her head back in, and then out again. ‘Hurry up, she’s delivering,’ she called down three flights to the crew.
The head was out and still no pain. Flo’s face froze. I was so glad to see the two uniformed men walk into my bedroom and take over – so was she. She moved up to my side and took my hand. Meg did the same on the other side. I told the ambulance man that I had no contractions.
‘So just take a deep breath and push when you’re ready,’ he said.
She came out in a rush and I didn’t ask what sex – I assumed it would be another boy. I couldn’t believe I had a girl at last. Meg threw the window up and leaned out.
‘It’s a girl,’ she shouted to the street.
Another ambulance arrived, bringing the midwife who delivered the afterbirth and took care of Claire. Maggie was in the kitchen making tea. My bedroom had never been so full – tea for eight.
They packed me onto a stretcher and took us downstairs; that was scary. The midwife carried Claire behind me. When we got outside the front door the whole neighbourhood was lined up applauding and wishing us well. I pulled the blanket over my face, wanting to kill Meg because she’d whipped them up and was embarrassing me…and that stupid Matt had missed it all.
And that stupid Matt missed most of her life; there is no explanation for his behaviour and neglect of his children – even a conundrum can be solved. He has been told and will be here tomorrow. Even after all this time I still want to kill him, pan his face in with a hot skillet, stab him to death with a blunt spoon but I will be calm. I won’t let acid drip from my tongue – Claire will be proud of me.
Not, ‘Your daughter has had a cerebral haemorrhage.’ No, I get the dumbed-down version. Her brain is bleeding into the nape of her neck, where it will disperse. Well that’s nice and tidy, isn’t it? I’m sitting in a tiny room being diagnosed as thick. I want to be bombarded with enormous words and unintelligible language. She’s only been here a couple of hours and has already had two brain scans; they wouldn’t spend that kind of attention on nothing. I’m choking here, trying to be passive and not in the least dangerous.
A new doctor, Mr Surgeon, throws an assortment of options on the table, all of which include the possibility of death. Claire is an adult and only she can make this choice.
‘I’m only nineteen,’ she screams. ‘I can’t make a decision like that.’
My heart is filling up all the space in my mouth.
‘With the operation there’s a fifty-per-cent chance of death.’ His face never moves and all I can hear is a death sentence. He stands at the bottom of the bed – this is nothing like the scenes in TV drama; he doesn’t take anyone’s hand or pat the patient’s arm.
‘What if she doesn’t have it?’ I ask.
‘It could heal itself, or she might fall into a coma.’ He’s a silver-haired automaton. ‘She could live the rest of her life and it wouldn’t burst again but…’
‘I can’t…’ she says. ‘Just do it.’ Her boyfriend is on the other side of the bed, frozen into silence.
The surgeon goes on to describe risks and complications during and after the operation, then in the recuperation period. She is all I can see and hear; her whole life is inside me - I’m pregnant with this beautiful young woman, this busy, loving and sparkling entity. Suddenly I’m a mother again. I’ll be her Rotwieller; she’s too nice; she’ll need me. My head fills with memories of other hospital trips; sons with broken bones, blood and gore and handsome doctors; sexy arms holding x-rays up to light boxes; long muscled thighs stealing my attention. This is different and I am consumed. Death has stalked me all my life but this is my children; I need to stand up and fight. I can’t be that woman anymore, that single parent with one eye on the lookout for the right Mr Right.
They said she'd have time to rest before the operation but here they are wheeling her bed out of its place, unlocking the brakes.
‘It’s only five o’clock,’ I say, walking beside the bed.
‘Mum! It’s too early. He promised.’ She’s crying, grabbing our hands.
‘My God,’ two of her aunts come around the corridor and fall into this scene. Jean is instantly terrified; her husband died ten years earlier from the same thing – he was sent home from three hospitals, nine visits in two days, to die in his armchair at the age of thirty-two.
We trail through the hospital to Theatre, like the day my mother-in-law was taken to the nursing home; the whole family followed her wheelchair, two-by-two, down the road to help settle her in, all of us trying to hide our tears from the children. My mind is flashing clips of film and all the while I walk beside the bed, holding her hand, shushing her, telling her it’ll be okay even though her voice and face are boring holes in my heart. I am stunned at how quickly they take her from me. Ron, her boyfriend, doesn’t know how to act and I lead him to the front door so someone can give him a cigarette. My sons clasp me in their arms and I am dwarfed.
How do you spend five hours while surgeons are cutting into your child’s head? You imagine anything but the saw that will split open her skull; you call everyone in your phonebook and ask them to send up prayers for your only daughter; you allow yourself to be held and soothed by an enormous extended family outside the building, where they keep arriving; and you attempt to drink the awful coffee, watching your six-foot nephew stand and drip tears onto the café table. Then you have to get away from them to be on your own, just a quick walk around the block, not long enough for them to worry. The traffic flows past me, unaware of my trauma, on its way to the tunnel, belching pollution but I need to take deep breaths; it doesn’t matter what goes into my lungs. I am caught in the glare of a huge sunflower painted on the side of a building – it’s a sign.
‘I won’t lose my daughter. I know this.’
When I come into sight of the family I feel them relax. We move upstairs into a waiting area opposite the lifts. Of course there are arguing factions; sisters-in-law not talking to each other, separating the group, all of us trying to ignore it. A lift opens and I catch sight of Mr Surgeon standing at the back. Suddenly I’m flying at him, aware that he wasn’t going to come out and talk to me. He leans across and presses the button to stop the door closing and walks towards me, still with the calm face.
‘Tell me, is she all right?’
‘Fine. No problems. She’s in intensive care. You can go down there now.’ He gives me this good news without an emotion, no smile, but I want to wrap my arms around him. Maybe I just did.
Only a handful of us stay. This family constantly amaze me at the support they instantly present at the first sign of trouble. I urge them to go home, promise updates. My two sons and Ron gather ourselves and move to intensive care.
This is my daughter; she is complaining about the tubes that are collecting around her neck, hanging down from her head; her hand tries to swat them away. It’s proof of her personality, her repaired brain. Even an atheist’s prayer is heard by whoever is up there; my friends are diverse and odder than normal – thank God for them.
On the day she was born I was surrounded; by the kind of neighbours who were part of normal life then, the knock-and-walk-in; gossip or begging bowl; founts of local knowledge. Meg from next door and Maggie through the wall were keeping an eye on me because I’d been in labour all day – if you could call it that. I’d had a little pain in the morning, regular enough to make me believe. My father-in-law came up to collect Lee for a birthday party. When I told him that I was in labour he brushed it off.
‘You’re not in labour. I should know, I’ve had fourteen kids.’
I made him take Paul with him too. It was a Saturday so Matt had gone off to do his thing but I’d warned him to keep calling for updates.
‘We should’ve paid the phone bill,’ I said. Father and son – nothing like each other and yet the instant deafness makes them twins.
The weight of that child bore me down but I couldn’t sit; I could only wander around the flat. There was no pain. Where I went Meg followed. Flo downstairs ferried messages up to us from Matt until they stopped. My waters broke and we sent her down to call the ambulance. I tried lying on the bed but when the urge to push came I leapt up and held onto the bunk-beds, crossing my legs, trying to keep her in. I was terrified of everything that could go wrong and frightened that the lack of pain was a bad sign.
‘Where’s the bloody ambulance?’ We all said it at one time or another and sent Flo back down to find out.
‘Eddie forgot to give the address,’ she said. ‘He’s out of his face but it’s on its way now. Hold on.’
