Wonder how many millions are writing an end of the year post?  Some detailing the horror of what they've endured; death of loved ones, illness, lockdowns, job losses, evictions, wondering how they'll make ends meet and feed the family for another week.  My year has been a cakewalk in comparison.  When I walk into Heritage and see Richard drooling in a wheelchair, one of the many husks scattered around the living room, I know I am lucky.  He doesn't know what he's lost.  He's clean and dry, well fed and protected from harm.  It is only the observor, interpreting this scene as sad, who is sad.  

The long good-bye indeed.  

Took a couple of photo albums in to try and engage his interest.  He looked at the pictures but volunteered nothing.  Not sure they made any impact at all.  Not on him.  On me they did.  There was Richard, young and strong and vibrant.  40 years old, beautiful, full of life.  My love and best friend.  One photo in particular.  He'd just bathed our blue heeler Joseph.  Joseph was doing the dog shake and Richard, squatting beside him, had turned his head away to avoid the spray.  Can't see his face yet the photo encapsulates everything, the everydayness of health and youth and vigour.  Another photo, the two of us standing near a car, at some police bbq, Richard with a cigarette in hand, confident and relaxed, me with arms crossed, slightly bent over, unsure and vulnerable around the closed clique of cops and their wives.  

I lay awake remembering those photos.  Didn't and don't want to dwell on what is past.  Just assumed we'd age ungracefully together.   Just a bit sad and lonely on the last day of the year.

And I lost two cats.

On the other hand, I've signed with an agent for a book I haven't finished yet. 

Somewhere I read one should end the year with a list of 25 things one is grateful for:

1.Health

2. Cognitive ability intact

3. This house

4.  Tam

5.  Creativity (art)

6.  Friends

7. Nature

8. Paid bills (not in debt)

9.  Matisse and Mikaela

10.  Writing

11.  Food

12.  Red Wine

13.  Daily Sunset viewing on the deck with red wine

14.  Fresh (clean) air

15.  Lack of light pollution so STARS

16.  The colour green (the rainforest)

17.  Bird calls

18.  the Caddy

19.   Walking 

20.  Horses are safe and well

21.  Music, music, music

22.  grateful for being grateful

23.  Peace

24.  Silence

25.  Grateful for being alive, all of it, as much as I may cry and swear and grieve, I want it all so grateful for my breath.  As long as I have breath, I live...everything else is gravy.

 Years ago, roughly coinciding when I came to Australia,  I was an avid follower of numerology.  I even considered changing my first name (to Hollin) to achieve a number I always thought had more relevance than any other.  Even now, 40 years later, I still notice numbers which add to that magic number; eleven - and multiples of 11, especially 22.  Things seemed to happen on days when 11s and 22s were prominent, not necessary the date even.  License plates, receipt numbers, numbers on a clock (lots of those).  I still often wake at 5:11am  or 2:45am or 3:08 - just weird stuff.  I could say the numbers assume an artificial prominence because I don't notice the other numbers equally as common on any given day.  Could be.  I don't know.  But.

Today I signed the contract to have a real live literary agent.  Today it is the 22nd of the 12th month of 2020,  equalling, of course, eleven.

Just sayin'. 

 Yesterday morning at Heritage there was an unusual amount of bustle around reception.  A lot of staff were milling about.  Richard was with a circle of residents watching a word game on a white board.  One of the staff members came up as I was unlocking Richard's wheelchair and said someone had passed away that morning and a little ceremony was about to commence as his body was removed to the white hearse waiting outside (if it had been black, I would've known).

The deceased was Doug Anthony.  He was a politician, a deputy premier and long term member of the Nationals when it had been the Country party.  He came from wealthy farming stock.  They'd donated the land for the Tweed Regional Gallery.  He was a second generatio politician and a bit of a big deal in his day. 

I knew him as the very tall man with the hatchet face who arrived a little after Richard.  When he first came he was walking.  He'd read the newspaper.  He had an air about him.  I was under the impression he was there to give his wife a break except he never returned home.  Before long he was using a walker but would still be spotted sitting alone at a table reading the paper.  Then he was in a wheelchair.  He'd paddle his feet to move himself around, much as Richard did at first.  

Then I didn't see him for awhile.  I'd heard by then he'd been a politician but I didn't know of what 'rank', whether he'd been the a local councillor or an MP.  And I didn't much care.  He was a resident like Richard.  Richard accused him once of hitting or poking him in the back of the hand.  I don't know whether it was true or not.  There was no mark but Richard was incensed and vowed to get back at him.  By this time, with Richard's hallucinations and loosening grasp of reality, it was better to just distract than make an issue of it, especially as I could see no evidence he'd been hurt.  And the 'getting back' has never been part of Richard's personality as I've known him.

The last time I saw Doug Anthony his wife, Margot was wheeling him around the path.  Richard and I and Mikaela were on Richard's patio.  Margot tried to get Doug to pat Mikaela, which he managed with her help.  "Isn't she a lovely dog?" Margot asked and all Doug could say was waahwhahshiseh.  

The decline was swift and the end I think would've been welcome.

 'Throughout her life, O’Keeffe desired freedom—from artistic trends, from the pressures of the mainstream art world, from the fetters of a male-dominated society. And it was by bucking expectations that she made a unique and revolutionary body of work. “I believe in having everything and doing everything you want,” she once wrote, “if you really want to—and if you can in any possible way.” Indeed, O’Keeffe lived her dream uncompromisingly and ecstatically. To this day, she continues to inspire others to do the same.'  Alexxa Gotthardt Artsy.net

 

GOK was the first artist I fell  in love with.  I'm still in love with her.  And now, at 65, when I sit on the deck at end of day and revel in my freedom, I begin to understand the absolute joy of solitude.   And the joy of trying to bring my own vision into reality. 

I'm not there yet.  There's much more to do but now I have a schedule, which I work to preserve, I write for a couple of hours in the afternoon and draw at night.  I'm not as consistent as I could be with the art.  I get tired or am involved in a good book so make the easier choice of not doing rather than doing.  Still, the buzz I get when I have worked on a drawing and get to see it first thing the next morning, is pure pleasure.  

Flood waters yesterday.  An exhausted cry for help from Jilleen who runs the Farm.  The horses had got out, fences down, horses cornered, brought back onto property, all without a scratch.  I couldn't have helped because the bridge was under water.  But I could go out, after the water receded, to clean the stalls and rake the breezeway.  So no writing.  

Thought no one was walking with me yesterday so packed a little notebook and pen to try and resolve some of the questions arising from The Levelling.  Walking, that two beat, two sides of the brain, rhythm is conducive to creative problem solving.  Alas, but nice, a friend was waiting at the bottom of the driveway.  This Thursday is the last AITS for the year.  Won't meet again until middle of January.  People going away for holidays.  I can hunker down, free from social engagements to try and make a dent in the book.  When I get writing with consistency I can sometimes get a 'run' which is fun.  

Anyway, see what's what.  Might meet Fiona for contract signing this Friday.  Think it might be a good idea to get to know one another a bit as she'll be my agent. 

"My agent"  has a nice ring.  Smile.

Matisse, Floods and Literary Agent Contract

 Day by day.  Last week I thought I'd be putting Matisse down on the Friday or this last Monday.  He'd vomited froth and bile morning and night, ate one kibble, was demonstrably weak and seemingly on his way out.  

Then he rallied.

Came into the bathroom the following morning while I was getting ready.  His flanks were fuller.  He trotted.  He miaowed.  He looked happy.  Followed him into the kitchen.  He'd eaten all the food I put down.  And wanted more!  

Yippee!  He continued to show good appetite, to put on a little weight.  I thought he'd turned the corner.

Four days short of finishing the course of antibiotics I stopped giving them to him.  He was so unhappy that dreadful day I wondered why I was still inflicting these pills on him when they made not one iota of difference.

So we've had a few days of reasonable appetite.  Today he vomited.  Today he's a little less keen on eating.

To keep from going mad I have to take it day by day.  Be grateful for each day I have with him.  I did ask him, rather tearfully, not to leave me.  Just seemed like one more blow and maybe a blow I couldn't take.

But of course I could and would.  If he sickens and dies, there is no choice but to get through it.  I'm just so sick of crying.  Feel as though I've no more tears in me.  

But of course I do.

One good thing is we've become very close.  He spends a lot of time on my lap.  I pet him and tell him what a wonderful cat he is while he eats one kibble at a time.  I count the kibbles.  I listen for the most delicate of purrs.  He has the quietest purr of any cat I've ever known.  Have to put my head against his chest to hear it or my fingers under his throat.  It is no less loving for being so quiet.  I am grateful we've had this time together.  All those years of spraying-peeing-in-inappropriate-places angst when all he wanted was to be my only cat.  I haven't used the prozac for a week or more.  He doesn't need it.  He's content.

On another brighter note, Fiona contacted me, asked if she could put me under contract!  She's still enjoying the chapters I've sent  (23 so far.  I'm currently writing chapter 40).   I am thrilled, absolutely over the top unashamedly giddy with joy.  She sold Meg's novel to Hatchette, submitted her work for the Banjo Patterson Prize (I think - maybe Meg did?) but they removed it from competition despite it being shortlisted because of conflicts with publication.  She's a go getter and it is such a shot in the arm to find she "loves" (her words) my writing and believes in me enough to want to get me under contract.

I said yes.  Was there any doubt?

