Post 45 of 92

Have just found a way to back up the work.  I'm not motivated or switched on enough to truly get the hang of computers.  And I have a short fuse.  So it's only taken about a two weeks to find a writing software that I like and can actually use and another week to find a way to back up the writing - not trusting that computers won't crash at some point - as they have in the past. 

Bought a USB thingy and can't figure out how to use it - every file on my computer already seems to be there which is unhelpful because I can never find what I'm looking for amongst all these random files.   Often I try and look at a file which has a name which is redundant and there's nothing there.  Or it won't open.  Other files I don't dare delete because no doubt they are necessary to the smooth running of the computer.  Makes me crazy as it's like having a desk piled chin high with scraps of paper.  I'm one of those anal retentive types that has to have a clean workspace to get anything done.

And it all gives me the shits really. I would rather just do what I want to do, look at some sites, write and read emails and not spend hours cracking on with stuff I don't give a fig about.

So I've started another blog and each blog will be a chapter.  Simple really.  Couldn't figure out how to start another separate blog on this site so have found another free blogging site and downloaded that.  Have all this stuff on the blog I don't need and can't seem to get rid of but that's okay.  Seems I do have to publish, ie make public, in order for the work to be saved but as the blog is not being promoted in any way I very much doubt, with all the millions of blogs out there, that anyone will stumble upon mine.  Even if they did, why steal the work?  To be tempted to steal something that something has to have value and this is a first draft of something that I would like to make good but surely isn't now - nor may it ever be. 

So it's a bit of a celebration.

I am putting off doing anything of note because ABC Classical is on with the harpist, Marshall Maguire ( http://www.marshallmcguire.com/about ).  The guitar is fun and frustrating and quite beautiful but truly my first love has always been and will ever be, The Harp. 

Today has been a good day.  I climbed WAY up on the roof, happily not a steep pitched roof like our former house, to saw off overhanging branches.  As the house is built atop a hill with cantilevered decks overhanging the side, I was quite a way up.  I wasn't 'pulled' downward by looking down but I sure did plant my foot while sawing away.  Especially while pruning the last branch which was quite heavy.  Didn't want to let them drop onto the steep ground below as they would be difficult to retrieve - and I wanted to save them for the birds who get so few branches now.  But I really didn't want to be pulled over the edge by trying to hang on to them either. 

Have also attached more thick styrofoam panels to the aviaries.  The difference between bare metal exposed to the sun and the insulated metal is profound.  Nearly burned my hand on the bare metal - and of course the birds are feeling that radiated heat.  But the insulated metal, although not cool to the touch, was barely warm.  Have more to do but not much more gluing, mostly painting although there are still some narrow strips needing styrofoam.  Although the current colour of penis pink is not attractive (that's the colour you get when mixing together all the free leftover paint given by a friend) it is much neater than the brothel mess of fraying carpet attached to shiny insulation paper.  The last of that has gone in the bin.

Looked up when R was first diagnosed with Parkinsons.  May 22, 2013.  The Parkinsons hasn't progressed all that much in 5 1/2 years.  The dementia has.  Know it pains him that I am on the roof sawing off branches, that I am the one that manhandles the extension ladder into place, that I am the one that does the measuring and cutting of the styrofoam (not that I did a stellar job there!).  His ability to communicate his thoughts grows more difficult.  Words are being taken away from him.  Oh, he still has words just not the right words.  Sometimes we are truly at a loss.  Mostly I can guess what he's trying to say but sometimes not...frustrating for both of us.  I prattle on about things but have accepted that a) he mostly doesn't hear me (I no longer nag about the hearing aids) and b) even if he does hear me, he doesn't understand.  But I have to talk still.  Maybe that's why I've started writing a book.

The Faint

Ten days ago R and I were having lunch at our local on the river.  R was yawning, as he often does, and I urged him to walk around, myabe get us a glass of water which he did.  Lunch came, we ate, all seemed well.  Then suddenly Richard slumped forward in his chair. 

I propped him up and unlike a 'real' faint, he stayed upright.  Also unlike a real faint, his eyes were open, his head was up, his posture 'normal'.  But he wasn't there.  He didn't react to touch, to his name being called, he barely reacted to his eyes being touched.  The blink was slow and delayed.