She’d asked me earlier if I wanted a joint. I said no. It never did anything for me; alcohol had always been my thing.
‘Oh God I can’t hold it any longer. Flo, roll your sleeves up, you’ll have to do it.’
‘Shit.’
Meg was hanging out of the bedroom window watching for the ambulance. I kept ranting about germs and shouting at her to close it.
‘It’s here,’ she ducked her head back in, and then out again. ‘Hurry up, she’s delivering,’ she called down three flights to the crew.
The head was out and still no pain. Flo’s face froze. I was so glad to see the two uniformed men walk into my bedroom and take over – so was she. She moved up to my side and took my hand. Meg did the same on the other side. I told the ambulance man that I had no contractions.
‘So just take a deep breath and push when you’re ready,’ he said.
She came out in a rush and I didn’t ask what sex – I assumed it would be another boy. I couldn’t believe I had a girl at last. Meg threw the window up and leaned out.
‘It’s a girl,’ she shouted to the street.
Another ambulance arrived, bringing the midwife who delivered the afterbirth and took care of Claire. Maggie was in the kitchen making tea. My bedroom had never been so full – tea for eight.
They packed me onto a stretcher and took us downstairs; that was scary. The midwife carried Claire behind me. When we got outside the front door the whole neighbourhood was lined up applauding and wishing us well. I pulled the blanket over my face, wanting to kill Meg because she’d whipped them up and was embarrassing me…and that stupid Matt had missed it all.
And that stupid Matt missed most of her life; there is no explanation for his behaviour and neglect of his children – even a conundrum can be solved. He has been told and will be here tomorrow. Even after all this time I still want to kill him, pan his face in with a hot skillet, stab him to death with a blunt spoon but I will be calm. I won’t let acid drip from my tongue – Claire will be proud of me.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
BEING A GRANNY FOR 3 HOURS
They use my car as a toy, these boyz from hell!
Off in all directions - which one will hit the sea first?
Out of the car and straight up a wall turning me into a serious complainer!
Jackets off and get stuck in there - where's the nearest dirt?Tuesday, November 25, 2008
SERENDIPITY
We were rolling along Great Western Road, keeping an eye out for the chairs we’d seen sitting by the roadside on our way out earlier; me and number-one son, Toc-Toc, had gone to pick up a lovely big telly from ZaZa, which sat very nicely in Clio’s boot and would look wonderful in the corner of my living room. So, as I turned from Anniesland Cross I glanced across the road and at the same time we both said,
‘There’s a silver TV stand over there.’
TocToc was out of the car and over the dual carriageway in a flash – I taught him well. As we’d passed through the edge of the city centre we caught sight of a little plastic table and bench, all red and yellow, for a child; it was still there on the way back too and we stopped so he could pick it up. A car full of free stuff just fills my heart with joy!
But the shape of this living room is driving me crazy; I can’t get the furniture to sit right in it at all, and the only whole wall has a radiator in the middle of it! I got TocToc to move the telly into the little nook by the old, previously fireplace wall but I think I’ll have to call him back to move it again – I’ll have one more try tomorrow before I ask him. I enjoyed my day with him; I hardly spend any time with him because he talks like a socially-starved automaton, and he’s a back-seat driver.
Afterwards, he directed me to a country road between Renton and Cardross across a moor, complete with cattle grids, and the views were wonderful. Ben Lomond is topped with snow and what a sight it is. The view of it from my window is obstructed by an ugly block of flats – as I turn into my road, just about thirty yards away, it rears up into the wintry sky like something from a postcard, right in front of me, a mountain all snowy and real almost within grasp of my city-girl eyes. I will take some photos and post them – even the ugly flats.
‘There’s a silver TV stand over there.’
TocToc was out of the car and over the dual carriageway in a flash – I taught him well. As we’d passed through the edge of the city centre we caught sight of a little plastic table and bench, all red and yellow, for a child; it was still there on the way back too and we stopped so he could pick it up. A car full of free stuff just fills my heart with joy!
But the shape of this living room is driving me crazy; I can’t get the furniture to sit right in it at all, and the only whole wall has a radiator in the middle of it! I got TocToc to move the telly into the little nook by the old, previously fireplace wall but I think I’ll have to call him back to move it again – I’ll have one more try tomorrow before I ask him. I enjoyed my day with him; I hardly spend any time with him because he talks like a socially-starved automaton, and he’s a back-seat driver.
Afterwards, he directed me to a country road between Renton and Cardross across a moor, complete with cattle grids, and the views were wonderful. Ben Lomond is topped with snow and what a sight it is. The view of it from my window is obstructed by an ugly block of flats – as I turn into my road, just about thirty yards away, it rears up into the wintry sky like something from a postcard, right in front of me, a mountain all snowy and real almost within grasp of my city-girl eyes. I will take some photos and post them – even the ugly flats.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
TOO MUCH LIFE
Over the past couple of weeks I've been through a multitude of family gatherings; a birth, a funeral and a wedding - though the wedding was my sister-in-law's friend and I was the photographer. The weather was awful, the worst imaginable; tons of rain, coming in waves and drains blocked with leaves; there were floods everywhere - I was terrified that my wee Clio would just phut-phut out in the middle of one of them, but she's a star.
So now, I have to present myself at a 20s soiree, wearing beads, for a friend's birthday. All this socialization is a bit too much for me...and, tomorrow I have to go meet a pile of writers doing Nano! But that's different, I'll socialise with writers anytime.
My daughter called me last night, just as I arrived back from the wedding, looking forward to my night of CSI stuff. Could I run her over to somewhere on the edge of the planet because she couldn't afford a taxi. So there I was, spending my night in a car, lost, with her on the phone (my phone) to drunk friends who didn't know where they lived or were unable to verbalise it!
This common life is too much for me; I want to be a hermit again.
So now, I have to present myself at a 20s soiree, wearing beads, for a friend's birthday. All this socialization is a bit too much for me...and, tomorrow I have to go meet a pile of writers doing Nano! But that's different, I'll socialise with writers anytime.
My daughter called me last night, just as I arrived back from the wedding, looking forward to my night of CSI stuff. Could I run her over to somewhere on the edge of the planet because she couldn't afford a taxi. So there I was, spending my night in a car, lost, with her on the phone (my phone) to drunk friends who didn't know where they lived or were unable to verbalise it!
This common life is too much for me; I want to be a hermit again.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
ANGER V DELIGHT
Angry? Try furious. That was something I never want to repeat; listening to a priest pontificate about religious politics during a funeral service. This doddering old man wandered across the scriptures to give himself a jumping-off place so he could rant about the credit crunch and how greedy people were for wanting more and more money - what did that have to do with Anne's life? I think he mentioned her twice; some of the family missed it!
His actions took all emotion out of the situation - maybe that was the intention; keep everyone from crying and breaking down in his church; make sure they are sufficiently bored, intoxicated, fused into a stupor. I know I'm coming from the Heathen point of view, but I am a connoisseur of funerals and have listened to some wonderful services - I know what I'm talking about.
So, it's best to change the subject - Lily is here! My poor niece struggled to give birth for days and eventually, on Sunday night - 35 minutes from Monday, Lily made her beautiful appearance, and boy is she pretty. Two weeks early and not a wrinkle in sight: smooth and gorgeous she is...and a sleeper! I spent an hour with her yesterday and she didn't open her eyes once. There was a real panic on Sunday night and worry for my niece; the baby was always all right. We've had the bad side of pre-eclampsia before when my sister-in-law, Sid, nearly died and lost her new son in the struggle. So it was a very tense time.