On yet another note, we've had flooding rains and now have floods.  I didn't go see Richard today.  Dashed to town to pick up food for me, Mikaela and birds (Matisse has enough) and saw how high the river was beneath Byangum Bridge.  High and still rising.  The 2017 flood is still vivid in memory.  The bridge was entirely underwater.  I didn't want to get caught on the wrong side and be unable to look after the animals.  The horses are on high ground.  Jilleen gave them access to all the top paddocks, the stables and some hay for good measure.  The rains will stop in a couple of days and the waters will recede quickly - just need to hold fast.  But how we needed it.  The ground gurgles with joy.

 Several times I thought we'd turned the corner.  Matisse would eat on his own without being coaxed.  He'd gain a little weight, seem happier and more 'normal'.  Unfortunately this bumpy trend seems to have crashed to a halt.  Got him to eat a dozen? kibbles yesterday and that's it.  Ate nothing overnight and has vomited the frothy white stuff three times in two days. Going to try for a phone consult with the vet today.  Not going to take Matisse in.  Going to ask in view of these circumstances what the next step would be.  If it's something like up the strength of the amoxyclav, we're in.  If it's another round of drip and injections, we're not. 

 
Today, seeing Richard, noticed him stroking the arm of his wheelchair.  Asked what he was doing and he said he was just giving it a pat.  Am going to take in a small stuffed cat, one he can carry about with him.  He needs something to love and pets, while allowed to visit, aren't allowed to stay.  If the small cat doesn't work might try the Care Bear he gave me soon after we met.  Wish he could have a real cat to live with him.  

 Was one of the saddest things I've seen and I've seen plenty of sad things. 

 I thought we were winning, slowly, the battle with pyelonephritis.  Matisse was eating, not a lot but steadily.  His weight had stabilized.  He semed happy enough - not energetic, not his usual self, but contained and comfortable.  

This morning he is not interested in food.  He didn't eat overnight and there was frothy vomit on the floor.

I suppose I should've been warned because of the difficulties with eating.  Every day I have sat with him, encouraging him to eat one kibble at a time.  Lots of praise and petting - and he'd look up at me with a 'is this what you want?' look.  Then after that initial encouragement he would eat on hs own; just a nibble here and there through the day but by the end of it having perhaps 3 tablespoons of dry and half a tin of wet.  He wasn't losing weight, his coat looked good, his 3rd eyelid had disappeared.  I thought it was just a matter of time, that it was taking longer because of his age and the nature of the infection.

Now...if he doesn't improve - not taking him back to the vets for another couple of days on fluids? more a/b injections (he's been getting his a/b meds twice daily).  What good would that do?  If it hasn't worked the first time time, why would it work the next?

I'm gutted. 

 Bad things happen in threes.  When Matisse threw up his breakfast, all of it, Sunday morning, then continued to vomit clear liquid and finally froth, I worried.  When food didn't interest him -and this is the cat who is so food fixated he's eaten his own vomit, I worried.

In to the vets yesterday morning him screaming all the way.  Good news.  He's sick, yes.  He has pyelophrenitis, an infection of his kidneys.  But it's treatable with antibiotics.  He may also be falling prey to the bane of many older cats, kidney disease, but if he is it's not serious despite it showing 'stage 4' on his tests.  Stage 4 because of the pyelophrenitis.  If he does have it we can treat it to slow down its progress.  At nearly 17, that's not bad.

So relieved.  Don't have to dig another hole in the ground.  Have planted the trees, Black Walnut for Natalia, and Feijoa Sellowiana Pineapple for Nairobi.  Both of which are thriving.  Still miss them, see their faces, hear their meows, remember their antics and their love.  

But we have Matisse for a bit longer anyway.  

And strange, since he is solo cat, he has stopped wailing.  He no longer sprays and is a much more content cat.  He just wanted and felt he deserved to be number one.

Now he is.

 Want to jot a few things down, disjointed things.  

Have been thinking about my 'religion'.  I used to be on a spiritual quest.  I read and pondered and practiced and longed for some kind of breakthrough, some kind of knowing, some sign I was on the right track.  This morning I realized I no longer yearn for anything.  My 'religion' has been distilled into one word:  gratitude.  Each morning, each morsel, each shot of beauty, each piece of music, each remembering something I was supposed to remember, each parking spot in the shade, each stubbed toe to make me slow down, all of it all the time, but most of all, just being here.  And maybe that's all it is.  If I am grateful I am in the present.  I don't wish for something to be other than it is.  I am grounded in this moment, this being-ness - and because I am not longing for this or remembering that I am anchored in the now.  And when I am fully in the now, my borders tend to dissolve - and there's my 'religion'. 

Now, back to nuts and bolts.  Yesterday a pretty crappy one with Richard.  He was in the grips of LBD, not present, incommunicado for the most part.  He smelled.  He'd been showered and shaved, which doesn't mean he hadn't had an accident.  Usually he says he has to go but he was so out of it yesterday it probably wouldn't have occurred to him.  

Today he was more himself, complained I hadn't come to see him yesterday.  Still, those days like yesterday are preparation for what's to come.  He wanted to come home with me.  Every time I leave him (and I leave him at lunchtime to make the parting a normal transition form 'visit' to 'lunch') I revel in my release.  No matter how nice it is - it's still prison.  He is wheeled out of his room, forced to join the others for a game of 'golf' or word play or whatever else they have going on.  If he was compos mentis and mobile he could choose.  In his state he doesn't get to choose.  

Yet I am so happy he is there even while I hate it.  He is safe, well fed and clean.  They use the hoist for bathing and toileting.  He is too far 'gone' to be trusted with a walker.  No way could I look after him now, even with help.  I've had people tell me how good I look.  I think it's because when I sleep I actually sleep.

The book is coming along slowly.  Finally began writing new stuff.  Have sent 15 chapters to Fiona.  Gulp.  Have made a schedule to ensure I write every day.  Lunch, make coffee, in here by 1pm to try and write 500 words.  

So best get to it.

 Biden/Harris Win.

The four year old fever has broken.  Delirium ends.  Healing begins.

That's what it feels like.  After years of living in a fog of fear and frustration and disbelief, the sickness succumbs to the body's natural healing and normality returns.  And I can breathe again.  If this is what it feels like from the other side of the world I can only imagine what the people in the US feel like. 

 Unless you are a Trump supporter of course.  

Seventy million votes for a man who is demonstrably mad is worrisome.  If you're a hard case far right nutter, it's understandable.  But I don't believe there are 70 million hard right nutters in America.  The economy has gone down the toilet, people are dying from the virus, hospitals are unable to cope, infrastructure is inadequate and falling apart, people are frightened for their property and lives.  What salvation did Trump offer except to validate and exacerbate their fears.  

One worrying element, which is a product of the Trump era, is the loss of confidence in the media, in science, in truth.  Words don't carry weight unless received from a 'trusted' source which might be diametrically opposed to another 'trusted' source.  Without faith in words, we are cast adrift - and receive our news from Facebook or Twitter.  There is no bedrock upon which to anchor ourselves while the tides of information flow over us.   

Biden/Harris have an almost impossible job ahead of them, a task which will take more than four years to accomplish.  I think they are up to it.  Joe is steady, calm, trusted and an old hand at working in DC.  Harris is smart, energetic and responsible.  I think they are a formidable team.  

They'll need to be.

 The agent and I played phone tag on Saturday.  Finally connected.   This entry is just another ego stroke I'm afraid.  She reitereated how much she liked my work, said it was polished.  Told me her reputation is at stake each time she submits work to a publisher.  If it's no good she won't be taken seriously.  So.  

How having interest shown in one's work motivates!  All fired up to work on the Sunday but had violent thunderstorms from lunchtime. Have already fried two wifi's so unplugged everything.  Monday morning though -look out!  I've got a workable schedule.  All the chores and visiting Richard and horse feeding in the morning.  Home by lunch.  At the computer from 1pm.  Work until 2:30 or 3.  Have sent first  (fiercely edited) 10 chapters to Fiona and am almost caught up with where I left off the the writing (Chapter 35).  So start actually writing from tomorrow.  Having reread the book the story and characters are back in my head, meeting amd moving and acting out different scenarios.  Quite exciting.  Do hope I can keep up the impetus and interest and cast everyone into peril before bringing them to a satisfactory finish.  

Bought a laptop off ebay.  Sold for $1300 in 2010.   Needed something portable (Matisse  just tried to jump on my lap, didn't make it and landed on his back.  Poor baby.  It's hell getting old!),...something portable to store the photos from the 'good' camera so I could use them as reference for drawing.  Then I thought, I can store a copy of the book there too so if something goes wrong I've got a spare!

Chuffed when it arrived yesterday.  It's a Dell, looks great, clean and unmarked.  Plugged it in and fired it up.  You beauty!  Worked a treat.  Then today, started okay, downloaded Firefox and everything went pear shaped.  The screen went entirely blank save for  the cursor.  Eventually an UNsmiley face came up to say something went wrong.  No kidding!  Now have a window up which says, 'Repairing disk errors.  This might take over an hour to complete.'  It's been two.

Have written to the seller preparing them.  If it doesn't resolve I'll mail it back and get another or a refund.  They've a good feedback rating so it won't be a problem.  Oh well.  Just means I'll get to experience the thrill of unpacking a brand new (to me) laptop twice!