The scariest thing was the yawning.  Often when attending the euthanizing of dogs they have agonal breathing where the jaw opens wide and then closes again.  It is unconscious and I don't think they are breathing, it is just the last gasp of a life leaving.  Richard was breathing but he was also doing this frequent  very wide open mouth yawning.  He was also incontinent which he has never been before during his two previous faints.

It took him a long time to come around, far longer than the previous faints.  This episode resembled a seizure more than a faint.  

We went to two hospitals, the local and the Tweed.  Bloods were done twice, he had a CT scan as well as urinalysis and being hooked up to monitors the entire 8 hours we were there.  Again, everything was fine.  No anomalies at all.

Two days later (we were both pretty blah the next day) he was whippersnipping.

Last night I had a dream.  We were walking down a town street.  An auction of a deceased elderly woman's possessions was just about to start.  Her things were displayed along the sidewalk (although the sidewalk more resembled a tunnel).  I saw a beautiful basket with a medallion design on one end, a deep blue brocade coat and a carved wooden sculpture of three lions heads.

I looked over at Richard and he had that look in his eye, the look like he was about to faint.  I told him to get up and walk, to pull himself together.  He did get up and half fell onto the laps of the people sitting opposite who were waiting for the auction to begin.

We managed to stumble down the street, me half supporting him while I exhorted him to hold on, to stay with me.  The last part of the dream I remember is of him propped up on the bank below a bridge.

I realize a part of me is frightened of the unknown.  I suspect the major stroke of a friend's mother recently has fueled this fear.  When we were at the restaurant I thought he'd had a stroke, that either I'd lost him completely or our lives would change forever from the consequences. 

Nevertheless the dream has stayed with me.  Today, for the first time in months, I have a headache I cannot shake.  It's only fear.  Tomorrow will be better.  In the meantime, all todays are precious precisely because we do not know what tomorrow brings.

More Fit in 6 Minutes or FISM

We've begun.  Yesterday at the gym we started the Fit in 6 Minutes (FISM).  Unfortunately I can't remember what my heart rate went to:  was it 150? 146?  as I was paying more attention to how Richard was going.  He was trying but not hard.  His HR got to 81, not nearly high enough.  Trying to tread that fine line between encouragement and nagging, I did convince him to up his game enough that he actually became a little breathless for the final attempt.  We have to do four sessions of 30 seconds, 3 times a week. 

So.  Today I showed him the charts regarding age appropriate heart rates.  Fifty percent capacity for a 70 year old is 110.  Took his resting HR last night, 62 BPM, which is good (mine 72, above average).  Suggested that someone he doesn't like, who will remain nameless as this is a public space, was chasing him to 'have a chat'.  Brought up the transcript from the Catalyst program and read him appropriate parts.  Why wouldn't the FISM program be helpful for Parkinsons as it is also a disorder of the nervous system?  The segment on the mice who have been genetically engineered to age faster (how cruel is that?  that's a whole 'nother post) and who, with a tailored exercise program (running on a treadmill) didn't age at the same speed as the non-exercising control group, is very telling. 

Richard has never been sporty since I've known him.  He walks with me and is going to the gym, which is so outside his comfort zone and something he would never do under normal circumstances, and I'm very proud of him for that but he needs to be keen enough to experience real discomfort.  For instance, on one of the arm press machines, where the bar is pushed up, he was still on the lightest weight.  In all the months he'd been going it never occurred to him to push the weight up a little and he's been going for a few months longer than I!  So I encouraged him to increase the weight.  Ditto the bike.  Suggested that he could go higher than level 2.  Yesterday he was on level 7.  Yay!

He is also an old hand on the quadricep machine, the treadmill and the cross trainer, machines he avoided because they were too hard.  Therefore I am confident that with practice and getting used to the fact that working out hard for 30 seconds hurts, he will master FISM. 

In April, after four months of FISM, it will be interesting to take our resting heart rates again.   I trust that both will be improved, that we'll have less abdominal fat and more muscle.  And that maybe I'll notice that Parkinsons (and/or Alzheimers) will have less of a grip on Richard.

I am excited by the prospect.  This might be the answer.  No cure for old age and death but if we can feel good, stay active and mentally capable until we keel over, terrific.  Can't ask for more than that (except by the time we die all the animals are or will be looked after and loved and if I go first, that Richard is also looked after and loved).  Happy New Year!