Lily was my mother-in-law's name; it's lovely to see it revived.
His actions took all emotion out of the situation - maybe that was the intention; keep everyone from crying and breaking down in his church; make sure they are sufficiently bored, intoxicated, fused into a stupor. I know I'm coming from the Heathen point of view, but I am a connoisseur of funerals and have listened to some wonderful services - I know what I'm talking about.
So, it's best to change the subject - Lily is here! My poor niece struggled to give birth for days and eventually, on Sunday night - 35 minutes from Monday, Lily made her beautiful appearance, and boy is she pretty. Two weeks early and not a wrinkle in sight: smooth and gorgeous she is...and a sleeper! I spent an hour with her yesterday and she didn't open her eyes once. There was a real panic on Sunday night and worry for my niece; the baby was always all right. We've had the bad side of pre-eclampsia before when my sister-in-law, Sid, nearly died and lost her new son in the struggle. So it was a very tense time.
Lily was my mother-in-law's name; it's lovely to see it revived.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
BIRTH V DEATH
Oooh X-factor is back and aren’t they just fabulous? I love Austen, and Laura and Diane, and Alexandria. Me and my sister-in-law watching together in our own homes, texting what we love and hate…we hate Daniel. He seems a nice guy but I don’t know why he’s there; I think there were quite a few would’ve done better in his place. I feel that the judges were diverted by his sob story; I’m surprised at Simon, but then it wasn’t his choice to bring him to the live shows.
And…he made it through, though I knew that the girl groups were the weakest of the bunch; individually they’re good but they’re all over the place. I feel a bit like that. I was driving home from Asda last night and suddenly Anne’s death hit me; we’ve all been a little matter-of-fact about it and haven’t taken the time to really think. I found myself crying in the car as I turned into my street, and it wasn’t the music, it was just time it caught up with me. Oh the weeping and wailing will turn up smack on time tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.
My sister-in-law, Sid, said she can’t drive; she is quite aware of how grief bounces back and back. Her driving test triumph was only a fortnight ago so it wouldn’t be a good idea for her. I bought my son, Musician, a new black jacket. TocToc will be stuck in Loch Lomond, his kids are off this week. Musician came out with age-old complaint, ‘Why is it we only see people at funerals?’ It is an awful truth.
My 19yr old niece is labouring as we speak – one in and one out, isn’t that always the way? And tomorrow is my eldest child’s birthday; that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to come to the funeral; he wants to spend his birthday with his family, and he hasn’t seen Anne for a couple of years. I won’t be able to forget the date of this funeral. Just think of the mixed tears from that birth and death, and Anne’s son left alone in the world – though he’s still got all of us, but is now forced to be a man on his own at twenty-seven. Whoever said life was easy?
UPDATE:
It's a girl - it was difficult - dangerous; pre-eclampsia but i think all is well, for now.
And…he made it through, though I knew that the girl groups were the weakest of the bunch; individually they’re good but they’re all over the place. I feel a bit like that. I was driving home from Asda last night and suddenly Anne’s death hit me; we’ve all been a little matter-of-fact about it and haven’t taken the time to really think. I found myself crying in the car as I turned into my street, and it wasn’t the music, it was just time it caught up with me. Oh the weeping and wailing will turn up smack on time tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.
My sister-in-law, Sid, said she can’t drive; she is quite aware of how grief bounces back and back. Her driving test triumph was only a fortnight ago so it wouldn’t be a good idea for her. I bought my son, Musician, a new black jacket. TocToc will be stuck in Loch Lomond, his kids are off this week. Musician came out with age-old complaint, ‘Why is it we only see people at funerals?’ It is an awful truth.
My 19yr old niece is labouring as we speak – one in and one out, isn’t that always the way? And tomorrow is my eldest child’s birthday; that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to come to the funeral; he wants to spend his birthday with his family, and he hasn’t seen Anne for a couple of years. I won’t be able to forget the date of this funeral. Just think of the mixed tears from that birth and death, and Anne’s son left alone in the world – though he’s still got all of us, but is now forced to be a man on his own at twenty-seven. Whoever said life was easy?
UPDATE:
It's a girl - it was difficult - dangerous; pre-eclampsia but i think all is well, for now.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
DEATH IS ON THE MOVE
I have moved out of my hermit phase, at last, and am now trawling the roads with Clio, the lovely wee car. I even went visiting the Pollok mob today and turned back into the wonderful sister-in-law I used to be; picking people up, dropping them off, chatting to small great nephews and neices - taking part in this life. A fabulous day wrapped itself around me: we gossipped, laughed, complemented, lied and were forced to keep crying at bay; the crying will have to wait for the funeral.
A sister-in-law died last night. She's been fighting cancer all year but it brought her down in a real hurry. I didn't know she was ill, and we're all feeling guilty because we thought time was infinite and that she'd always be there - no-one had given the cancer any importance. She was only forty-six. Like me, she was an ex-sister-in-law; the family can't get rid of the ex-wives the brothers collect. In this family, you're included from the beginning and you stay as long as you want, but you're always family, and the children multiply like rabbits.
I really hate funerals and am not a death-visitor in general; I've got to be very attached to attend them these days - there have been far too many in my life. So, we're glad of the two extra drivers and cars of the past week; I just got my wee Clio on Wednesday and a sister-in-law, Sid, just passed her driving test, so she's running around in her Micra now, free as a bird - well one with a husband and two kids!
And now we wait. I don't think we're in full-death-throes; the usual search for mass-black-suits for the boys and black ties. One year I had to make a dozen black ties; we were too poor to buy them. I suppose some of them will leak out of cupboards. I think we're saving the hysterics for the day of the service; usually the first sight of a hearse and we're off. God I hate crying in public. I just hate crying; I want to make peace, make everything and everyone better. The years fly by and the deaths pile up; we've had four years free of them, something had to give.
A sister-in-law died last night. She's been fighting cancer all year but it brought her down in a real hurry. I didn't know she was ill, and we're all feeling guilty because we thought time was infinite and that she'd always be there - no-one had given the cancer any importance. She was only forty-six. Like me, she was an ex-sister-in-law; the family can't get rid of the ex-wives the brothers collect. In this family, you're included from the beginning and you stay as long as you want, but you're always family, and the children multiply like rabbits.
I really hate funerals and am not a death-visitor in general; I've got to be very attached to attend them these days - there have been far too many in my life. So, we're glad of the two extra drivers and cars of the past week; I just got my wee Clio on Wednesday and a sister-in-law, Sid, just passed her driving test, so she's running around in her Micra now, free as a bird - well one with a husband and two kids!
And now we wait. I don't think we're in full-death-throes; the usual search for mass-black-suits for the boys and black ties. One year I had to make a dozen black ties; we were too poor to buy them. I suppose some of them will leak out of cupboards. I think we're saving the hysterics for the day of the service; usually the first sight of a hearse and we're off. God I hate crying in public. I just hate crying; I want to make peace, make everything and everyone better. The years fly by and the deaths pile up; we've had four years free of them, something had to give.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
MISSING MUM
When I was looking after my mother I didn’t have time to wonder when she would die; a client who calls me for tarot advice often asks me when her mother is going to die. The first few times she asked this I got a perverse pleasure from saying, ‘…not any time soon.’ There is also a man who puts this question to me about his wife; he’s been waiting for her death a long time. This all sounds bad but I really do understand where they’re coming from and just how difficult it can get – and how madly insane you can end up; the day I got my mother into a wheelchair taxi and onto the ward I had my clothes on inside-out and back-to-front, and my hair hadn’t been brushed for days.