 Just have to record this:  Received a text last night from Fiona, the literary agent.  I'd sent her the first three chapters of the book a month or more ago.  And heard nothing.  Then I get the text, a text in which she asks for the rest of the book and says I have a lovely style of writing.  

When my friends in the Writers Group praise my writing I think they are being kind.  Despite assurances to the contrary (and it is not good of me to think them dishonest).  Fiona and I have met once.  She is not a friend although she may be one day - so when she says my stule of writing is lovely well...

Lovely!

 Most of the time I'm pretty good.  I lead a busy life, even if most of it is solo.  I practice guitar, yoga, write (well, edit at the moment), look after the animals and the house, feed the agisted horses, visit Richard daily, walk an hour every day.  Don't leave myself much time to be sad.

But not leaving myself much time to be sad doesn't mean it's gone away.  I've been tired, really tired and lack of energy is not usual for me.  And I cry more easily.   Maybe the loss of Nairobi has temporarily tipped the balance. 

Writing this because I needed to say - despite the fullness of life - how much I miss Richard even though I act as though I don't.  I don't miss the dementia Richard and the mess and the confusion and the difficulty communicating, the fear of falling, the smell, the TIME it took - but I miss HIM.  Today, while holding him in my arms, my head resting on his shoulder, he kissed the top of my head.  Like he used to.  That glimmer of the past breaking through the hallucinations and the gibberish and the fog - a kiss.  I wept silently, secretly.  And missed my love and miss him still.

 2020 has not been a good year.  Richard lives in an aged care facility.  I had to put Natalia down and today I had Nairobi euth'ed.  Took both cats in for a dental.  Matisse because his normally foul cat breath had become toxic.  Figured there was a rotter or two in his mouth.  Turned out there wasn't, only plaque and gingivitis.  For Nairobi it was a last ditch effort.  She's been steadily losing weight.  The Mirtazapine was a fraught exercise of diminishing returns.  I hoped she had a mouth full of rotten teeth to explain the anorexia.  She was checked last year and her teeth were fine.  They were today too.  But they had to borrow a crush cage from the pound to handle her.  Couldn't even approach her carrier unless wearing welding gloves.  Sam suspected kidney disease, took bloods and urine while she was out of it for future tests.  But the last dose of mirtazapine, administered .02 of a 1ml syringe in side of mouth, was a battle royal.  We were both traumatized.  How would I dose her with meds on a daily basis.  

Nairobi was 17 years old.  Our tailless tripod.  The little kitten that roared.  Coming in after 20 km riding on a car engine.  She was flayed.  So much so Karen wanted to ring the owners and have her put down but we couldn't contact them.  So Karen pulled skin here, stitched there, swabbed her with antibiotic creme, injected her with a/b's and pain relief.  The owners couldn't pay.  Richard and I adopted her, treated her painful wounds (skin pulled so tight her anus was skewed right), and fell in love.  She was alternately adoring and cranky.  If she had tired of one's attentions and you didn't watch the body language, a swift stab with unsheathed claws soon taught you.  Or she would follow you about meowing piteously, purring like a train, eyes full of love, until you picked her up and gave her a cuddle.

I'll miss her. 

 Have just sent the first three chapters and a synopsis to Meg's literary agent.  My heart is pounding.  Closed my eyes and hit SEND.   Couldn't re read and edit any more.  Just an excuse to postpone it.  So now it's out there and I can let it go.  

She says.....

Of course I'll worry and wonder and get my self worth mixed up with creative work.  Like when my application to show at the PO was knocked back.  Still have people telling me they can't believe it, I should resubmit.  And if I was determined, all that making one's thoughts into a reality stuff I am so happy to pontificate about, I'd overcome my bruised ego and try again.

She says....

Of course I won't.  The bruises affected my joy in making stuff - and that's more important than having others see what I've created.  Besides the Images of Uki show is on soon.  I'll put stuff in there - maybe clear up some wall space!

Why does it feel like I've just stripped to dance naked on Main Street?

 

 

 Ruth Bader Ginsburg is dead.  Republicans and Democrats are quaking in their boots.  Democrats because they fear Trump and Mitch McConnell will nominate some ultra conservative to the the supreme court.  Republicans because they will be caught out in their lying hypocrisy if they do.  Four years ago when Obama wanted to nominate a moderate they cried foul, that it wouldn't do until the people had spoken and elected a president.   That the Republicans would remember  and care about honour and truth at this stage would be as surprising as Trump going through a whole day without tweeting.  

But one lives in hope.

One thing her death has done is to galvanize people to action.  I read contributions to the democratic campaign were through the roof.   There is so much bad news coming from the US, one forgets the 'new' silent majority who continue to push back against the erosion of .... plain decency. 

Have been 'running' (more like an energetic shuffle) for a few days now.  Because the osteopath has been working on one hip, and then the other 'good' hip, asked him what he thought about running.  Haven't run for years although I would occasionally have a go while still on Dry Gully Road.  No matter how slowly I started, how much time I gave it, there'd come a point where the pain in my hips kept me awake at night so would have to give it away again.

This time I've invested far too much money in a  of decent pair of running shoes, am taking it very slow (again) and am hoping for the best.  At 64, it's a bit harder to get going then it was before.  Quit smoking 8 years ago, thought my lungs were pretty good, but running illustrates the limitations of elasticity.  And there is a limit.  Running will help the stretch - if I can keep it up.  I did so love running!

Work progresses on the drawing of Natalia.  Another thing going slowly.  Still haven't 'got' her.  Don't know what it is...she had an impishness, a sense of fun, like a peppery seasoning, in all that love.   But will keep plugging away.  This is my third attempt at drawing her.  

Went to Mavis' Kitchen, had lunch with the Writers Group, met the literary (Meg's) agent and came away thinking well, just get on with it.  When it's finished, at least the second draft, then see if it's worth sending out.  Putting the cart before the horse to try now.  Am 64,000 words in and have no idea how long it will be in the end.  Wouldn't it be better to take the pressure off and have a finished book rather than find someone is interested and then try and complete the manuscript with that knowledge hovering about?  It'd be like trying to draw with someone looking over my shoulder.  I think most writers need the absolute privacy and freedom of solitude to create.

One excellent thing.  A week or so ago I contacted the RSPCA about a neglected Arab in a paddock.  Should've contacted them years ago actually but....didn't.  Bad lazy me.  Anyway, saw the horse again a few weeks ago, vowed I'd tell the RSPCA and then forgot about it.  Finally remembered and did the right thing.  Got a call from an inspector checking details.  Well, I thought if he called about the owner than he agreed the horse needed care.  So was very pleased to see the horse with hay and a bucket of hard feed the other day.  Yay!  It takes so little to be the voice for those that don't have one. 

 Think I'm going to have to take a hiatus from the news again.  The fires on the West Coast of the states, all those poor animals dying, habitat destroyed, massive bird deaths in New Mexico, our government wanting to spend $54 million on gas power, which means more fracking.  Wars and famine.  Greedy governments.  Power mad governments.  Corrupt governments working hand in glove with conglomerates and lobbyists and multinationals to keep the rich rich and the poor poor.  Climate change. Drought and disaster and this collision course with extinction.  

We have been given a perfect place to live.  It's paradise.  It is full of wonder and beauty and excitement and mystery.  All we need do is preserve it, substitute care for greed.  There's enough here for everyone, including the flora and fauna.  Heard a guy from the Lakes District in the UK.  He'd been following modern farming practices and watching his farm, inherited from his dad, go down the tubes.  He was in debt, the land was dying.   And the joy had gone.  He turned the farm around, increased the biomass, reverted to old farming practices with a few modern twists.  His farm is productive - not only for him but for the local wildlife.  He's out of debt.  He and his family are happy to farm again.  The joy has returned.  HIs farming friends and neighbours are taking note - but it's a huge step and the returns from increasing the biomass aren't immediate.  So they are rightfully cautious of making the leap.  

But we all need to make that leap.  We may not get a second chance.

A friend called me an activist yesterday.  Wish that were true.  She watched while I killed a snake run over on the road, mortally wounded but still alive.  I found a rock and smashed it's skull.  I'd rung Josh Frydenburg (Federal Treasurer) to voice my opinion of the proposed mis-spending of $54 million.  I rang the RSPCA about a starving horse.  I sign innumerable petitions, post things on FB, write occasionally to ministers, senators and the like.  But is it enough?  Not by a long shot. 

I look out this window at the wall of green, at my personal paradise.  Perhaps because I am surrounded by nature, it figures more prominently in my awareness than if I lived in suburbia or the city.  Also I have leisure.  Working people with kids in school, it would be a full time job just to get through the day intact without worrying about the ice melting in Greenland or the amount of plastic in our oceans.   

But we all need to worry about the ice melt and the plastic.

I am glad I'm old.

 No more unsolicited messages on my phone - but the echoes of that strange occurrence continue to reverberate.  

How much guilt does the average person carry?  Guilt we aren't good enough, that we have failed in our duty of love to others, that we haven't reached our potential, that we squander our precious lives with time wasting activities, that we continue to tread water waiting for our real lives to begin at some mysterious but never reached point in the future.  That we just aren't good enough to justify the space we take, the air we breathe the resources we use.  