Richard, as I write, is in the Princess Alexandra hospital in Brisbane.  He fainted again.  Like he did a year or more ago.  We'd gone to Anthony's 50th birthday party.  He was standing at the kitchen bench talking to someone when he fainted.  I was around the corner, heard the crash and was, I was going to say instantly by his side but as there were two paramedics, a nurse and a doctor surrounding him, the closest I could get was at one remove.  But he was conscious and talking, a bit vague, as to expected but at least conscious.  The previous faint he was out unconscious for half a minute?  Time seems to expand during something like that, when the nature of reality tears ever so slightly and the fragility of existence is exposed through the rent.

He'd only had one beer and had had a little bit to eat, not much as it was a catered party with hors d'oeuvres and finger food, but something.  He'd had a good lunch.  Everything was normal except for the nature of the party itself.  The physicality of a cocktail party is illustrated by standing, small steps and maybe sitting with a small plate balanced on your knee.  Richard hadn't taken a seat in the hour and a half we were there.  He'd moved all of six or eight feet between the deck and the kitchen.  Suspect the blood pooled in his legs and wasn't getting pumped around his body, much less to his brain.

Spoke to him this morning and he sounds okay.  I've got his hearing aid and he hasn't had his Parky medication so a bit muzzy.

Just got off the phone from Anthony.  He's going to the hospital to sit with him and hopefully bring him home to his house.  I'm going to head off about 10 and pick Richard up - all being well.  Should be no reason why they need to keep him in another night.

At least we can guard against this happening in the future.  Trips to the hospital and tests and all that muck is not going to be our new reality.  Except for the parky meds and panadol for his back, Richard is on no medication which is pretty good for his age.  He walks 3km 7 days a week, goes to the gym 3 days a week and eats extremely well, a mostly vegetarian diet save for a daily serving of fish.  His attitude is good, he loves and is loved, oh how he is loved.

So, although I am thankful we live in a world where he can be taken to the hospital and examined by competent and caring staff, it's a perk I would rather not have to enjoy.

Anxiety Dreams and Cats in the Morning

A rat was chewing in the walls last night.  Amazing how wood amplifies sound.  What was he doing in the wall space?  Thought there'd be a great hole into the room but there was no sign to show for his industriousness. 

I would get up and bang on the wall, after pressing my ear to the wood, to hear the gnawing all the more clearly, knowing only a finger width of wood was between the delicate flesh of my ear and his yellow teeth.  The rat would stop after I'd pounded the wall and then we'd listen to one another listening to one another.  Eventually the cold and silence would force me back into bed.  We both waited and then when the tension of silence was high, he'd take the first tentative chew. 

Then R got up all torchlight flash and male Can Do stomping.  But the rat out waited him too. 

Between that and a full moon sleep was elusive.  Woke up this morning leaden but determined.  Too many mouths to feed to wallow in bed.  Then of course there was Natalia, the furry alarm clock.  Matisse's strategy to get us moving is to launch his considerable weight from across the room onto the bed.  One can jump up and down or one can jump up and down with force.  Matisse weighs 14 lbs.  Fourteen pounds of pure muscle.  He uses that stone of weight with force.  I swear when he lands the weight of him levitates R and I.

Natalia's tactic is more subtle.  She pushes her face close to mine, opens her mouth and shouts.  I love her, she is a darling little cat, but Ella Fitzgerald she ain't.  It isn't a cracked high decibel Siamese meow like Matisse but it is high pitched, loud and somewhat scratchy.  Of all the cats, Nairobi's meow is most pleasant, the Mel Torme of meows.  Anyway, from very deep and far away I rose to the surface.  Natalia's happy at attention whiskers tickled my face.  Only thing I can do is roll out of bed and into the morning routine dragging the remains of an anxiety dream like a torn scarf behind me.

Anxiety dream #1.  I dreamed Richard had scheduled his own euthanasia.  He didn't want to deteriorate any more physically or mentally or be a burden so while he was still strong he decided to die.  I was trying to stop him.  Actually dreamed this dream two nights ago so the details have gone, only the horror remains.  Horror because I know it's a dream of fear.  What will happen to Richard in the coming years and therefore what will happen to me?  Will I cope?  Will I be strong and patient and loving always?  Will I have to make horrible decisions I can hardly even contemplate?  Will I have to fight feelings of being trapped? 