I think that one of the hardest things to manage is that decision of just how much you can or should stand in any situation, especially when mental illness is a factor whether we’re talking about plain old senility or something more serious and dangerous – and senility can be full of missiles and snapping teeth! I know, I’ve been there, but it’s the insanity and total confusion of the whole scenario that drives you onward, until there’s no difference between you and the person you’re looking after – I know that I was off my trolly and when a social worker answered my plea for help I fell into her arms in the kitchen. I had a crazy mother on one hand and three teenagers on the other; there was no escape and up until then, no help that really helped.
It makes me sad now, thinking about that time and I thank the gods that it didn’t last long; she went out like a whirling dervish, my mother, and it’s taken years to relegate the memories into something softer. It’s easier to see the real woman she’d been; the mother and wonderful grandmother is now slipping out of the cracks to catch me in tears.
I think that one of the hardest things to manage is that decision of just how much you can or should stand in any situation, especially when mental illness is a factor whether we’re talking about plain old senility or something more serious and dangerous – and senility can be full of missiles and snapping teeth! I know, I’ve been there, but it’s the insanity and total confusion of the whole scenario that drives you onward, until there’s no difference between you and the person you’re looking after – I know that I was off my trolly and when a social worker answered my plea for help I fell into her arms in the kitchen. I had a crazy mother on one hand and three teenagers on the other; there was no escape and up until then, no help that really helped.
It makes me sad now, thinking about that time and I thank the gods that it didn’t last long; she went out like a whirling dervish, my mother, and it’s taken years to relegate the memories into something softer. It’s easier to see the real woman she’d been; the mother and wonderful grandmother is now slipping out of the cracks to catch me in tears.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
MOVING PICTURES
My grandmother dreamed of a sailor at the bottom of her bed - he never spoke. She looked forward to his beaming smile during the long sleepless nights, alone in a city centre flat - a daughter for every day of the week to ration sleeping pills and Codeine. She sang about sin and spat at Ian Paisley on TV.
Her grave is a mile from my bed, but she won’t leave me alone. I hear her singing in our spare room flinging up cold cotton sheets, calling for drains to be bleached, complaining about the men on my walls. 'Valentino!’ she’d sigh. ’Now, there was a man.’ She wore black and red to his funeral.
Religion was an extension of her old age pension. Nuns followed her home. She begged from priests, and charmed local bobbies in the middle of the night, wrapped up tight in flannelette and tweed wandering Glasgow Cross, searching for a sister lost in time.
When she died, my mother found money taped to the wall behind the Pope, enough for a hundred fish-suppers in front of Late Call and a blazing gas fire to tartan her shins.
My grandmother is a frail fairytale, missing from my mirror. I didn’t know her face would disappear - I was young, couldn’t see past my own fifteen years. I remember her buttery hair, tidy, with natural oils, scraped back, pony-tailed. How will I know who I am? There are no pictures, only vague memories, fleeting.
Her grave is a mile from my bed, but she won’t leave me alone. I hear her singing in our spare room flinging up cold cotton sheets, calling for drains to be bleached, complaining about the men on my walls. 'Valentino!’ she’d sigh. ’Now, there was a man.’ She wore black and red to his funeral.
Religion was an extension of her old age pension. Nuns followed her home. She begged from priests, and charmed local bobbies in the middle of the night, wrapped up tight in flannelette and tweed wandering Glasgow Cross, searching for a sister lost in time.
When she died, my mother found money taped to the wall behind the Pope, enough for a hundred fish-suppers in front of Late Call and a blazing gas fire to tartan her shins.
My grandmother is a frail fairytale, missing from my mirror. I didn’t know her face would disappear - I was young, couldn’t see past my own fifteen years. I remember her buttery hair, tidy, with natural oils, scraped back, pony-tailed. How will I know who I am? There are no pictures, only vague memories, fleeting.
Friday, May 02, 2008
SPAT BY TEXT
MOTHER and DAUGHTER
D: 26.10.07 at 12.06 - Mum, what the heck am I doin. I can’t even get the court date rite. Wats gona happen now – it just feels like I’ve already lost him. I’ve got nufin. A wana just curl up n die.
D: 26.10.07 at 16.24 - Sorry 4 yellin at u mum, a don’t know wats the matter with me. I’m going now to collect hero. X
M: 26.10.07 at 16.41 - I understand. Don’t make a habit of it. Try not to worry.
D: 27.10.07 at 12.10 - Hi mum, gona do me a fava n loan me £25 til tues, a need to get gas n fags n sum food, n I was gona take hero 4 a mcdonalds. I’m in bed now – horable headache.x
M: 7.11.07 at 11.40 - Anser ur bluddy fone.
M: 7.11.07 at 16.53- If u dont let me no ur alive I’ll call the police tomoro.
M: 8.11.07 at 16.21 - So wats all this about. Bring my camera round here tomoro.
D: 8.11.07 at 16.27 - For goodness sake, why cant I be left alone wen I dont want to see or speak 2 any1. stop takin offense wen I dont anser the fon. Am just havin a bad week. I’ll b up tomz wi ur £ just like I said I wud.
M: 8.11.07 at 16.40 - U’ll be a long time dead bfore I do that again.
D: 8.11.07 at 16.44 - Wats that ment to mean.
M: 8.11.07 at 16.51 - Dead wi nobody caring to call to c if ur ok.
M: 9.11.07 at 20.13 - U let me down. I need the camra and the muny.
M: 10.11.07 at 21.34 - So I dont matter it seems. Wen did u turn into this selfish bitch.
M: 11.11.07 at 11.47 - Take my camra over today. I need it…as if that matters to u.
M: 11.11.07 at 17.31 - Bring my camra up here rite now. Wat part of I need it dont u understand.
M: 11.11.07 at 19.19 - Gimme the camra. U really dont want me comin up there.
M: 12.11.07 at 14.01 - I can only assume u’v lost it. Is that wat al this is about.
D: 13.11.07 at 15.16 - I got home n my neighbour said ther was sum guy shoutin up at my window. U’d better control that lazy good 4 nufin son of urs mum! I no it was him! I have bn hidin. Ur camera is fine. I went bk 2 the doctor, he asked if I had family support…I said NO. I’ll b up tomoz wi ur camera.
M: 13.11.07 at 15.19 - U dont anser ur fone or door to ur fuckin family support.
D: 16.11.07 at 13.36 - Hi mum, so I got a new job. Starts nxt wk. u ok x.
M: 16.11.07 at 16.02 - I’m goin to work in a haf hour. R u still comin up.
D: 17.11.07 at 23.32 - Mum, need a fava. I started work last nite – nite club – they want me again tonite. I need £10 to get a taxi n that. U will get al ur doe nxt wk. I swear.
M: 17.11.07 at 23.34 - Thot u wer comin over last nite.
M: 21.11.07 at 15.32 - Who r u and wat hav u dun with my dotter. How can we comunicate.
M: 21.11.07 at 19.50 - U’v turned into ur father and thats not a compliment.
D: 21.11.07 at 18.18 - Hi mum. Sorry a’v not got bk to u, I’m really tryin to get bk on my feet n bk to my old self, got debts everywhere but I’m workin n tryin. x
M; 22.11.07 at 11.46 - I need my camra 4 the birthday party on sat.
M: 23.11.07 at 16.10 - My camra and charger. Party cant be dun anytime. Its tomoro. I wont forgive if u dont bring it. And I’ll be at yours first thing in the morning.