"I am a beautiful person."  How much meaning in those simple words.  I am.  I exist.  I have a right to be here.  I am blessed to be here.   a.  a, one of many yet unique.  Not 'the' but a, not above, not below, not compared to but definitive nevertheless.  beautiful.  A word to swell the heart, to lift the gaze from the dregs and disasters, a word to inspire, to refresh and rejuvenate, to encompass all  that is good and true.  A beautiful day is a beautiful day, not a beautiful day but.... Beautiful stands alone, gracious and smiling.  person.  Not defined by gender or race or religion, but a uniquely complicated miracle.  A person.  The culmination of generations meeting in me.  The result of a history, the precursor of a future, this being at this point in time.  Me Now.

I am a beautiful person.  The phrase pops into my head and I say it to myself.  It is getting easier not to cringe, to doubt.  

I am a beautiful person. 

And so are we all.

 I think my phone is haunted.

The strangest thing happened yesterday.  I'd received a text from a friend.  Occasionally my Samsung 6 phone has a hissy fit and either freezes or flickers or both.  Attempting to fix it by pushing more buttons only makes it worse.  The best thing to do is turn it off, which I did.  

I'd managed to read the friend's text but hadn't started to answer.  The phone remained off for hours.  When I turned it back on, in the window where I would've typed my reply were these words:  I am a beautiful person.

First of all I hadn't typed anything.  Secondly I would not answer a text about what time we'd meet for a walk with those words.  Thirdly, it's just not something I would write to anyone.  There was no salutation, just those words.  

I've never downloaded an app for daily affirmations or meditations or anything which might have crossed wires and, while the phone was having a nervous breakdown, thrown that up.  Frankly, I just don't have an explanation.  If someone had hacked my phone, well, then they are a thoughtful caring hacker, wanting me to feel better while they steal my details.  

So what about those words.  I, like most people, find it easier to belittle rather than say nice things about myself.  We are brought up believing bragging is an unattractive trait - and it is, just look at Trump! Then again, affirmations are a good way to try and switch off the internal critic.  It's not like it said, I am a beautiful woman - which would point to vanity only, but a beautiful person, like the soulful part of the package.

Anyway, not a clue but worth noting.

Like the words I have written, in my own handwriting, which I discover later and mean absolutely nothing.  These occur while I'm drawing, not a serious drawing but a practice drawing, so perhaps my attention is less focussed, more encompassing and relaxed.  Automatic writing?  That would be great if I knew the meaning of thise great and wonderful messages being channelled through me.  But I don't.

Maybe I'm haunted.

 One of the Writers Group members has sold her novel, been optioned for another two and has had the first make the Banjo Prize shortlist.  Go Meg!  

Meg wrote an email inviting all members of the group to a celebration at a local restaurant.  Meg's agent is also attending.  Meg's agent is looking for new writers.  Meg's agent would like to see a synopsis of our novel plus the first three chapters.

As soon as I read this, stomach roiling, heart pounding, I did the classic displacement activity and began furiously playing solitaire.  Later when I calmed down I thought, why not?  What have I got to lose except some time and perhaps a few more chunks from my eggshell thin ego?

Coincidentally I'd only recently begun rereading my book.  I haven't worked on it since January, nor attended the Writers Group, so am out of touch,   Was pleased to find I'm still interested in the characters and what happens to them - which is a bit difficult as a synopsis should include the ending of the book.  I like happy endings so figure it all turns out ok just don't know how.

So I've started writing a synopsis.  Supposed to be between 5 and 600 words.  Watched a couple of videos on how to write one.  Then there are those rough first three chapters to polish into something a jaded book agent would want to see more of.  

Ordered a book a month ago, The Paris Review Interviews, Writers at Work, edited by George Plimpton Fifth series.  Bought it because it includes an interview with PG Wodehouse.  PGW could make 400 pages of notes before he even began writing!  His novels were planned from whoa to go.  Still, it's inspiring reading.  Timely too.  

Starting small.  Half an hour in the morning devoted to writing...at the moment reading with some synopsis practice thrown in. 

Okay, 30 minutes, but it is a start.   

 Bad things come in threes, so the superstition goes.  I can name mine.  The blow from Mikaela damaging the ACL of my knee, Natalia illness and euthanasia and then on Friday, driving home from the beach, I ran into a group of three whistling ducks.  The two females were a mass of fractures and had to be put down.   The drake was bereft and kept looking for them even as I drove away.  

I wasn't drivng fast, but there was  a truck close behind, the ducks were suddenly there.  I couldn't stop.  I turned around and went back, got my wildlife carrier out of the back just as another car pulled in behind me.  She was a wildife carer she said.  A magnetic sign, Tweed Wildlife Rescue, was on the car door.  She took the bag with the two mortally wounded ducks, my details and left.  What kind of coincidence was that?  

So I hope now the three bad things have finished for awhile.  I haven't felt like writing but decided after sending a pep talk email to Tam about writing (novel writing) I'd best take my own advice.  (Just had to go and feed the lone cockatoo who has started coming here.  No mate, unusually brave around people, recently released?).  

Despite sadness like a faint but ever present ache, life goes on and so does time.  I'm not getting any younger.  There is a finite amount of time to do what is in me to do.  Richard's fate I cannot change.  It is only my own life over which I have jurisdiction.  

Like someone said, or perhaps many people have said, including me from time to time, My life is determined not by events but my reaction to them.

Richard continues to deteriorate.  I know sometimes by the wide eyed somewhat frightened look in his eyes that he doesn't know me.  He is frightened because I am familiar but he can't remember.  That expression is what greets me when I first see him each day, then as I talk and we spend time together, he relaxes, he remembers.  Yesterday he said Holly will be coming soon.  I'm Holly I answered.  Yes, I know he said and laughed to cover his confusion.  

We sit on his patio.  I give him the juice with the collagen which seems to help with joint pain.  I peel a banana and if it's ripe, cut a pear into sections.  I tell him of my day, not that there is much to say.  I don't talk about going to the beach or showy examples of my freedom to contrast with his 'incarceration'.  And I listen.  He rambles so much now it is hard to follow a thread of conversation.  His narrative is composed of dreams, of people long dead, of hallucinations (the children!), of jobs he must do for others, usually building something complete with measurements, 1800 x aluminium.  He has a grudge against one of the residents, also a staff member but when I try and find out what has caused this can get no straight answer.   I distract him with another subject when he begins to get worked up. 

He is completely wheelchair bound now.  At least once a week, despite the best efforts of Heritage, he has a fall.  This week he has had two.  Cut his hand and banged his forehead the first time.  The second time no injuries.  

How I miss the him that was.

 She's gone.

Pain and confusion was in her eyes.  We always regarded her as 'The Kitten'.  Innocence and fun and love in a striped coat.  But her eyes yesterday and today were old and sad and full of pain.  She was thin.  She moved slowly and clumsily.  Her coat was staring.  Another dose of meds made no difference.

I wonder if once Richard went into care her destiny had been fulfilled and she could go home again.  Dementia made Richard's caresses clumsy, sometimes although unintentially, rough.  Natalia never wavered.  Always purring, always glad to see him, never avoiding that heavy hand.  Even until the end she loved him and showed it.

I tried to tell Richard about her problems a week ago but he seemed to have lost the thread.  If he asks, she will be fine but I don't think he will.  He is more and more disconnected from reality. 

I have buried her in the yard.  When and if the black walnut tree seed sprouts, I will plant it there, a fitting monument to a wonderful cat.

 Last night I thought she'd cracked it.  She wanted dinner, meowed, reach up with her paws like always.  Only gave her a half portion as it had been so long since she'd eaten she might vomit if she ate too much.  As it was I saw her eating crumbs from Matisse's bowl.  Thank you! I said to whomever is the Protector of Cats and whatever It is that watches out for me.  Disaster averted.  

So when she wasn't waiting at the door this morning my heart plummeted.  And when she didn't stir from the chair until I vacuumed and even then she only walked, slowly, to hide in the laundry, it was obvious the miracle was a fluke.  Now, she sits hunched, as she has all day, in pain.  I've got the heater on even though it's not cold, trying to keep her comfortable.  She'd gone into the bedroom waiting for the afternoon sun that never came (it's overcast).  I carried her back to the living room.  She meowed, a piteous meow.  Gave her the meds this morning - were they the miracle? - to no effect.  

So her grave is half dug.  Will finish it today and ring the vets tomorrow.  She looks so sad.  It's just cruel to wait for the miracle that will not come.

 Natalia hasn't eaten, despite meds to make her feel better.  So basically she hasn't had a meal since last Sunday.  And it shows.  Her coat is rough and staring, she's concave rather than convex.  She doesn't sleep.  She's uncomfortable.  Best guess is kidney stones.  Could get surgery - put her through that and then have to do it again when the next stone comes through.  Or we could put her on a drip with morphine for days and 'hope' the stone passes.

Or I can put her down.  I'm hoping she isn't in too much pain now as I thought perhaps just another day or two would be 'nice'.  It's guesswork.  All of it.  Save that she can't go indefinitely without eating which is why Monday it ends.  Will request, as she's so timid, that she be given a shot of ketamine, sub cut which hurts little if at all, and after she's sedated, then they can put a catheter in and use lethabarb - which I know stings going in.  Want to make this as painless as possible.  

Will bury her in the front yard.  There's a rather sickly kaffir lime tree which has never thrived.  Will pull it out, make a nice deep hole, and one day down the track plant a bird attracting native or  fruit tree to remember her by.

Richard said today, "I'm not much help to you." And I cried.  Because I know about Natalia and he doesn't, and won't, because I've had about 3 hours sleep and because my poor darling husband, my rock, has these fleeting insights into what he was and what he is now.  