Already I don't like the idea of leaving him alone.  The other day, for the first time in years, I asked if he would get up and do the morning chores while I had a sleep in.  Constant insomnia caught up with me.  I slept an extra two hours!  When I got up he'd been up for an hour and a half.   In that time he'd fed the cats, walked the dogs and given them their breakfast, let the horses out and made coffee.  I was ready to fall onto my cup of caffeine when I saw the lorikeet dishes.  Then I saw the pellet container.  Haven't you fed the birds yet, I asked.  I tried not to be angry but I was.  What had he done for an hour and a half? It's not his fault and the anger faded quickly but already I feel the walls closing in hence the dream and secret longing.  Of course consciously I don't want him to die but unconsciously I'm already looking for an escape.  It's an awful thing to admit and I am ashamed but there it is.  Dreams don't lie. 

Anxiety dream #2.  I'm a vet nurse On Call.  I get a call from a panicked owner of a guinea pig.  The animal has something wrapped or caught on its molars deep inside its mouth.  If it isn't removed the guinea pig will get pneumonia.  I ring Karen.  It's after midnight.  Takes her 45 minutes to get to the surgery and then I realize I haven't got the number of the owner.  Karen is livid.  Understandably.  She waits around for awhile and then leaves in a huff.  Will she ever forgive me and my stupidity?  Then the owner arrives with the guinea pig and I have no vet.  Luckily Nerida arrives, calm and collected and takes matters in hand.  Saved!  But guilt remains.  How could I be so dumb and why haven't I learned, after all this time, to get the name and number of the client first before anything else?

And why am I dreaming anxiety dreams? 

Still Here

There's a tightening in my core, like I'm pulling in and concentrating my energy.  We're going to get out of here.  Have almost convinced Richard to drastically drop the price on the house, in total taking $76,000 off  so we can sell up and move.  In 7 months we've had exactly one inspection.  One.  Obviously we're not meeting the market.  Dropped it $26,000 and still no joy - but that's by the buy (a typofreudian slip - so want someone to BUY this place). 

Haven't written in ages - computer dramas of dire proportions (lost most everything).  Still not 100%.  Have been far more disciplined after getting sloppy, gluttonous and feeling the effects of less energy, less self esteem.  Only put on a couple of kilos but always felt bloated.  I have the willpower to quit smoking but have trouble controlling portion size.  No problem in eating good, nay excellent food, just eat too much of it.  Or did.  Not too many slips now and the result is little short of amazing.  No, not in suddenly being a size 6 but in how I feel.  Much more energy.  Think when one is bloated it's because food is lounging around in the gut taking energy for digestion that could go into living.  Not advocating anorexia just common sense.  My enthusiasm for everything sometimes goes awry and since I've learned to cook (still can't believe that I love to cook after a lifetime of believing it a most vile activity) I love what I create. And eat it too!

Still.  Some other factors.  Much more consistent with yoga.  More like 7 days a week rather than 5.  Went to Woodford to visit Gabi and attended a couple of yoga classes.  Learned and practiced the 5 Tibetan Rites (http://www.lifeevents.org/5-tibetans-energy-rejuvenation-exercises.htm) at one of the classes and have incorporated them into my practice, more to encourage Richard who is also doing them, then because I need to add on another 10 minutes into a practice that already takes an hour.  There are, however, two of the exercises, No. 2 and 4, which illustrate how weak I am in those areas. 

The other thing is running.  Thanks to yoga my nearly 60 year old joints can cope with the concussion without aching so much they keep me awake at night.  Have attempted to take up running  half a dozen (or more) times in the past 20 years and have always been defeated by the pain.  There is still pain (I'm so unfit!) but it's a good pain which will lessen with time.  Somewhat embarrassing however.  I've got the two whippets, Jamaica and Radar, with me while I *run*.  When I'm *running* up a steep hill, Jamaica keeps trotting but Radar gives a big sigh and walks.  It's a fast walk but even so! 

I ran for years and gave up because of  a) the smoking finally taking its toll and b) the pain in my hips.  So far so good and I'm so chuffed.  I love the way running makes me feel and I want that fitness again.  Now that I don't smoke (will be 3 years in May) I feel that I've earned the right to those running induced endorphins.

