http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EYAUazLI9k&annotation_id=annotation_72265&feature=iv%3e
If you haven't seen the above youtube yet, do try to find it and just smile. What is it about "The Sound of music" that makes it, for me at least, such a pleasure to watch over and over again? Maybe it's the catchy tunes, the "triumph over evil" or maybe it's just the exuberance of the film as a whole. Everything works out for the best and it's done to uplifting joyful music. Wouldn't a little life tune be fun sometimes?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
My mother
On 21 August it was my mother's birthday. she would have been 84, maybe or even 81. She had two different dates for her birth and an obsession about not letting her real age be known. When she died I left out her birth date on purpose on the notification. When people asked me how old she was I replied that she would not have wanted me to tell.
I think about my mother with great great sadness, not because I lost my mother but because her life was such a waste. She died isolated and sad and I could not help her. She was angry with me with everybody and because I was her caretaker she often vented on me. The rational together me knows I should not have taken it personally but I did. Once when I took her to the hospital, deceiving her that I was merely taking her to the clinic for vitamin B12 injections (the elixir for all ills), she became furious with the doctor, the nurses, telling them that there was nothing wrong with her, she just needed to sleep. And then she turned to me and spewed forth such venom, I was left breathless. She reviled my father, my sister, my brother and before she let loose her anger on me, I fled, ostensibly to get her stuff at the home where she was staying. She became desperately ill and nearly died and never referred to her outburst again. But then, we only had careful conversations. My mother's anger was in a class of its own.
She died about 9 months later, from brain cancer. She just slowly left and we never talked about anything more serious than the weather. Except one day, she looked at me and said, "I'm so afraid for twelve" I didn't know what she meant and replied, Don't worry too much Mom, after all twelve is older than eleven and younger that thirteen. she looked at me with her clear blue eyes and said "You know I've never thought about it in that way" and she half smiled and that was the end of that conversation.
At her funeral there were only about 15 people but the blessing was that they told me what she had meant to them, what a good and kind and supportive friend and surrogate granny she had been. It was good to know that my mother was more than the sad angry woman I had known all my life.
I think about my mother with great great sadness, not because I lost my mother but because her life was such a waste. She died isolated and sad and I could not help her. She was angry with me with everybody and because I was her caretaker she often vented on me. The rational together me knows I should not have taken it personally but I did. Once when I took her to the hospital, deceiving her that I was merely taking her to the clinic for vitamin B12 injections (the elixir for all ills), she became furious with the doctor, the nurses, telling them that there was nothing wrong with her, she just needed to sleep. And then she turned to me and spewed forth such venom, I was left breathless. She reviled my father, my sister, my brother and before she let loose her anger on me, I fled, ostensibly to get her stuff at the home where she was staying. She became desperately ill and nearly died and never referred to her outburst again. But then, we only had careful conversations. My mother's anger was in a class of its own.
She died about 9 months later, from brain cancer. She just slowly left and we never talked about anything more serious than the weather. Except one day, she looked at me and said, "I'm so afraid for twelve" I didn't know what she meant and replied, Don't worry too much Mom, after all twelve is older than eleven and younger that thirteen. she looked at me with her clear blue eyes and said "You know I've never thought about it in that way" and she half smiled and that was the end of that conversation.
At her funeral there were only about 15 people but the blessing was that they told me what she had meant to them, what a good and kind and supportive friend and surrogate granny she had been. It was good to know that my mother was more than the sad angry woman I had known all my life.
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Bag
This has been an interesting exercise in patience, determination and a sustaining of a flagging belief in my ability to learn new things. I'm sure other people navigate Blogger without losing their sense of self or without becoming increasingly convinced of their own stupidity. But let me confess, I do not try new stuff because if I fail, I hear a voice in my head telling me with total honesty, "You can't do this, you are as thick as two planks." It's an old voice and a destructive one. I would have hoped to have silenced it by now but alas, it is also a resilient voice resistant to change. And I had wanted to post this picture on the previous blog because this is the bag I had bought. But that wasn't possible so here it is and I am a near total wreck.
This picture is a reminder to me of Hope; hope that I can make a difference, hope that I can learn new stuff and above all the hope that when things don't turn out the way I want, I can hope for a new outcome and not beat up on myself!
"Hope"
Hope is not blind or rigid optimism that usually passes for hope, but an open sense of possibility, acceptance of risk and a willingness to work things out. Hopeful people face reality in a clear-eyed fashion, doing the best they can. The hopeful person loos at reality and then arrives at solutions. If a hoped for outcome becomes impossible,the hopeful person will find something else to hope for" (Psychology Today)
"Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things and no good thing ever dies."
"I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope." (Shawshank Redemption)
I saw hope at work last night. We were invited to a charity wine auction in aid of the Jan Kriel school. This is a school, or so I thought, for children with learning disabilities and some minor physical disabilities as well. Then the first speaker of the evening appeared, a bright eyed and bushy-tailed 17 year old. His left arm seemed paralised. "Cerebral palsy is such a bummer", I thought. But this young boy has a disease called Neuropathy, a degenerative nerve disease that will continue to rob him of some of his muscle abilities. He told us about how he first lost the ability to write with his left hand. Then he wrote with his right hand until that failed. Then his notes were taken in class by a scribe and now he uses a voice-activated computer to do his work. He walked among the tables asking the guests if they need anything and relayed the requests to the waiters. He lives in hope.