I am so tired of crying.

 Had to make a choice.  Had to choose whether I was going to continue to feel put upon, downtrodden, at risk, depressed, frightened and worried or whether I would tackle 'life' head on with confidence.  It's been a tough decision with a few bouts of tears as it's not just about Richard or finances.  We now have a sick cat in the mix.  Renal disease, no cure.  Renal disease along with her lifelong battle against crystals in bladder (and now possibly kidneys?).  So am having a struggle with the worry aspect of my choice as she's only 10, is adorable, loving and deserves to have a much longer happy life.

Still.  As soon as I squarely faced facts and made what decisions I could, it did become easier.  Spent $1000 in two days with no improvement.  Went in again today sans Natalia ... what other helpful information would terrifying her with another trip to vets get?  Had the 'cat' vet.  She listened to me.  I kept saying Fortekor and the other two vets said, no, her  protein levels didn't warrant it.  This vet said, yes, even though it's not what is usually done, it might held and won't hurt.

She didn't try and talk me into more tests.  She spelled out choices, actually spoke the unpalatable truth and said,  as an option, (nasogastro tube) for instance, isn't something she'd do with her own cat  - and gave clear guidelines of what could be done within financial and humane limits.  And if the things we're trying don't work I will have Natalia euthanized.  Hard heartbreaking decision - but long suffering with tests and  interventions (weekly IV fluids for example or fluids with morphine for days until possible kidney stone passes.... until the next one comes along -- that sort of business, ditto surgery for same, until next stone?)  No.  

Once I hardened up and stopped being such a whiny 'it's not fair' wuss, things lined up - like getting the cat vet, like getting an expensive medication for free because the med had been returned after 'Misty' had passed away - thank you Misty.  

Should qualify re cat vet.  The other vets are fine.  They're caring, conscientious, thorough, motivated - but a cat vet just knows.  

On Tuesday I see an osteopath.  Yay.  If treatment doesn't help I'm going to have myself euthanized...kidding.  Put off seeing anyone about 'this' for years.  Now it's acute and I shuffle around hanging onto things until 'it' eases.  When I'm warmed up I walk normally.  Walked from Pottsville to Hastings Point on a glorious day yesterday.  The sea was royal blue, clear and glassy save for the combers breaking froth on the beach.  Mikaela thought she was in heaven and ran and ran and ran.  And I walked just fine for two hours.  Hard to believe that when I stand up in the next half hour I will hardly be able to walk.  There's something going on with the ligaments joining my leg to my groin - which is why I didn't want to see anyone about it - such an awkward place to be examined.  But now the price for not getting it looked at is too high as it I am also having trouble sleeping.  

Applied to volunteer at the local pound, cat section, for Jobseeker.  It's a no kill pound.  Probably a few thousand other applicants but it doesn't hurt to try.  There are some gorgeous looking cats, a smoke tabby and a bengal but no Siamese.  Some of have been there a long time.  Would be nice to try and encourage trust in the timid ones.  But we'll see.  Fingers crossed.

 I know the sparrows and flowers of the field don't worry about their next meal and I'm trying, really trying, not to be freaked out but have just read the contract I'm to sign for Richard's care.  $95 a day,  $736 a week, nearly $3000 a month.  Our income is just over $4000 per month.  So a thousand a month to live on from which I immediately deduct $520 for agistment.  Ok, so still $500 a month to live on roughly...but of course it is impossible.  Food for cats (special food for urinary dramas), dogs, horses, bottled gas, fuel, private medical for Richard - he's had it for 30+ years - and now is the time he might actually need it....so I'm a bit gobsmacked.  Yes, we do have savings and that will pay for 4 years or so but by the time this is over there won't be much left and I'll still have to find money to pay the rates, insurance, car rego blah blah blah.  

Am spoiled rotten - even at my poorest - and there were times I was pretty poor - I never worried about being able to feed myself or any animals I had.  Borrowed money once to pay a vet bill but paid that back straight away.  Another vet, different cat, let me pay off my bill.  And wouldn't you know, Natalia, the youngest and healthiest, is off her food so will have to take her to the vets tomorrow.  That will be $500 easy.  

Am allowing myself this tiny panic - to hopefully get it out of my system.  The Universe has always had my back so will again.  There's always been enough.  Plenty in fact.  There are billions of people who would give their right arm to be in the position I'm in; own home, a car, food in the pantry, money in the bank.  

Nevertheless will go to Centrelink tomorrow with documents, my hastily written budget and see if they can ease the burden a bit.  Also, I put in for Jobseeker and never heard a thing back so can chase that up too.  If I get Jobseeker I can volunteer somewhere for a couple of days a week and be paid for it - which would help enormously.  

Tomorrow is the first day I'll get to see Richard so that's good.  He's had to tough it out during this lockdown and seeing a familiar face will cheer him up.  I hope.  Plus the vets and have to buy hay as well so a busy day.  

Still swollen and bruised from Mikaela crashing into my knee - did I write about that? - hit me at full speed within 5 seconds of being let off the lead at the beach - my first visit in over six months.  But it improves every day - have to be mindful to place my foot carefully with every step, no yoga (damn!) but can do the afternoon walk so it's all good.

Might be worth repeating those few words.  IT IS ALL GOOD!

 

 Life marches, ambles, zig zags, hurtles on with no built in observation decks to stop and look back on where I've been.  Because I don't make the time to digest what has happened, it continues to affect me even though I might not be aware of it.

For instance, had to call the Tax Office to find out my tax number.  Everything has been in Richard's name.  I was 'spouse' and my tax number wasn't recorded, although I had one from when I was still working.  Just had no idea where to look for it.  Anyway, explaining to the woman on the phone why I couldn't find my number.  Said my husband was in care...and promptly burst into tears.  Hadn't been sad or depressed.  It just came out of nowhere.  Then again this morning.  A call from someone at Heritage to fine tune caring factors, all very businesslike - and again, I choked up and couldn't speak.  

I may think the worst is over with, that the grieving is just background noise but suspect emotions are not that tidily disposed of.  It isn't a case of, well that's finished, on to the next thing!  It may never be 'finished'.  

Yet a part of me looks forward, quite shamelessly.  Was dropping off more of Richard's clothes to the Hospice Shop.  A tall man was helping his mother down the sidewalk.  She was tiny, head down watching where she put her feet.  He had a hand under her elbow, guiding and reassuring her at the same time.  

He was beautiful.  My age?  Nicely proportioned, nicely but not pretentiously dressed.  Kind kind face.  We smiled at one another over the top of her head, just a normal smile of I see how nice you are to your mum and gee isn't it a nice day?  After that I didn't dare look at him again.  He was too attractive and I didn't want to be attracted so I crossed the street without a backward glance.  But his image stayed with me.  That broad chest just begging to have my head resting against it.  God.  

I suppose it's only because although I'm not lonely part of me resents being thrust into the world all on my lonesome.  Even though I've been the carer for years, Richard was here, a shadow of my love and protector but still present.   Now it's me and the cats.  

So I see this gorgeous male, and it was the maleness of him that was so riveting - and even though he's probably got a wife and kids and grandkids and all the accoutrements of a long life well lived, I hanker.

And cringe. 

 At least six months, perhaps more, have passed since I've been to the beach.  The beach is only 35 minutes away.  No fault but my own.  But I went yesterday.  Took one friend and met another there.  With Mikaela of course.  Warm day, sunny, west wind blowing so the combers were glassy.  Late afternoon sun gilding the sea and dunes and beach with gold.  Perfect.  Looked forward to letting Mikaela display her goofy side and her incredible beauty as she stretches out in that graceful greyhound gallop.

WIthin 10 seconds of letting her off the lead, in an excess of joie de vivre she'd slammed into the side of my legs knocking me to the ground and straining the tendons around my left knee.  The pain took my breath away.  Give me a minute I kept saying.  Just a minute.  When they helped me up I could walk, with difficulty.  The more I walked the better it was so we walked for over two hours.  

Then drove home, stiffened up and in agony getting out of the car.  Pain is relative.  My right leg which has been so bad I almost called the osteopath yesterday, is now my 'good' leg.  

Hilarious really.  

A bit of reaction last night, teeth chattering, some shock setting in?  But this morning, better than expected.  Am mindful of every step and I move very slowly, but I can move.  So with time and care will be back to normal before I know it.

Mikaela, bursting with energy and usually a black streak in the first throes of freedom on the beach, crouched in front of me while I was down, my butt getting wet in the sand.  Did she know?  Was my aura, for want of a better word, jagged and sparking with white hot pain?  I'll never know.  But am sure she never meant to hurt me.

Heritage again in lockdown with a gastroenteritis outbreak.  So got to see Richard last Friday and then it was shut down again.  Think of him every day.

Don't think I'll ever quite come to terms with him 'in there' while I am out here.  I know, I know but still....

 Saw Richard today for the first time in two weeks.  I was kept waiting while he was toileted and then given a shave.  He's pale from lack of sun although he says he gets outside every day.  The psoriasis is rampant - and he didn't remember he was told Heritage was in lockdown - by staff, by me on the phone, by me in the postcard I sent on the Monday after the lockdown began.  He thought I'd just stopped coming.  Kept wanting me to come closer.  We sat outside (guests can now sit on the patio).  I held his hand, hugged him, stroked his arrm, kissed his forehead.  He misses sleeping with me.  Says he's going to come home.  Says if he doesn't get out of there he'll go crazy.  