More consistent with the meditation attempts.  After how many years? I should be an 'experienced meditator'.  Ha.  Still a flibbertygibbett but had a tiny experience which had me googling scary meditation (nothing really, a flush of energy through my body which was hard to contain).

There's another reason for this get fit regime.  It's Richard.  Things are good health wise.  He's eating well, taking the Parkinson's medication, walking, and as mentioned, doing the Tibetan 5 Rites 4 or 5 times a week.  But his mind isn't as it should be.  Sometimes it's scary.  We had to buy a television as the old one crapped itself.  Took measurements for the cabinet so that the new tv would fit.  He saw that televisions are measured diagonally so that a 32" is a diagonal measurement across the screen.  He panicked, certain that our cabinet measurements, width and height, wouldn't work.  He forgot how to put batteries in the remote, well not forgot but put them in wrong, something he never would have done before.  I had to draw a diagram in the dirt yesterday to show him which yard gates would be open and which closed to let Balthazar out overnight but keep the other two in.  He's been yarding and unyarding the horses for 20 years.  He forgets names and places and it scares him.  He is more loving than ever and although I know he loves me, part of it I think is needing reassurance.  It must be frightening to know that things are not as they were.  I can't save him from it but I can be there for him.  At the same time, sometimes it is a little claustrophobic and the space allowed by yoga and walking is necessary for my peace of mind. 

But it's all good.  We are still blessed.  Healthy and loved and loving, the animals good save for the untimely loss of Tony to an intruding brown tree snake (found the hold, bandicoot made and sealed it).  So can't complain - except that we have no house buyers!

Richard spent last night in hospital.  We'd had a neighbour over for dinner, a neighbour who'd suddenly become a widow when her husband died in bed in the wee hours just over a month ago.  She is coping but needs friends and family support hence the invite to come for dinner and an episode of Midsomer Murder.  At 7:25, after dinner had finished, she was heading outside for a smoke while I entered the living room heading for the tv.  As we were both turned away from Richard neither of us saw him fall.  He'd stood up from the kitchen stool to start on the dishes when he felt dizzy and fainted.   Richard's a big man, not fat but tall and solidly built.  When he fell he made a sound like a muted explosion.  The floor shook.

I turned and he was on his back, unconscious, eyes open but unfocussed, lips white and arms faintly twitching by his side.  After the first moment of disbelief, I grabbed the phone, pulling the books and papers from the stand, and rang the ambulance.

Our poor neighbour was in shock.  She'd just been through a similar episode, calling the ambulance while she tried to rouse her unresponsive husband.  Tragically, he never responded.  He had already died from a massive cardiac event.  She stood in shock and had to be asked several times before she went and got a pillow to put under Richard's head.

That's how quickly it can happen.   One minute you're enjoying a glass of wine and dinner, the next you're on the floor unconscious and trembling. 

The ambos came, two capable and confidence inspiring young people.  (One bright spot, the woman, a horse enthusiast was also enthusiastic about my paintings.  It's rare that someone comes into the house and raves about them, she did.  I was quite chuffed).  But they knew their job and their attitude was great; friendly, professional, even humorous.  Because of Richard's age and the fact that he'd fainted he was off to hospital.  I followed, waiting perhaps half an hour before leaving as I'd had 2 glasses of wine and didn't want to be *done* for DWI. 

All the tests were fine.  Normal everything.  Better than normal but they said he had to stay overnight just in case. 

While we are extremely lucky to have a local hospital and good doctors (the doctor on duty looked like a  nerdy high school student complete with thick framed glasses, an untidy mop of brown hair and thin pale arms) spending hours waiting to be admitted and then more hours waiting to be discharged is not fun.  The friendly but overbright demeanour of the nurses, accustomed as they are to talking to the hearing impaired elderly, the ticking and buzzing of machines, the muted slap of shoes up and down the corridor, the look of patients who won't be going home again, all speak the language of illness.   It is a world apart from the bright daylight world of the healthy.  Last night, one curtain over, a young man gasped in pain.  Have no idea what was wrong with him but every few minutes he breathed agony.  He didn't groan or cry or moan, the pain was all in his breath.  He was removed to another hospital.

