How to do nothing.

 

Yesterday, work had been challenging. And then Mum’s ‘stuff’ became a challenge too. 

She has heart failure. The nurse came out to see her. They had asked me to be present as Mum needed another ECG. Getting her metal off was a challenge. So much jewellery. 

     “Is your bra underwired?” the nurse asked.

     “Don’t ask me, wouldn’t have a clue,” Mum replied. And she wouldn’t. She never seemed to know the features and benefits of a good bra. And it seems to not matter now. She’s 82. It matters if it has metal, which affects the ECG. It doesn’t really matter what her boobs look like, in the scheme of things. 

     The nurse was stressed. She was thirty minutes late. I was thankful she came at all. She was in my diary. But I can’t be sure of many things these days. My memory isn’t what it used to be. So, here we were, late, rushing and fumbling about in a house that felt like a sauna. 

     Nooks and cranny’s, a broken ECG machine, no internet, no phone signal, a sweaty nurse, an unhelpful Mum, and a daughter who was listing the symptoms, lack of symptoms and current sleeping pattern,

     “yes, that’s all fine. But I will ask symptoms in a little while,” she told me. 

 

     The armchair wasn’t squishy, like mine, but it was good enough to support my slump backwards, as I surrendered to the day. Sigh. What a day. My fringe covered the back of my hand as I rubbed my forehead.  Headache. Again.

     After an hour, and lots of handwriting, the nurse left. 

51 BPM. Slow again. 

90 spo2. Low again. 

     She blames the nail varnish, like most of them. But it’s been the same for 5 years, nail varnish or not. And, no, apparently, she doesn’t have COPD, despite her smoking history. 

     I refrain from mentioning that I’m taking my Doctorate in Health Sciences. They don’t like that. They would far rather I just randomly tapped into Dr Google and was a busy body know-it-all. 

     Okay. 

     Can’t be bothered to protest. Mum is happy enough. And apparently ready to go see Dad and my brother.  So, I have given up the fight, just a little.

     “I’ll just check your fridge Mum, then I’ll pop to see Harley.” Mum was happy with all of that. Her cup of ‘fuss’ was full.

 

Harley was so vocal. Going round in circles as if he had a couple of vodka and tonics. Twelve and a half now. Bless him. My heart melted as he asked me to stroke him, first in line, despite him being alone all morning. There and then, I decided we were going out. We both needed it. 

     I could work from Starbucks, and he could sit in the floor-to-ceiling window and watch the world, and other dogs, go by. Both of us were as excited as each other. 

     Americano. Water. He had first dibs on the water. That was so cute. An Instagram moment was my initial thought. Then I decided I would sit and hold him. Like a toddler, sitting on my lap. Since he couldn’t walk so well, his feet were dusty and black. I touched his paw. It flipped backwards and forwards in my hand as the joint acted as a hinge. I got lost in this moment, and flipped his paws about some more, smiling to myself and chatting quietly to him. My left hand reached into my bag and pulled out my Metaphysical book. I should read. I hadn’t worked enough. I set the book on the table and adjusted Harley’s position on my lap. His paws, somehow, ended up in the palm of my hand again. 

     This was most unusual, but I had an urge to sit with him, drink my coffee and flip his paws about. I could have squeezed him with my love. A happy moment. My dog, me, the coffee, doing nothing. 

 

 

I had another baby boy

...in last nights dream.

Which was so crazy! This baby had the usual soft skin when you held him, and the loveliest eyes. When I introduced him to my (actual) son, he held him close and I took an arty photo of the two of them to post on Facebook,
"When my two sons meet for the first time," to a shocked audience! No wonder, so would I be. My son is 20 now and my children are IVF babies, born after 9 years of fertility treatment and several miscarriages.

Why on earth would I have this dream? Well, we are currently fixing our house and I'm struggling with overwhelm. I won't deny there have been big worries about 
* my bad back
* money
* the workers
* am I up to this?
* being single
but my son sat at the end of my bed while I mopped my tears and told me it would be okay, they will all help, I will take my vitamins and he will take me on a walk before any of it starts.

Later on yesterday I posted a photo, an old one, on Instagram. I titled it:

"so proud of how far we've come in these last 21 years, just us three. They are now taking good care of me. I'm super lucky with my little family"

It's a surreal feeling to think that now I'm beginning to need some looking after too. I'm glad to have given my time to them and create these lovely humans. I have some awesome people in my life but these two youngsters are there for me every day, in every way and I love them dearly for all that they given while expecting nothing in return.

There will be no more babies, that's for sure but why try again when I got it right the first time. 

That little baby boy in the dream was such a sweetheart though, is it mad to say I miss him?

A different Corner

May 3^rd – Sundays are usually sad days

The law of attraction is strong in my world today. After hearing Mike Dooley and his message (and, seeing how they are accepting submissions from bloggers and other law of attraction writers, oh yes I will submit thank you) things began to show me my power. The universe was poking me in the ribs saying, here you go.

     I feel excited for this book. The future feels brighter than I think it has ever felt before. I can see how my writing career is really beginning to take off and I feel like I should keep at it (well, I can’t stop it anyway, let’s be honest). Visions of me being interviewed are in my mind and answering questions on podcasts. I can see and more importantly, feel, this coming together now. After it being my dream forever.

Working out in my bedroom after a 5k walk, I was so happy. I decided to increase that energy a little more. I took my iphone and lifted it to erase the black screen, and chose to play some music. I chose Wham!  