What can I say?  He can't come home.  He is less 'present' than before, less in control of his bodily functions, less mobile, less able to get up on his own (he tried while I was there).  One of the staff said some days he's more mobile, walks (with walker) a bit better, other days he's only safe in a wheelchair.  His eyes were fixed on the middle distance, had trouble making eye contact with me.  Not out of shyness or lack of interest, it's just the LBD and Parky.

 He had lunch, they brought him a tray.  I cut up his food.  Fed him too although he managed the chips okay.  He accepted I had to leave.  I'd been there two hours and had to have my lunch.    

He's not a master of the wheelchair.  Pushes the wheels forwards with tiny pushes, doesn't grasp the concept of gripping further up and pushing down.  

To my shame I am so relieved when I leave.  There is a smell to me after - not of poo or disenfectant or anything biologically icky - but something I find repellent.  Can't wait to get outside and fill my lungs with unfiltered air, to fill my eyes with distant horizons.  Yes, I can well understand he may be going crazy.  I would.  God help me, I would.

 Rang Richard yesterday.  Tracy had to hold the phone for him.  He sounded so vague, was often unintelligible, was making an effort I know by asking how I was, came alive when I asked him how he was after his fall (the nurse on duty rang the previous night to say he'd fallen but was unhurt).  He denied falling and then in the next sentence said he was okay after falling.  

He hadn't been getting my letters.  I didn't know Heritage holds letters to give to the family of the resident.  Or at least they do for dementia patients.  Now they know all those letters were from me so perhaps he'll receive a backlog  as I've written every day.  Hurt to know he might think he'd been abandoned, that I hadn't tried to stay in touch.  Then after speaking with him - and it's so obvious he is disappearing into the fog of dementia - perhaps it never occurred to him.  A terrible wish but I sometimes wish dementia would encompass him sooner rather than later.  The end result is a given.  Does it matter if it comes more quickly?  Would it save him from lamenting over his lost life?  

Even before we hung up I was crying.  Could barely say good-bye.  Then I thought, right, I've cried.  It hurts, losing this love and being reminded of what we've lost hurts like hell.  But now I've hung up the phone, what am I going to do, wallow?  Or make myself useful and do something.  So I went outside and loaded the caddy with stuff I took to the tip today.  And it worked.  

I may never be free of the guilt, that I'm here while he is there and he is there because of me (could I have kept him safe for awhile longer?  Could I have kept going longer?  Was I weak or selfish or both?)   But those thoughts, while frequently simmering in the back of my mind, are unhelpful.  

So let it go.  There will be many more tears before this is over.  When it is time to cry, I'll cry.  

In the meantime....

Opened up the software containing "The Book".  Haven't written a thing for months.  Completely out of touch with the story so think the best way back in is just to start reading it from the beginning.  Not editing, just reading and then see if there is a way forward.  

Cut up the painting of the flying cat.  Really only liked the flying cat.  The rest was too busy.  Need the frame for the last drawing as I can't afford to get anything framed.  Have revamped the flying cat drawing.  Simplified it.  Not done yet but it's way way way better - and I have a frame for it!  Have almost finished with another cat drawing, a very chubby cat with a direct no nonsense look in his eye.  He's a combination of several cats, not a direct copy which is good.  But he IS fat.  And I like him!  He also has a frame ready for him.

Images of Uki comes up in October so might enter a few drawings, put reasonable prices on them - since I'm only paying for op shop frames - and sell them on?  Maybe?  If someone likes them and they're cheap enough.  Would be nice.  Like the idea that something I made is liked by someone else enough to pay for it and put it on their wall!  What a lovely thing.

 Whinge alert.

Every day, almost without fail, I practice classical guitar.  For how long have I done this? Two years?  And I'm still a beginner's beginner.  Yes, there has been some improvement and the general consensus is it's a slow process and not to beat up on yourself because facility doesn't come easily but CRIPES!    I would like something more to show for my diligence than wrongly hit notes, the slowest of slow tempoes, buzzing, muting and soreness in my fretting fore finger, in my wrist and arm muscles  from twisting around the neck.  

No, I won't give up.  But I am extremely frustrated after attempting again, songs I've played and played and played with seemingly no improvement.  I have changed the way I practice.  I am diligent.  I slow down.  I try and play correctly which means slow.   I practice difficult spots repeatedly to try and improve.  I work for muscle memory so finding notes becomes easier.  I try.  I work.  I practice.  

And now I've whinged which doesn't do anything but get it off my chest - and gets me to put the guitar aside until tomorrow, which might be a better day.  (Had a good practice day two days ago, but yesterday and today, poor).  

 As an addeundum to my two previous posts:  Yes, I relish my newfound freedom.  I experience long periods of contentment, serenity and joy - and then I remember;  while I am free, Richard is not.  His prison might be well appointed, the food good, the warders friendly, but make no mistake, it is still a prison.  

 My balloon deflates.   

It seems my happiness is dependent upon his continued incarceration for if he was suddenly here again...  Someone said to me my face has changed since Richard moved to Heritage.  I no longer look haunted.  

Then I have to choose.  Do I wish him here again?  No.  Is it sensible or safe to bring him home?  No.  Then I need to let this guilt go.  It does no one any good.  I've made my choice.  So make the most of it.  

 For instance, stop whinging.

 Tried to write about solitude in my last post and failed.  It's been bugging me ever since so will try again.

Yes, I don't like crowds.  Frankly, I'm a bit antisocial.  I'll pretend not to see someone, even someone I like not because I don't want to talk to them but because I don't want to talk at all.  Because I walk Mikaela every day and a neighbour who became a friend found out about it, she began walking with me.  Then another friend, 5 minutes drive away, joins us two or three times a week.  Then another friend occasionally comes as well plus we meet another friend/neighbour if we happen to be out walking at the same time.  There is also a man, stranded with a damaged heel and a purchased but unavailable sailboat in Tahiti who sometimes walks part of the way.  

I like all these people, these lovely bright funny, sometimes hilarious women, and the man is so frustrated at his forced landlocked lockdown, he braves a gaggle of women just to have sympathetic ears to vent to.  They're great - but the days when no ones comes, when the people I meet on the street are just hellos in passing are gold.  There is silence.  There is stillness even as our 6 feet pad a rhythmic tattoo on the bitumen.  I can stop and admire the many stunning views and not feel rushed to move off.  I can walk at a leisurely (or speedy) pace.  I'm not walking to get fit, I'm just walking my planet, reacquainting myself with the sights and sounds and smells.   And the back and forth two tone beat of my steps seems to free my mind from the details of a day.  Or maybe it's just because I've the Universe above my head and dotted i's and crossed t's are just insulting beneath such immensity.

There's also the question of how much time alone is enough.  Long before I moved the tv into the closet I was getting jack of it.  Even the best dramas, well acted, produced, filmed etc were just another sight on a well worn path.  I'd seen it all before.  The endlessly talking heads, god how sick I became of it.  There is a deluge of information to be got through each and every day.  Talk talk talk.  

How much time did I have alone before?  Sitting on the loo, yes.  Maybe driving somewhere to do an errand.  Walking down the driveway in the morning for Mikaela's piddle walk.  A minute here a minute there.  Not enough.  How could I ever hope to delve into the meatiness of existence when constantly distracted.  I couldn't follow one thought through to another to another to another.  Always yanked off course by yet another bit of information.

How long does it take to see a tree?  A glance, yup, that's a tree.  But to really see it?  A lifetime might not be enough.  How long to hear and feel the beauty of birdsong.  Oh, what a pretty tune!  Yup.  But the miracle of that song?  I'll probably never truly see a tree or truly hear the beauty of a bird singing but unless I am left alone to try, I'll never have the chance. 

So now, living alone I am exultant.  I'm slowing down.  I'm pottering about the house and in the garden.  I stand on the driveway entranced and unembarrassed by my entrancement.  The world expands in direct proportion to the silence. 

 And again, and always, I am so so grateful. 

Raining.  My drawn card today said, Rest Your Lovely Wings.  And rain is a good excuse to stay inside and doodle - save for the trip out to feed the horses and post a letter to Richard  The lockdown is still in place at Heritage.  And from the numbers of Covid 19 increasing in the eastern states, imagine it will stay that way for awhile.  One good bit of news, last Friday, the last time I saw Richard, I found he has been accepted as a permanent resident.  All that useless palaver of becoming an Enduring Guardian was for naught.  The Heritage rep was taken to task, politely 'with respect Ms. J' for asking me to bring my 'case' before the Tribunal in the first place.  Top management must have realized it was bad PR to pursue it. 

Freedom has ben much on my mind.  The word pops up frequently, out of the blue, with a briskness which sweeps away muddleheadedness, at least momentarily.  There is a part of me which clings to the guilt and another, pragmatic part, which affirms the new reality.  I love Richard.  I will do what I can to make his life easier.  I wlll do everything but bring him home.  Yet the fact remains, despite the love, the relationship of love and companionship and mutual support is over.  Hence Freedom.

Freedom and solitude.  Community.  Being part of a community, talking to people, joining groups is supposed to be good for health, mental and physical.  I am sure that's true.  But right now I love being alone.  Maybe somethng in me has to rest, has to heal before I join 'community'.  I don't know.  Maybe I'm my mother's daughter and am finding my way back home.  Because like my mother I like my own company.  I'm not lonely.  I'm not bored.  I don't look for distraction.  I don't rush down to the markets on Saturday to immerse myself in 'community'.