M: 24.11.07 at 11.06 - Times up. Ware is the camra. This is unbelievable.
M: 24.11.07 at 12.09 - I’m at your door now. U want to get round here before I get arrested.
M: 24.11.07 at 12.50 - Battry dead. Thanks.
D: 24.11.07 at 12.56 - U wernt nice today n dont turn it round on me. U say ur bankrupt as if its my fault. I asked u 4 £ cause I hav 0. I’d ask any1 else but thers no1. av no gas no food n now what, ur batterys dead! I’m in a mess. Ur even getting my last txt. Thanks.
M: 24.11.07 at 13.03 - U never bother to ask how I am. U always want sumthin. Its obvious now u’v cut me out of ur life.
M: 25.11.07 at 16.31 - I take it ur not bringing hero over today so I’m going to asda.
M: 27.11.07 at 14.28 - No need to worry. I’ll never fone u again.
M: 27.11.07 at 15.43 - Ur breaking my heart.
Isn’t that the truth! Families; who’d have them? They’ll kill you every time. Life is like a musical scale and within a family your head will certainly bang on every step of the ladder.
D: 26.10.07 at 12.06 - Mum, what the heck am I doin. I can’t even get the court date rite. Wats gona happen now – it just feels like I’ve already lost him. I’ve got nufin. A wana just curl up n die.
D: 26.10.07 at 16.24 - Sorry 4 yellin at u mum, a don’t know wats the matter with me. I’m going now to collect hero. X
M: 26.10.07 at 16.41 - I understand. Don’t make a habit of it. Try not to worry.
D: 27.10.07 at 12.10 - Hi mum, gona do me a fava n loan me £25 til tues, a need to get gas n fags n sum food, n I was gona take hero 4 a mcdonalds. I’m in bed now – horable headache.x
M: 7.11.07 at 11.40 - Anser ur bluddy fone.
M: 7.11.07 at 16.53- If u dont let me no ur alive I’ll call the police tomoro.
M: 8.11.07 at 16.21 - So wats all this about. Bring my camera round here tomoro.
D: 8.11.07 at 16.27 - For goodness sake, why cant I be left alone wen I dont want to see or speak 2 any1. stop takin offense wen I dont anser the fon. Am just havin a bad week. I’ll b up tomz wi ur £ just like I said I wud.
M: 8.11.07 at 16.40 - U’ll be a long time dead bfore I do that again.
D: 8.11.07 at 16.44 - Wats that ment to mean.
M: 8.11.07 at 16.51 - Dead wi nobody caring to call to c if ur ok.
M: 9.11.07 at 20.13 - U let me down. I need the camra and the muny.
M: 10.11.07 at 21.34 - So I dont matter it seems. Wen did u turn into this selfish bitch.
M: 11.11.07 at 11.47 - Take my camra over today. I need it…as if that matters to u.
M: 11.11.07 at 17.31 - Bring my camra up here rite now. Wat part of I need it dont u understand.
M: 11.11.07 at 19.19 - Gimme the camra. U really dont want me comin up there.
M: 12.11.07 at 14.01 - I can only assume u’v lost it. Is that wat al this is about.
D: 13.11.07 at 15.16 - I got home n my neighbour said ther was sum guy shoutin up at my window. U’d better control that lazy good 4 nufin son of urs mum! I no it was him! I have bn hidin. Ur camera is fine. I went bk 2 the doctor, he asked if I had family support…I said NO. I’ll b up tomoz wi ur camera.
M: 13.11.07 at 15.19 - U dont anser ur fone or door to ur fuckin family support.
D: 16.11.07 at 13.36 - Hi mum, so I got a new job. Starts nxt wk. u ok x.
M: 16.11.07 at 16.02 - I’m goin to work in a haf hour. R u still comin up.
D: 17.11.07 at 23.32 - Mum, need a fava. I started work last nite – nite club – they want me again tonite. I need £10 to get a taxi n that. U will get al ur doe nxt wk. I swear.
M: 17.11.07 at 23.34 - Thot u wer comin over last nite.
M: 21.11.07 at 15.32 - Who r u and wat hav u dun with my dotter. How can we comunicate.
M: 21.11.07 at 19.50 - U’v turned into ur father and thats not a compliment.
D: 21.11.07 at 18.18 - Hi mum. Sorry a’v not got bk to u, I’m really tryin to get bk on my feet n bk to my old self, got debts everywhere but I’m workin n tryin. x
M; 22.11.07 at 11.46 - I need my camra 4 the birthday party on sat.
M: 23.11.07 at 16.10 - My camra and charger. Party cant be dun anytime. Its tomoro. I wont forgive if u dont bring it. And I’ll be at yours first thing in the morning.
M: 24.11.07 at 11.06 - Times up. Ware is the camra. This is unbelievable.
M: 24.11.07 at 12.09 - I’m at your door now. U want to get round here before I get arrested.
M: 24.11.07 at 12.50 - Battry dead. Thanks.
D: 24.11.07 at 12.56 - U wernt nice today n dont turn it round on me. U say ur bankrupt as if its my fault. I asked u 4 £ cause I hav 0. I’d ask any1 else but thers no1. av no gas no food n now what, ur batterys dead! I’m in a mess. Ur even getting my last txt. Thanks.
M: 24.11.07 at 13.03 - U never bother to ask how I am. U always want sumthin. Its obvious now u’v cut me out of ur life.
M: 25.11.07 at 16.31 - I take it ur not bringing hero over today so I’m going to asda.
M: 27.11.07 at 14.28 - No need to worry. I’ll never fone u again.
M: 27.11.07 at 15.43 - Ur breaking my heart.
Isn’t that the truth! Families; who’d have them? They’ll kill you every time. Life is like a musical scale and within a family your head will certainly bang on every step of the ladder.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
THE RELIEF/RELEASE OF DEATH
1996 (snatches from my journal)
I still haven’t got the lovely wee car back yet; they’ve broken something else while they were fiddling with the exhaust and are searching Scotland for a new part. God knows when I’ll get it back, I’m demented waiting on these bloody buses or forking out for taxis; I must’ve spent £30 last week on them alone…and in the time I’ve spent on the buses I’ve read four little Penguin 60s and a half of William Golding’s The Inheritors. Brilliant.
She came home from hospital today and the torrent of abuse began the first time I refused her extra painkillers. I think she expected to be in charge of her pills and could take them whenever she wanted. She hadn’t been in the house five minutes when she attacked Amazon - in fact the ambulances were still in the road! I stuffed Amazon outside with busfare to the shopping centre and when I returned to the living room THE MOTHER had begun to throw money around the room; there were at least nine pound coins, all heading for my head.
‘Well, it can stay there,’ I said, ‘because I’m not picking it up.’ They’d scattered under the sofa, across the room, under the TV. I felt the tears behind my eyes. She began to cry and scream and then to sing. I phoned the hospital and asked advice about the little extra pill she’s allowed between the others if the pain is very bad. I’m just muddling along, but I won’t be bullied.
No-one came near today; no nurse, doctor, home-help, social worker. I don’t know where she’s going to sleep tonight; she’s terrified to lie down, can’t get her legs up on the bed. She’s huge – bigger than I thought. She tore off her bandages while I was cooking dinner. She said the hospital staff had put ‘bad stuff’ on her legs, on purpose to hurt her, just for pure badness. She’s going to sue them.