In Richard's ward were 3 elderly gentleman.  Richard had gone for xrays.  The man in the bed opposite was asleep, one had zither framed himself outside to visit with friends, and the third, an extremely deaf 84 year old with the largest eyes, sat quietly by himself on a chair.  I was doing a crossword to fill the time.  Suddenly the biggest sheet-ripping fart split the silence.  I wanted to shout Well Done! a la Noel Coward but no one there would've heard.

Richard is home now, sleeping.  He had a crap night, as did I.  The consensus is that Richard's episode had to do with his Parkinson's medication.  It can cause a drop in blood pressure when the patient goes from a sitting to standing position (although, despite numerous tests, they couldn't get his blood pressure to deviate from normal).  It can also cause dizziness.  So we'll see.  He goes to see the doc tomorrow. 

Richard's mental sharpness is deteriorating almost, it seems, before my eyes.  He's slower, his speech is slower, his voice is no longer his but an old man's voice.  It's almost as though I speak to him through a thick brown pane of glass.  He can hear me and I can hear him but the sharpness and immediacy of speech is muffled and delayed. 

This morning I rang Canton Ohio to see if Aunt Lee was still alive.  A letter I'd written her in October was returned.  I know now that she gave me the wrong address but I didn't know that until I'd googled it looking for the phone number.  Anyway, I spoke to her.  She had no idea who I was.  The name was familiar, Barbara and Jack's names were familiar but she couldn't place them.  She couldn't remember the name of her husband either.  I wrote in reply to a letter she'd written in October which although confused and rambling was anchored in the reality of names and places and events.  It's only December.  She's slid into la la land in a few months, the same as Grandma Anne.

Which brings me to - Richard, who was fully aware of who I spoke to and why (we spoke at length about the returned letter and Aunt Lee), kept referring to Aunt Lee as Grandma Anne.  Who, I asked.  Grandma Anne.  Normally a person would catch themselves and say, "No, I meant Aunt Lee!" but even when pressed he stuck to Grandma Anne.  Then when his attention was drawn to the mistake he accused me of being angry with him.  Because he's scared he goes on the offensive.

Often I see him standing or sitting staring off into space, no, not off into space, at the ground.  He doesn't look up anymore.  For minutes at a time.

I didn't used to worry but I'm worried now and I worry about my worrying for it doesn't help and it wears me down.  I understand why I slept for 2 days when he went to the States.  I didn't have to check up on him all the time, nor did I have to - not entertain him but break up the silent empty chunks of time for him.  He often comes looking for me.  I feel the neediness of him even if it isn't verbalized.  He needs to know I'm nearby.  I understand why I'm riding more than I used to.  That hour on Balthazar is time by myself where I cannot be reached.  I breathe more deeply then.

Worry too about moving house.  Is it a crazy idea?  Or will it help him to engage and focus more.  When he's interested in something he pulls himself together and seems quite normal (although he fixates on things more than he used to, grabbing on to a topic or job and worrying at it until it's finished).  On the other hand, if he is deteriorating as quickly as he seems to be, I will eventually face the reality of being on my own.  Do I want to be on my own and still live in Gatton?  Can't imagine I'd be moving myself and all the animals and furnishings by myself.  So if we're going to move it has to be soon.  Suspect that whereever we're living in the next couple of years is where I'll be seeing out my days.

 I feel guilty for thinking about a future that only contains him on the periphery but if my suspicions are correct there will come a time, and perhaps sooner than I think, when I won't be able to manage him.  If that is the case, I want to live in a place where there is no annual massive burning of the bush or an operating quarry.  I want to live in a place of physical beauty and be near people who perhaps aren't so hidebound and conservative as they are in this farming town.   So I plan and scheme and try and convince Richard that it's a good idea to move to the Tweed Valley and not north to the Sunshine Coast hinterland.  If we move there we will only be able to afford a small acreage and will be stuck in some hobby farm development on poor soil with the possibility of crap neighbours and noise.  If we go south we can afford acreage, acreage which will act as a buffer.

I would give a lot to have Richard back as he was.  I miss him.  I blame that damn surgery and that damn incident which put him in intensive care (and of which we don't know the real truth, I'd wager).  Until then he'd been fine.  Now I do the heavy lifting.  Maybe that's only fair.  He was my strong hero and looked after me.  Now it's my turn.  I chose to remain childless to avoid responsibility.  But there's no escape from the lessons we're sent to learn.  I have to learn unselfishness.  MIndfulness.  Trust in the Universe.  The healing power of love, for him and for myself.  Endurance.  Resilience.  Humour.  Patience.  It's all come together, is coming together in one massively intense One on One lesson. 

