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.