Back in 2008
– this clip is from the two weeks before my mother died; she went out like a tornado. A doctor described her as, Mad, bad and dangerous to know. She had persuaded me to get her out of hospital, that she would be fine when she was in her own house. I’d moved lock stock and children back up to Glasgow from Newcastle to do this (in the last year of my degree). I think the nursing staff was just glad to get rid of a difficult patient; she’d been throwing things all over the ward. Apparently it’s to do with hallucinations; she had water infections, leg ulcers...actually her body was drowning itself.
Obviously, no-one was looking at the big picture; they let me fall into this well and didn’t care enough to examine the situation properly. I ended up, a week later, sleepless, with my clothes inside out and back to front. It was a complete nightmare and the only support I got arrived on the last day because I’d broken down on the phone to someone with clout. When this stranger turned up I cried on her shoulder. She promised a wheelchair taxi if I could get my mother in the chair and out of the house; there had been a lot of biting and scratching going on – she’d completely refused to accept medical care for her legs or go to hospital. ‘Oh, I’ll stuff her in it all right,’ I said. I felt like a soldier going off to war, having to gather my courage for the onslaught. She had ballooned to a million stones, mostly water, and could barely stand, and I was knackered.
She'd tried to bite the doctor and nurses; she fell in the middle of the night and refused to go with the ambulance to hospital; two doctors offered me a bed for her and she wouldn't go; the only way out seemed for me to have her committed - thank God it didn't come to that.
I have to deal with the guilt incurred by the release I felt at her death, and temper it with memories of my real mother; that mad old bitch wasn’t her, and the whole incident was made worse by the money situation, the broken car, public transport and lack of support. Home carers have no idea of just how bad it can really get, until they’re so deep in the job that they can’t escape. I am glad that my experience was so short, but it is painful to accept and acknowledge that relief.
I still haven’t got the lovely wee car back yet; they’ve broken something else while they were fiddling with the exhaust and are searching Scotland for a new part. God knows when I’ll get it back, I’m demented waiting on these bloody buses or forking out for taxis; I must’ve spent £30 last week on them alone…and in the time I’ve spent on the buses I’ve read four little Penguin 60s and a half of William Golding’s The Inheritors. Brilliant.
She came home from hospital today and the torrent of abuse began the first time I refused her extra painkillers. I think she expected to be in charge of her pills and could take them whenever she wanted. She hadn’t been in the house five minutes when she attacked Amazon - in fact the ambulances were still in the road! I stuffed Amazon outside with busfare to the shopping centre and when I returned to the living room THE MOTHER had begun to throw money around the room; there were at least nine pound coins, all heading for my head.
‘Well, it can stay there,’ I said, ‘because I’m not picking it up.’ They’d scattered under the sofa, across the room, under the TV. I felt the tears behind my eyes. She began to cry and scream and then to sing. I phoned the hospital and asked advice about the little extra pill she’s allowed between the others if the pain is very bad. I’m just muddling along, but I won’t be bullied.
No-one came near today; no nurse, doctor, home-help, social worker. I don’t know where she’s going to sleep tonight; she’s terrified to lie down, can’t get her legs up on the bed. She’s huge – bigger than I thought. She tore off her bandages while I was cooking dinner. She said the hospital staff had put ‘bad stuff’ on her legs, on purpose to hurt her, just for pure badness. She’s going to sue them.
Back in 2008
– this clip is from the two weeks before my mother died; she went out like a tornado. A doctor described her as, Mad, bad and dangerous to know. She had persuaded me to get her out of hospital, that she would be fine when she was in her own house. I’d moved lock stock and children back up to Glasgow from Newcastle to do this (in the last year of my degree). I think the nursing staff was just glad to get rid of a difficult patient; she’d been throwing things all over the ward. Apparently it’s to do with hallucinations; she had water infections, leg ulcers...actually her body was drowning itself.
Obviously, no-one was looking at the big picture; they let me fall into this well and didn’t care enough to examine the situation properly. I ended up, a week later, sleepless, with my clothes inside out and back to front. It was a complete nightmare and the only support I got arrived on the last day because I’d broken down on the phone to someone with clout. When this stranger turned up I cried on her shoulder. She promised a wheelchair taxi if I could get my mother in the chair and out of the house; there had been a lot of biting and scratching going on – she’d completely refused to accept medical care for her legs or go to hospital. ‘Oh, I’ll stuff her in it all right,’ I said. I felt like a soldier going off to war, having to gather my courage for the onslaught. She had ballooned to a million stones, mostly water, and could barely stand, and I was knackered.
She'd tried to bite the doctor and nurses; she fell in the middle of the night and refused to go with the ambulance to hospital; two doctors offered me a bed for her and she wouldn't go; the only way out seemed for me to have her committed - thank God it didn't come to that.
I have to deal with the guilt incurred by the release I felt at her death, and temper it with memories of my real mother; that mad old bitch wasn’t her, and the whole incident was made worse by the money situation, the broken car, public transport and lack of support. Home carers have no idea of just how bad it can really get, until they’re so deep in the job that they can’t escape. I am glad that my experience was so short, but it is painful to accept and acknowledge that relief.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
WHAT WILL BE LEFT?
If you throw away my words after I’m dead I’ll disappear completely. I want to leave something; need to be more useful than a flash of selective memory in the minds of family and friends. I’d love it if some future relative unearthed my scribblings and were entertained and hopefully stimulated enough to make changes in their lives, because of me; I hope to be more than an image in a scrapbook (of my making).
The other night, I watched the dead body programme; a new Horizon for the future of our parts, where medical schools can put in an order for a bunch of knees or a clutch of forearms, with hands attached. Apparently there is a huge market in human spares; the actual parts are not for sale – the cost is for the work involved in the butchery process.
So, do you want to leave your body to medical science? Yes, I think I might. There was a mention of a website at the end of the programme, www.bbc.co.uk/horizon. I popped in there and eventually found the site I was looking for, with the information on how to put yourself in the hands of probing students. This is the link to The Human Tissue Authority. http://www.hta.gov.uk
It’s not just the working, warm parts that are useful and necessary:
After you die they can strip skin to be used as grafts
A spine costs $900 and is used for testing orthopaedic implants
In the US corneas are worth $6000 a pair for transplanting
Forearm & hand is only worth $383; used for surgical practice; learning techniques, like keyhole
Tendons can be up to $1000 each
Shoulders are complicated to remove, $510 each. They’re used for orthopaedic research and surgical practice
So, treat this as a kind of living will. My body doesn’t really matter to me. Of course I might be too old, or riddled with something that would make them reject me when the time came; there might be a glut of cadavers. In that case just stuff me in a rented coffin, straight from the morgue to the fire...with no services or witnesses. I won’t be there - I’ll be in the pub with you!
Though, wouldn’t it be great if, by then, there’d be a way to extract thoughts and memories from our brains; complete productivity.
The other night, I watched the dead body programme; a new Horizon for the future of our parts, where medical schools can put in an order for a bunch of knees or a clutch of forearms, with hands attached. Apparently there is a huge market in human spares; the actual parts are not for sale – the cost is for the work involved in the butchery process.
So, do you want to leave your body to medical science? Yes, I think I might. There was a mention of a website at the end of the programme, www.bbc.co.uk/horizon. I popped in there and eventually found the site I was looking for, with the information on how to put yourself in the hands of probing students. This is the link to The Human Tissue Authority. http://www.hta.gov.uk
It’s not just the working, warm parts that are useful and necessary:
After you die they can strip skin to be used as grafts
A spine costs $900 and is used for testing orthopaedic implants
In the US corneas are worth $6000 a pair for transplanting
Forearm & hand is only worth $383; used for surgical practice; learning techniques, like keyhole
Tendons can be up to $1000 each
Shoulders are complicated to remove, $510 each. They’re used for orthopaedic research and surgical practice
So, treat this as a kind of living will. My body doesn’t really matter to me. Of course I might be too old, or riddled with something that would make them reject me when the time came; there might be a glut of cadavers. In that case just stuff me in a rented coffin, straight from the morgue to the fire...with no services or witnesses. I won’t be there - I’ll be in the pub with you!