And maybe, during this covid-19 crisis,being a loner is a good thing. 

And maybe too it's not wrong to feel so happy sometimes.  I haven't cried since Monday.  But I have sung or hummed every day.

Visited Richard yesterday morning.  He'd been playing the aged care version of 10 pin bowling (using a purpose built table).  It was the second time he'd joined in. One of the staff said he'd been more sociable of late.

Which is great as that afternoon received an email from Heritage that it has gone into lockdown until at least August 17 when it will be reviewed.  Considering the news out of Victoria and now SE Queensland, not sure they will open the doors even then.

I know they are doing the right thing and I applaud them making the hard decision but on the other hand, this is just awful.  I visit him every day and I know he looks forward to it.  The staff say he asks about me.  I also know he dreams?  hallucinates? imagines? bad things about me, from my being hurt to my being unfaithful.  Without me to reassure him....

But there is nothing I can do.  I can and will continue to take stuff to him  - if the staff will accept 'stuff' at the door.  I keep him in fresh snackable fruit and nuts.  Thought another way to keep in contact would be to send him postcards.  Simple stuff like I love you and I miss you, that sort of thing.  Luckily I bought and set up a small CD player this week and brought in his C&W CDs.  Drew the directions, On/Off, Play and volume control on the back of the instruction manual with the hope he can and will operate it...but to be honest I think it's beyond him now.  Perhaps a kind carer will turn it on for him. 

Listened to Willie Nelson's Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain and had to turn away as tears came into mine.  We never had 'Our Song' when we met but this short ballad came close.  It reminded me of 'then', 30 years younger and newly in love, as opposed to the sad reality of now, when we are old and the love is  a bittersweet mixture of the former mixed with pity, habit and sorrow.

Debussy's Claire de Lune.  Perfection.  A longing, a paen to love, an awareness of spirit, a prayer.  Gratitude.  One interpretation by guitar with French classical guitarist Roxane ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_RnlOWmZD4 ) I return to again and again.  It is as delicate and as powerful as the orchestral version.  Her interpretation is divine - or divinely inspired. 

Found the music for it, printed it out.  I play the first bar passably well - and then fall apart.  Still, it's the dessert I devour after practice, just to hear those chords. 

Debussy has been my favourite composer since .... a child?  When I first heard  Le Apres-Midi d'un Faun, the opening of eerily beautiful notes, I fell deeply and forever in love.  And Sirenes?  Those last yearning bars of infinite sadness and regret.  I cry.

Raining, falling darts of grey, no wind.  Changed the sheets on the bed, listening to the susurration of the rain in a well of silence.  How often do we, do I, listen to silence?  Yes, I got rid of the telly but the radio is always on, tuned to classical music, yet it's still a buffer, a wall between me and ... reality?  The aloneness (not loneliness) of exisitence?  A wall between me and myself?  Another distraction I give myself permission for as it's 'classical'? 

Big window behind the monitor;  a painting of green and grey, a thousand thousand cuts of rain.  Two inches and counting.  Giant worms will push through the mud seeking air.  When I pick them up to try and find a safe place for them, they go limp.  No slime like a regular earthworm, they are muscle but muscle defeated by gravity without the support of the earth.  Their muscle is in their mouths, devouring their way through  clay, in slow burrowings the diameter of a 20 cent piece.  When I walk this afternoon  a thousand bleached earthworms will litter the streets, washed down the gutters, too small to find refuge, they drown.  Rescued some yesterday, going pale, barely alive but most were beyond help.  Probably the ones I rescued are dead now.  The birds, save for the whew whew wHEW of a currawong   ( https://wildambience.com/wildlife-sounds/pied-currawong/ ) are silent.  Even my birds sit motionless on their perches.  Enduring or meditating?

The US is a foreign country.  I read what's happening there and it's as if I'm reading about some two bit tin pot wannabe .  America democracy is in danger.  An example, a flawed example certainly, but an example to the world of what freedom can look like. 

My sister lives on a dirt road across from a river.  She and her husband have witnessed trucks, confederate flags flying, raciing up the road.  They have a small cache of arms to protect themselves and their cats.  They have their food delivered.  They go out rarely.  Both in their 60s. 

How did this happen?  Why did DT get past the 'pussy grabbing' video.  How was he taken seriously after he said he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and get away with it?  Why didn't the country wake up when he refused to turn over his tax returns.  Where were the women protesting when their sisters said they'd been sexually harrassed?  Why didn't they believe Stormy Daniels when she said she'd had an affair.  Why isn't the Silent Majority vocal about the commutation of Roger Stone's sentence?  Etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc??

Why do they not rise up against a traitor who fawns over foreign dictators and treats our allies like so much dog mess under his shoe?

Interesting to go to the Wikipedia page listing DT's pardons and commutation of sentences.  Lots of buddies or buddies of buddies there. 

If it is true a country gets the government is deserves than the USA has a lot of bad karma.

Can only pray it is a temporary bout of insanity - in which the price is paid in human lives because DT isn't interested in the virus - and Biden is elected in November and Trump leaves without a shot being fired.

I've always been an optimist.

At the end of the afternoon walk with Mikaela we crest the last hill of the driveway and the house comes into view framed by trees.  And my heart swells.

Whether the day has been good, bad or indifferent, coming home always lifts my spirits.  There are the aviaries with the birds either observing the last of the light or already ensconed on their night perches.  There is Matisse, sitting on the deck, safe behind cat netting, waiting impatiently for me to come and make his dinner.  There are the silhouettes, as I walk across the concrete to the shed, of the gums and banaglow palms against the blacker silhouettes of the Two Sisters, Mount Uki and, partially obscured by a rank of gums, Mt. Nullum.  There is the evening star, a bright puncture in the dim dusk.

Later, sitting in the rocker on deck with a glass of red, I watch the mircobats hunt moths.  If it's very quiet, and it usually is, I can hear their wings as they flutter past, those strange flesh wings stretched across goassamer bones.  Other stars emerge, even as the last purple limns the mountains.  There is a late car coming home, a cone of light sliding past distant trees.  A cow lows on the hillside across the valley.  A dog barks.  A night bird warbles.  Frogs and crickets brrrr and click. 

I stop rocking and just be until the cold - or the first mosquito - forces me inside. 

Still, from crest of hill to rocker, however the day has gone, I am made whole again. 

And I am so so grateful.

The power of music.  Was tired and teary yesterday.  Apathetic too but some part of me said, stuff that, DO something.  So I rearranged furniture to make room for a worktable and my easel (brought up from the studio/shed).  Always listen to classical but knew something more upbeat was needed so put on a compilation of The Police and Sting.  I can't listen closely to music without being affected.  Of course, often it's just a background to the day but if I listen, really listen, it can make me soar, weep, dance or freeze in a sort of rapture.

Yesterday I danced.  And last night I worked on a drawing.  The same one started before the lockdown.  Felt good to work on it (with music!) but felt better that I have actually succeeded in making a workable space.  Workable and attractive. 

Have changed the living room quite a bit, brought plants in, moved plants around outside.  Rearranged pictures.  More and more me and less 'us'.  That's the brutal fact of it.  I live alone.

Sold the Yeti yesterday.  A message late morning from Chris.  Met he and his wife at Petbarn at Tweed.  He and his wife Bek, easy going couple, he a sort of Bryan Brown type, her a dark haired warm eyed attractive woman with a bad case of psoriasis on her forehead - how I wanted to tell her of the success of diet in controlling it but not my place).  In contrast to Steve, who dithered and hemmed and hawed and finally said no, they decided after one short test drive and a quick look inside and out.  They had the cheque within the hour and picked it up from here late afternoon.

Sorry to see Gus go.  Most luxurious car I've ever owned and such a pleasure to drive but at least I had the privilege to have him.  I hope they treat him well. 

So now it's just me and Kitty (Caddy).  Kitty is an alley cat kind of car; tough and workmanlike with no airs and graces - but dependable. 

Lay awake unable to sleep.  Mind buffeted by every passing thought, swept into every dead end, shoved down listless paths of repetition, distracted by blown flotsam.  It was then I realized I had no center.

Had recently read a book, not a very good book, Tuvalu and the only reason the main character was memorable was because he had no center.  He bounced from one scenario to another showing little more than a passing interest in his own life.  It was a somewhat grim and unsatisfying book as he had learned nothing by the end but would continue to meander through the days with about as much sinew as cooked spaghetti.

Which is exactly how I felt.  Didn't sell the Yeti yesterday although I was certain, for the second time, it was sold.  No, he said, the 4 wheel drive doesn't work.  Took it out on flat grass and the wheels didn't turn where they were supposed to.  Not sure how that's supposed to work but took his word for it.  He doesn't want the car?  He doesn't want the car.

But can I let it go?  Took Mikaela to Dallis Park so she could have a run and I could have a walk.  Had met this man twice, took the car to a mechanic for a pre purchase check (2 and a half hours),  sent him a photo  of the recent service, checked the oil for him, talked on the phone, texted back and forth and then yesterday he wanted to show his partner.  Sold I thought.  Not sold I found.  Another squirrel on the treadmill to replace the ones named Cam and Anthony. 

Drifting.  I do my chores, try and practice guitar, do yoga  and then it's time to feed horses and go see Richard.  Home after visit to walk dog then arvo chores and dinner.  But am not painting or writing.  Living on the surface.  No ooomph.  No spirit.  No spiritual. 