     I had shown my son a picture disc yesterday of Club Tropicana so perhaps that was still on my mind, in the grey matter somewhere. I picked up the brown record box with an unsuccessfully half removed sticker on it of Nick Rhodes from Duran Duran, containing my 7” singles. My son, who was born in the era of CDs asked,

    ‘are they mini vinyls?’ and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Not at him, just at the language and the fact I was 30 years older than him even though we all seemed like friends in my house. I explained the 33 and 45rpm situation and the extra piece of record player you sometimes had to add in the middle if a bigger hole was cut away from the vinyl. I never did understand why they did that.      Removing ‘Planet Earth import from China’ from its plastic cover with the most careful use of my fingers, my son watched as if he was learning something intricate and important. I also explained how finger marks were not allowed and nor were scratches, so care and fragile handling was always needed. 

But today, it was digital music on my phone and the Edge of Heaven would surely add to my workout on my little piece of bedroom floor. 

     I was trying to recall the PT who was entering my living room via Zoom on Wednesday, and picturing the type of push ups which are effective on the triceps, when the music automatically clicked on to the next track. Even though it was an extended version, that first few bars of deep and slow double bass playing made me sit up, stop my work out and an audible ‘ohh’ left my mouth. I sat back on the heels of my feet and stared at the wall paper opposite. 

     ‘oh God.’

     ‘A different corner’ by George Michael transported me. I instantly knew the track and felt my mood become sad and introverted.  I went back there. I could see the flicker of a pretty, small oil lamp as the only light in my small bedroom. Five feet wide and seven feet long. Just big enough for a single bed, small wardrobe and a carefully placed second hand black glass table at the side of my bed. I could still walk up and down the room. My childhood bedroom.  I recall laying on my bed and stretching my feet over to the wall opposite. I was the same height then as I am now. Five foot three and three quarters; just long enough to reach the other side. The lilac gloss paint always felt cold on my bare feet but I liked that, especially through the night. I’m not sure why we used gloss, maybe that’s what we had left over, maybe Dad just liked gloss. 

     The table at the side of the wardrobe housed the oil lamp and my mono record player. Stereo kind of happened in this room anyway as the sound bounced off the walls and Steve always got the new stuff, so he had the stereo and I had his old mono. Did it matter? Of course not, I could play my beloved vinyls on them. They were in their neat boxes underneath the table and my orange Bontempi keyboard stacked on top of those. See, it did all work In this room, it just needed a little care. 

     Dad brought home ‘computer paper’ from work which had holes all the way down both sides, was perforated between each sheet, folded consontina style and had green stipes right the way across. I could write nice and neatly with my pen across those green lines, so long as I was sat on the floor and used my bed as a desk. Writing, playing music and trying to teach myself the keyboard in my little room were the parts of my childhood which I remember as happier memories. The keyboard didn’t have enough octaves to hit the one high note when I played the Blue Danube. It was only one note.

     Why had I spent most of my childhood sad when there wasn’t really anything particularly wrong with it? As a woman of my age now, trying to ‘work out’ to the same music which I used to fall asleep to every night, sometimes with tears leaving my eyes, I can clearly see what was wrong then. Sometimes, I still do that, but the songs have changed, just like the reason for the tears.

     Where was the depth? Probably in the same place as the void conversations, the lack of teaching me about life, encouraging me to read books, to do homework, revise, play outside with my friends, open my arms to receive a hug, be patted on the head and told I was a good girl.  I was a sad girl.  I needed love and I didn’t even know that’s what I needed. So instead of expecting that I just did what felt better, I closed my little bedroom door, wrote, played keyboard badly with one finger and chose the next mini vinyl to play on my mono record player. 

An excerpt from the forthcoming book, No Rain No flowers

Raindrops and birdsong (a short story)

Listening to the rhythm of the raindrops nudged me to see if the two buckets and the biggest bath towel were placed perfectly to save my carpet.
⠀
Drip, drip.
⠀
Caught by the bucket? I wasn’t sure, I flicked on the light and looked to the ceiling with sleepy eyes.
⠀
1.20am. Drip, drip from the ceiling. The postponed building work couldn’t be helped. This is lockdown.
⠀
Light off.
My heavy head in the feather pillow wouldn’t settle.
I text my son. ‘You awake?’ he replied. I asked if his room was dry. It was. I said I’m going to watch TV until it stops.
⠀
The Crown, Netflix. Utterly astounding.  Gloomy in places but impactful. Lacrimosa played a haunting tune as the episode drew to a close. Mozart, the genius, made me smile as the strings struck and I remembered singing in the choir in 2019.
Prince Philip, Churchill, the great smog story.  Creeped me out enough to worry about going downstairs in the dark to put the kettle on without my phone and the dog.  The dog was in Jasmines room; I took the phone.
⠀
The kettle is broken, as of yesterday. Travel kettle it is then, the tiny one I brought back from the apartment when the tenant moved in.
⠀
3.35am and I made a deal with myself. Meditate and try to sleep, failure would lead me to get up and do some editing, rather than lay there thinking about editing or, something.
⠀
3.45am the candles are lit and the office window leaks birdsong for the start of this blessed day.
⠀
🖊🤍📖
No rain, no flowers 🌧 🌷

Life is short

Life is short, true. But here I am heading into another Christmas period. I made it. Sharon didn’t. We lay her to rest tomorrow. Heaven knows how I say goodbye to my bestie.

            ‘There are good guys out there, don’t lose hope,’ she told me frequently. 

            ‘Nah,’ was always my reply as I protested single life is better for me. Had enough heartbreak thanks. 

Christmas eve, I’ll be in the pub with my teenagers who are now old enough to drink with me. It’ll be fun. I might accidentally get a bit tipsy like I did last year. 

            Does that mean I won’t be looking at the door hoping for the Milk Tray man to swoop in? Of course I don’t want a heart of ice, but letting him in is taking some chipping away. Thank goodness he’s patient.  What if Sharon was right?