Though, wouldn’t it be great if, by then, there’d be a way to extract thoughts and memories from our brains; complete productivity.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
FASHION IN MY CHILDHOOD
When I was about ten, I made myself a skirt with a piece of red felt; I sewed it into a tube, hemmed the top and threaded elastic through for the waist then I hemmed the bottom with white cotton! Mum had taught me how to do a back stitch for seams, but hadn’t impressed upon me the importance of using the same colour cotton for invisible hemming. I didn’t notice the little white stitches dotted around the hem…and was out in the street, wearing my creation, in a flash. When my mother spied me posing in this MINI she dragged me inside and made me take it off…AT ONCE! I couldn’t see what the problem was…it was beautiful. She eventually raised the hems of my dresses a few inches, which didn’t make any difference at all; they still covered my knees…this would be about 1964 when it seemed that the whole world noticed what you were wearing.
She made all my clothes; another bone of contention in later years when fashion reared its ugly head. I hated almost all of the clothes I had to wear, but I do remember a pretty summer dress that had merry-go-rounds on it; that dress was made immortal in a patchwork quilt. Sundays were horrible; I was dressed nicely, and forced to wear a straw hat with flowers on the brim…the hat stayed on my head with the help of elastic string under my chin that itched and drove me crazy. I tried leaving that hat everywhere but there was always someone busy enough to find it for me. I even tried throwing it into the burn but the wind skited it along the bank and it landed safe on the grass. I spent half my time running away from those hats. I was sent off to Sunday school every week, wearing my hat. And, when every other child in the place was showing her knees below her dress, mine were ten inches up and under dresses that practically reached my ankles – this was definitely not fashionable!
She made all my clothes; another bone of contention in later years when fashion reared its ugly head. I hated almost all of the clothes I had to wear, but I do remember a pretty summer dress that had merry-go-rounds on it; that dress was made immortal in a patchwork quilt. Sundays were horrible; I was dressed nicely, and forced to wear a straw hat with flowers on the brim…the hat stayed on my head with the help of elastic string under my chin that itched and drove me crazy. I tried leaving that hat everywhere but there was always someone busy enough to find it for me. I even tried throwing it into the burn but the wind skited it along the bank and it landed safe on the grass. I spent half my time running away from those hats. I was sent off to Sunday school every week, wearing my hat. And, when every other child in the place was showing her knees below her dress, mine were ten inches up and under dresses that practically reached my ankles – this was definitely not fashionable!
Thursday, October 04, 2007
WHAT A WORLD
I’d rather be a cleaner than a teacher; when people tramp all over your work they apologise, and sometimes ask your permission to continue. Students don’t usually say that they’re sorry for giggling in your class and disrupting the lesson plan you spent ages working out. Thank the stars I didn’t spend time in that area. I did quite enjoy popping in at Book-week and doing creative writing workshops, or reading something with the younger years. Teaching English to ten 10yr old Spanish kids just makes you paranoid. I couldn’t hack it – give me a mop every time.
I like adults; people should be born at nineteen, with all the angst already flashed through their dreams, although babies are nice – maybe we could have babies as toys. But I quite like four-year-olds, they’re funny, and intense. Though I have seen some awful little beasts on the streets here; I saw a male one last week, belting around on a bike, swearing and growling to himself. He looked about five! And I have seen worse on the streets in the west end of Newcastle; carrying their booty from houses the older boys had broken into. Even comparing kids in the same family, the cousins, my God! When Amazon took her lovely, only child up to visit the Loch Lomond mob she was traumatised watching ToughGuy put the half-nelson on her little red PowerRanger. My older son, TocToc has five children and they all just tumble over each other. One of them can be sitting watching television, quietly, and another will suddenly leap on him. It’s a mad house. Just watching PowerRanger’s face is great entertainment.
I don’t visit often – I like to talk to them on the phone. Though, maybe that’s why they all go a bit hysterical when they do see me. On their own they’re fine, and I would take them most places without having to go back and apologise. I once took three of them out, together…oh my God! Never again. Comedian was about two and I had him in the buggy. As we walked around the west end of Glasgow he leaned out, calling ‘Dickhead!’ at people passing by. I was mortified. My oldest grandson said, ‘Just ignore him granny, he’s a bad boy.’ But they are usually good, and they stop swearing before they turn three. When PowerRanger was about 14mths I held his hand at the top of the stairs, in TocToc’s house, and went to take hold of ToughGuy, he suddenly sat and slid down the stairs on his straight legs! I don’t know why I was surprised. My only granddaughter is three, and is as tough as any of them; they used to drag her around like a rag doll.
It’s a wonderfully strange world; I’m told that their teachers love them, but it wouldn’t be me.
I like adults; people should be born at nineteen, with all the angst already flashed through their dreams, although babies are nice – maybe we could have babies as toys. But I quite like four-year-olds, they’re funny, and intense. Though I have seen some awful little beasts on the streets here; I saw a male one last week, belting around on a bike, swearing and growling to himself. He looked about five! And I have seen worse on the streets in the west end of Newcastle; carrying their booty from houses the older boys had broken into. Even comparing kids in the same family, the cousins, my God! When Amazon took her lovely, only child up to visit the Loch Lomond mob she was traumatised watching ToughGuy put the half-nelson on her little red PowerRanger. My older son, TocToc has five children and they all just tumble over each other. One of them can be sitting watching television, quietly, and another will suddenly leap on him. It’s a mad house. Just watching PowerRanger’s face is great entertainment.
I don’t visit often – I like to talk to them on the phone. Though, maybe that’s why they all go a bit hysterical when they do see me. On their own they’re fine, and I would take them most places without having to go back and apologise. I once took three of them out, together…oh my God! Never again. Comedian was about two and I had him in the buggy. As we walked around the west end of Glasgow he leaned out, calling ‘Dickhead!’ at people passing by. I was mortified. My oldest grandson said, ‘Just ignore him granny, he’s a bad boy.’ But they are usually good, and they stop swearing before they turn three. When PowerRanger was about 14mths I held his hand at the top of the stairs, in TocToc’s house, and went to take hold of ToughGuy, he suddenly sat and slid down the stairs on his straight legs! I don’t know why I was surprised. My only granddaughter is three, and is as tough as any of them; they used to drag her around like a rag doll.
It’s a wonderfully strange world; I’m told that their teachers love them, but it wouldn’t be me.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
GROWING-UP PAINS
Amazon was over here today, checking out my little space in the minefield that is Musician’s flat. She was impressed enough to suggest more visits; the space Musician inhabits, ie, living-room, is a maze of wires – a bit like a spider’s web, where he sits in the middle and spins his music, moving bits of something here, there and everywhere. She never comes here – and that hurts his feelings; he’s the sensitive middle child, and gets upset when she tells him his place is bogging. So now she knows that some kind of clean has entered the building she’ll pop over now and again. I usually have to walk the several streets it is to her flat, so I’m happy; now I can continue my layabout life and if she needs me she can come here.