Empty and sad.

Maybe cut myself some slack?  Still mourning?  Each time I leave Heritage I am relieved to escape.  Richard wants to come home, says he's coming home, asks to come home.  And I change the subject, encourage him to look at picture books (coffee table type books with photos) with me, ask him to eat a piece of fruit.  I make busy tidying up his room.  Then I sit and hold his hand or rub his back and try to pretend this pretty room with its tv and the occasional glimpse of bush turkeys scurrying past is not a prison.

Had a flying dream - not the usual one of my youth soaring and sliding with the grace and speed of Superman.  This one started in a light plane.  Flying over crystal clear lakes south of Junction View, which doesn't have lakes, crystal clear or otherwise.   Then the plane disappeared and I just flew.  The flying was less exciting than the water, as clear as air, green, blue and gold seaweed undulating in a lazy current.  How I wanted to swim!

And then I was at a resort.  Taken four years to build I was told, cabins half hidden by trees.  I had a little black dog, like a motorized ugh boot.  It wasn't my dog and when I put it down to do its business it promptly disappeared.  Oh, it'll be checking out the 'long drops' the owner said, so we started searching.  Instead of outhouse pits the long drops were sandy and clean.   A monitor lizard was in one, a set of car keys in another. 

Water seems to be a theme (still haven't been to the beach!).  Two nights ago I dreamed of more than a dozen waterspouts on a stormy sea. 

Friday a friend will visit Richard and I won't.  It's cold but if it's not windy I'm going to the sea. 

He was agitated when I arrived yesterday.  One of the carers was with him in the room, both standing.  Richard is adjusting but he isn't adjusting.  He wants to make 'application' to come home and see the animals.  I feel the biggest kind of shit as I change the subject for of course he can't come home.  It would be cruel to bring him here only to take him back at the end of the day...if he got in the car and it wouldn't be stretching it to guess he'd refuse.

He has these moments of clarity and insight scattered amongst the rambling.  He said, you're life's pretty good now, isn't it?   I thrive while he suffers. ( Although it isn't quite so clear cut, she writes, tears threatening to spill over again).

Then I remind myself it took two people to get him up, changed and clean on Tuesday.  He'd wet himself and the bed and had tried to call the nurse using the bed adjuster.  One carer was large and burly.  I had to sit outside but I heard them say the same things I would say, "Put your hand here, no, not there, Richard, here.  That's it.  Now lift that foot, just move it a bit, yes, that's it.  Hang on to me.  Now the other foot.  Can you stand up?  Try and get your feet underneath you.  You won't balance otherwise.  No, back a bit further, yes, now the other foot.  Maybe you want to spread them a little, help you balance.  Now up, hang on to me.  Look up, yes, straighten up, I've got you.  No?  Okay give it a minute, we'll try again.....and on it goes.

Took two of them 30 minutes.  And I sat in a chair in the hall and admired the freshly painted nails of one of the residents.  She proudly displayed them to me (and if I hurry they'll do mine too!) as she trundled past in her walker talking nonstop.

Today's card:  Receive your guidance.

From the book (paraphrased):  Meeting negativity with negativity makes more negativity.  Meet negativity with, if not love, at least kind thoughts.

I've such a long long loooonnng way to go.  Why do I find being merely kind to those whom I perceive to oppose me so difficult?

After all, what others think is none of my business.  What I think is.

In a strange way I think I've been set free.  When I wrote the email to the boys, I was as clear and as honest as I was capable of being.  Granted, it is only my opinion and I may be wrong.  Still the answer I reeived from Anthony kind of lets me off the hook.  If communication is so fraught and misunderstood then what's the point? 

His reply was:  These exchanges don't feel or sound positive to me. Quite the opposite. I will say that some of the things you mention I agree with and some I disagree with completely. We are just trying to discuss and have input into how we see Dad and how to to help him.     .

As I get down to visit Dad I'll continue to do the very best I can. Further discussion re the below is pointless - and I shall certainly keep my views and experiences reference grief and trauma to myself....

Probably I am overly sensitive.  Nevertheless if I am scolded for my 'views and experiences referenc*ing* grief and trauma' and I am less than positive, well so be it. 

Strictly business then.  I'll do as I've always done - when they weren't included, weren't interested in being included, and look after Richard. 

Maybe I just wanted someone in the family to share the burden with.  My friends have been and are invaluable but they aren't family.  But I was wrong.  They are. 

Maybe it was the moon, that ruler of tides and water.  I didn't know I had it in me to cry for an hour and 20 minutes.  But I did.  I do.  I sat beside Richard, slumped on the side of the bed, put my arm around him and said, I know you're sad.  I'm not the most empathetic person.  I'm the person who misses the subtle signs, who doesn't shade her eyes against the sun to see the shadow.  But in those four words, I took on, at least for that hour, Richard's grief. 

When I got home, head pounding, contacts like sandpaper on my eyes, I thought, well, this is another of those times; all consuming emotional upheaval, grief like it will never end.  Pain pain pain. 

But it does end.  Nothing stays the same, extreme joy or extreme sadness.  It is the nature of the beast for time to shove you past 'that' moment, either while you try to cling to it, or try and hurry yourself away. 

Maybe one of life's most important lessons is plain endurance.  When the all consuming consumes, one has to hang a fingernnail on the remaining bit of unchanging self, that kernel of inviolate being at the center.  Like the deep waters unaffected by the sturm und drang on the surface, it's what we cling to rather than drown.

The boys, the men, are having difficulty.  After 4 months they have finally visited him.  They didn't like what they saw.  No one likes to see someone they love in pain.  They are brimming with ideas to help Richard join in activites, perhaps see a therapist, get involved in life again.  'Move forward' is the recurring phrase.  To me it seems they miss the point.    In answer I wrote:

As for Richard's sadness.  Perhaps it is time to step back and get a bit of perspective.  We have known 'this' was coming for years now while Richard has been safely cocooned in the slow but inexorable decrease of his cognitive and physical abilities.  This decline has taken place in a familiar environment with me as a constant support and companion.  Speaking for myself, I have been grieving for years as I witness and participate in this long goodbye.  From your Dad's perspective he has suddenly been moved to a strange environment. He's lost his home, his bed, his cat and me.  In other words, he is grieving.  If you've ever grieved for someone, you know it can't be hurried, papered over, postponed or avoided.  It has to be got through.  If and when you ever grieved over the loss of someone you loved, did you want to be involved in activities?   Talked out of it, jollied along, distracted? Perhaps you did but it only put off the sadness.    Sadness isn't a dirty word.  It is part of our emotional makeup and is the rightful, the only emotion, in some circumstances.

It has only been 3 weeks since he moved to Heritage, 5 weeks since he first went to hospital.  What, then, is the acceptable or correct time to move forward?

 I love him and my heart breaks seeing him sad like this.   But this is another phase of our lives together.   We've been a team through everything else.  We are a team through this.  Family love and visits are, in my opinion,  the best therapy.

He needs to know and see he is loved.

For years I've been  grieving for the husband I was losing.   The sadness and sense of loss became much more acute this past year, eventually reaching a kind of crisis of grief.  Which I'm still not through but there are entire days, even strings of days, when I don't cry.

In other words, I have had ample time to get used to the idea I was losing my husband.

Richard only found he was losing his wife a month ago.  His grief has only just begun.

When I visited him on Saturday - I didn't have an appointment, only stopped in with some fruit and asked, on the off chance they'd let me in, if I could see him - Richard was sad.  "When will we be together again," he asked.  So I cried.  My usual answer for the unanswerable.  And explained again why I can't look after him.  When he sees me cry, he pats my arm and says don't worry,, it's okay.  But he hurts and I can't help him.  And then the guilt comes again, should he come home?  Could I keep him safe?  But I can't and the end result would only be the same - a room in a facility.

So I go back today and take the Indian blanket we bought 30 years ago on our honeymoon, a repaired but beautiful delft bowl for his fruit, and me, to hold his hand, wrap an arm around his shoulders and kiss his head while trying to remain upbeat. 

And try not to want to escape too much from his need and sadness and the claustrophobic space that is the beautifully appointed open fire dining room professional kitchen spacious bedrooms with sliding glass doors onto personal patios Heritage Lodge.

Reminded again and again what little control I have over myself.  A perceived or real slight and I grab it and run to the nearest dark corner chewing and growling.  Got another email from Cam, still banging on about Richard coming home.  Followed by a 'ditto' email from Anthony who hasn't even been to see him yet!  Nothing I said has made one bit of difference.  So I interpret his letter not as a grieving son trying to avoid reality but as an impugning of my judgement, motives and character. 

Paranoia.

So lay in my uneasy bed with my undisciplined mind plowing the same furrow half the night.  Useless, even worse, it's a malignancy that grows undeterred because I do not have the mental strength or rigour to root it out.

Failed previous attempts at meditation but am going to have to do something to rein in this unruly creature. 

Logically I KNOW I am bigger than this easily bruised ego.  Logically I know I am capable of seeing the beauty in all, even myself.  Logically I can find compassion and empathy.  But when I am mired in this burgeoning ego, I am incapable. 

So I keep getting this lesson (the boys emails).  It's an opportunity to truly do something, to rise above, to be better.  Wouldn't it feel better to love than to resent?  How hard is it?

Pretty hard for me it seems.

Hard but not impossible.  If I can't love at the moment, maybe I can just learn acceptance without judgement.