So to ease my miserable death-obsessed soul, I bought a Cartier handbag. It is beautiful and my reminder that hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things and a good thing never dies.
"I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope." (Shawshank Redemption)
I saw hope at work last night. We were invited to a charity wine auction in aid of the Jan Kriel school. This is a school, or so I thought, for children with learning disabilities and some minor physical disabilities as well. Then the first speaker of the evening appeared, a bright eyed and bushy-tailed 17 year old. His left arm seemed paralised. "Cerebral palsy is such a bummer", I thought. But this young boy has a disease called Neuropathy, a degenerative nerve disease that will continue to rob him of some of his muscle abilities. He told us about how he first lost the ability to write with his left hand. Then he wrote with his right hand until that failed. Then his notes were taken in class by a scribe and now he uses a voice-activated computer to do his work. He walked among the tables asking the guests if they need anything and relayed the requests to the waiters. He lives in hope.
So to ease my miserable death-obsessed soul, I bought a Cartier handbag. It is beautiful and my reminder that hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things and a good thing never dies.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
"You are dying! So what."
Mr Wilson's book is published in large print, very large print. Maybe it's biblical:"See with what large letters I write to you." Maybe the biblical Paul was myopic as well. Or maybe he (Mr Wilson) thinks that when you become involved with dying your eyesight also fails and you need the big letters. Or maybe it was just a really THIN book otherwise. I have mixed feelings about this book. In part it gives good solid advice but somehow he suggests that you are chipper and in charge. Shit, if I'm dying I don't think I'm going to be "Patient" or "Diplomatic." Dying after all, takes total commitment, there is no half-ass way of doing it.
And this crap that you must TEACH through your dying. Sorry buster, there are no teachers of death. I've not met one person who can say "I've done the whole dying thing and this is how it works." Dead people do not walk around as an every day event. (OK, let's not move into the paranormal now; normal is sticky enough as it is). And he recommends a "theme funeral", such as a circus theme or a holloween theme. Once again, not for me! As a character in "The Big Chill" said, "It's not fair, on the one day they know you can't come, they throw a big party for you".
And this crap that you must TEACH through your dying. Sorry buster, there are no teachers of death. I've not met one person who can say "I've done the whole dying thing and this is how it works." Dead people do not walk around as an every day event. (OK, let's not move into the paranormal now; normal is sticky enough as it is). And he recommends a "theme funeral", such as a circus theme or a holloween theme. Once again, not for me! As a character in "The Big Chill" said, "It's not fair, on the one day they know you can't come, they throw a big party for you".
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
"Death be not proud"
Am I the only cancer survivor who's preoccupied with death? Is it a form of denial, that if I look at death closely it won't come for me? I'm not sure. What I do know is that since 2007 I've read about death and I've thought about it almost every day.
Generally it's fleeting. "Today I might die" or "What if I wake up dead?"
I've also read about it quite intensively, Patricia Weenolsen, "The art of dying",James Langford Wilson, "You are dying! So What.", Sue Wood & Peter Fox, "Dying. A practical guide for the Journey" and Julian Barnes. "Nothing to be frightened of." Each has information about death, some better formulated than others and some suggestions I found ridiculous - but that's only me. Then there is the essay "Crossing the Creek" and that was possibly the most accurate discription of the physicality of death. It was written by a long time hospice worker and deals with realities such as loss of appetite, sleeping, confusion, fear and seeing people. Food is such a symbol of caring that we want to feed someone even if it is no longer necessary and this essay made me aware that a shutting down, a needing less, is part of the process. He also emphasises that people die in their own specific way and that it should be allowed. I found The Art of Dying well written and informative and it was very specifically aimed at people facing their own death. In his forward Bernie Siegel however says "that until you take your last breath, you are still living."
But still I have no answer, Why am I so focused on death? To all intents and purposes I'm clean and cured and will live to a ripe old age. And yet...
Generally it's fleeting. "Today I might die" or "What if I wake up dead?"
I've also read about it quite intensively, Patricia Weenolsen, "The art of dying",James Langford Wilson, "You are dying! So What.", Sue Wood & Peter Fox, "Dying. A practical guide for the Journey" and Julian Barnes. "Nothing to be frightened of." Each has information about death, some better formulated than others and some suggestions I found ridiculous - but that's only me. Then there is the essay "Crossing the Creek" and that was possibly the most accurate discription of the physicality of death. It was written by a long time hospice worker and deals with realities such as loss of appetite, sleeping, confusion, fear and seeing people. Food is such a symbol of caring that we want to feed someone even if it is no longer necessary and this essay made me aware that a shutting down, a needing less, is part of the process. He also emphasises that people die in their own specific way and that it should be allowed. I found The Art of Dying well written and informative and it was very specifically aimed at people facing their own death. In his forward Bernie Siegel however says "that until you take your last breath, you are still living."
But still I have no answer, Why am I so focused on death? To all intents and purposes I'm clean and cured and will live to a ripe old age. And yet...
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