The stress and depression is still hanging over her; she had the follow-up doctor’s visit this afternoon and he made slight changes to the meds she’d been given a few weeks ago. I reminded her that these are only temporary measures until she can get back into a better sleeping pattern and relax into the pressures of the custody battle. She still hasn’t been back to the burnt-out flat; we need to get our stuff out of there so the workmen can repair it – she can’t bring herself to face it again, yet.
I’m glad I’m old and have dropped my passion off along the way; I wouldn’t want to have to go through all that LIFE again – relationships and children and money and all that STUFF. I don’t really worry about money, even now, because I am only me, with no dependants. My children are dealing with their lives and there’s not a lot I can do to help except support them (and drag them to the doctor now and again) and dish out advice. I brought them up to be individuals: not just my children; but it is painful to watch them suffer all these slings and arrows.
One of my sisters-in-law is struggling with her son; it’s a real bitch of a fight where she’s trying to hold on to him, keep control and he’s choking-to-death. There’s nothing anyone can do and it’s heart-breaking to watch; the pain they’re causing each other is awful. He’s 22 and should have left home by now but was so comfortable, even in the confines of his prison. I should try and talk to her; point out that when parents get to where she is they often behave worse than the child ever did and move everything to enormous proportions. Of course he’s not a child now but she is absolutely blind to that fact; she continually brings up all her hard work in taking care of him, which included paying his phone bills and buying him anything he thinks he wants/wanted. He doesn’t want to hurt her but won’t or hasn’t been able to cut himself off even though he hates living there. She won’t listen to anything anyone has to say anyway, so there’s no point – we’ll have to wait till the end of the play to see what happens.
The stress and depression is still hanging over her; she had the follow-up doctor’s visit this afternoon and he made slight changes to the meds she’d been given a few weeks ago. I reminded her that these are only temporary measures until she can get back into a better sleeping pattern and relax into the pressures of the custody battle. She still hasn’t been back to the burnt-out flat; we need to get our stuff out of there so the workmen can repair it – she can’t bring herself to face it again, yet.
I’m glad I’m old and have dropped my passion off along the way; I wouldn’t want to have to go through all that LIFE again – relationships and children and money and all that STUFF. I don’t really worry about money, even now, because I am only me, with no dependants. My children are dealing with their lives and there’s not a lot I can do to help except support them (and drag them to the doctor now and again) and dish out advice. I brought them up to be individuals: not just my children; but it is painful to watch them suffer all these slings and arrows.
One of my sisters-in-law is struggling with her son; it’s a real bitch of a fight where she’s trying to hold on to him, keep control and he’s choking-to-death. There’s nothing anyone can do and it’s heart-breaking to watch; the pain they’re causing each other is awful. He’s 22 and should have left home by now but was so comfortable, even in the confines of his prison. I should try and talk to her; point out that when parents get to where she is they often behave worse than the child ever did and move everything to enormous proportions. Of course he’s not a child now but she is absolutely blind to that fact; she continually brings up all her hard work in taking care of him, which included paying his phone bills and buying him anything he thinks he wants/wanted. He doesn’t want to hurt her but won’t or hasn’t been able to cut himself off even though he hates living there. She won’t listen to anything anyone has to say anyway, so there’s no point – we’ll have to wait till the end of the play to see what happens.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
IT'S A HARD LIFE AND THEN YOU DIE
I've been sitting here all morning, surfing: not writing, and watching Topcat chase two huge flies around the room. She caught one between her paws on the window ledge, and her whole body froze; she raised one paw a fraction and peeked at her prey, then she ate it.
I think I'm going to the burntout flat with Amazon today. I've been too busy with the job to go there and didn't realise that she was in such a state because everything had just folded on top of her. She didn't tell me anything and I was getting annoyed, thinking that she was just being lazy, and that she had fallen out with me - she wouldn't answer her phone. When she finally did pick-up she couldn't speak for crying. This was last Thursday; I asked to leave work and turned up at her flat in a taxi only minutes after talking to her. I'd tried to get her to go to the doctor and she finally got me off the phone by agreeing to go after she freshened herself up. I knew she wouldn't. I made her take a bath and dragged her there in a taxi, and went in with her to make sure she told the doctor about all the symptoms she'd been experiencing. She's all twitches; almost like someone with tourettes syndrome - except for the swearing.
The doctor says it's probably stress, related to the custody battle and the fire; and the good thing about that is that there will be a definite end to these problems. So she gave Amazon something to take before bed that will relax her and help her sleeping patterns, and hopefully the nightmares will go too. It's agonising to watch your daughter go through this kind of pain; I'm trying to keep it together so I will be a good support but it's so hard when my face wants to collapse into my throat. And of course there is the guilt because I returned to Glasgow to help her and ended up focused on myself and a new job; this working life will kill me. Maybe I need a nice man to look after me so I can give more time to my children. But when would I have time for him, or me? And when will my children not need me? When I'm dead is the answer to that.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
EARLY MUSINGS
I've just noticed the advert above here for a 'swollen gland' problem, and the trojian virus too. It's scary how some computer programme scans everything I'm writing so it can assign the adverts. This is more than big brother; Dad, Grandad and all the Uncles have poked their oars right in.
I'm still locked up tight but full of medication. Off to see the Loch Lomond mob today; it's Tough Guy's birthday and I forgot to post anything for him, so I must present myself. He's five already; I am constantly amazed at how people grow when I'm not looking. I'll phone TocToc to find out if there's anything in particular I should buy. I'm thinking I might have a little wander in Dumbarton; I've only ever been there once, for a few minutes...and if I'm planning on moving out that way I should have a look at my new territory. So I suppose I should get up and get dressed then.
I'm still locked up tight but full of medication. Off to see the Loch Lomond mob today; it's Tough Guy's birthday and I forgot to post anything for him, so I must present myself. He's five already; I am constantly amazed at how people grow when I'm not looking. I'll phone TocToc to find out if there's anything in particular I should buy. I'm thinking I might have a little wander in Dumbarton; I've only ever been there once, for a few minutes...and if I'm planning on moving out that way I should have a look at my new territory. So I suppose I should get up and get dressed then.
Monday, August 20, 2007
BEAUTIFUL GRANDCHILDREN
Number one grandson is, Bouncer
Number two, Shouts at the Sea
Number three, Comedian
Number four, Tough-guy
Number five, Power Ranger
Grandaughter is, Grubby Angel
The best thing about them, by far, is the fact that I am not responsible; I can leave when it all gets too noisy, or if they're at mine I can call their parents to come get them. I don't see them often enough for them to get too familiar and rude; so I usually get them at their best, which is NICE. I'm planning to go visit them sometime after work this week. This is a big year for a few of them: Power Ranger and Tough-guy started school; Bouncer started secondary school; and Grubby Angel started nursery. I haven't been up there since I've been back; they turned up here in my first week and terrified Musician's little cat, who I'm now going to rename Topcat.
Number two, Shouts at the Sea
Number three, Comedian
Number four, Tough-guy
Number five, Power Ranger
Grandaughter is, Grubby Angel
The best thing about them, by far, is the fact that I am not responsible; I can leave when it all gets too noisy, or if they're at mine I can call their parents to come get them. I don't see them often enough for them to get too familiar and rude; so I usually get them at their best, which is NICE. I'm planning to go visit them sometime after work this week. This is a big year for a few of them: Power Ranger and Tough-guy started school; Bouncer started secondary school; and Grubby Angel started nursery. I haven't been up there since I've been back; they turned up here in my first week and terrified Musician's little cat, who I'm now going to rename Topcat.
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