Richard home Saturday after 17 days away.  Didn't think I'd miss him as much as I did.  Have always been fairly content with my own company.  It wasn't loneliness.  That's a different feeling altogether, once experienced never forgotten.  No this was just plain garden variety missing his company.  As much as he occasionally annoys and irritates it is his annoying habits, his irritating behaviours.  Although he, and I won't mince words anymore and pretend that it is something that it isn't or worse, that it doesn't exist, so although he is aging before my eyes and it seems sometimes as though he's 80 rather than 67, beneath the fogginess, the slowness, the shuffling, the dreaminess that isn't dreaming, he is still my Richard. 

Slowly our roles are reversing.  Before he took care of me.  He was the nurturing partner while I faffed about and did my thing at 90 miles an hour.  Now I have had to slow down and nuture him.  Thank god I've finally learned to like cooking!  Making delicious nutritious meals is such a sweet and simple gift I can give him every day.  But the nurturing extends to doing the heavy lifting (not that I'm capable of much either), problem solving, being the instigator of things (something I've always done just more so now). 

It sounds as though Richard is non compos mentis and that isn't true at all.  He's off to town this morning to work through a list of errands.  He still does all the banking and handles the insurance and all those accoutrements of day to day living.  Because he worries about those things and spends alot of time thinking about them he does them well.  He can build anything.  He built the new aviary and has just replaced a rotting railroad tie with boards which blend in perfectly with the deck (or will when they age).  He can do all that standing on his head. Anyway, no matter.  In that cliche'd but perfect phrase, 'it is what it is'.  If I start to worry about the future I am undone. 

And then there are other people's problems.  The Gold Coast has been in the news for all the wrong reasons.  Bikie gangs are making their presence known, intimidating civilians and trying to intimidate the police by surrounding a station where one of their members was being held.  There are several different gangs which are at war with one another.  In the course of this, two men from different gangs were arrested. 

At this point I would like to mention the professionalism of the newscaster.  She reported this story without cracking a smile. 

These two men, from opposing gangs, were arrested for various violent offences.  One of them was 21.  He was shown leaving the watchhouse, black t shirt stretched across a body which is familiar with the weightroom of the gym.  Tattoos everywhere and a big white necklace (of bone?) around his neck.  Aware of the cameras he strutted down the ramp like the conquering hero.  I think he was with the Lone Wolf Bikie Gang. 

The other chap, a Sergeant at Arms of the Comancheros was also shown.  Stocky, bull necked, again familiar with the gym.  A high ranking member of a well known, violent and criminal gang.  39 years old.  Charged with assault and GBH.  I think. 

The punch line?  Both of these tough bikies live with their mommys.  No wonder they're in a bad mood.

Richard has been to get a CT scan of his brain as well as an ultrasound of his carotid arteries.  All was well.  So there is no obvious physical explanation for his deterioration. 
      I wasn't going to write about this but it is so much on my mind and no none reads this anyway - and even if they did - what great secrets am I imparting?  It is more important for me to have a place to speak frankly than to safeguard secrets that aren't secrets to anyone who knows us. 
      We went to another town yesterday to run some errands.  While there we looked in some opportunity shops for work sweatshirts and trousers for him.  He was so dull, so helpless, sometimes reminding me of a windup doll that has wound down until prompted to do something else.  He'd stand in the aisle unmoving, or absently fingering a sweatshirt without really doing anything, almost as though he needed permission - or a push.  I'd say what about this or this or this?  Try this on.  What do you think of this one?    I wanted to shout, as I so often do, Wake Up!  Come Back!  Everything he does is done slowly.  He gets out of the car like he's 86 rather than 66.  He walks slowly - unless we're walking the dogs and then he can hook along quite well - he fumbles with his wallet to pay or has to really think things through to use his card.
      The other day I asked him if he'd given seed to the birds.  In the afternoon, when we pull the pellets and water dishes, we always give the galahs a few seeds as a treat and some millet seed on the stem to Dimitri.  No, he said, I thought you'd given it to them earlier.  When?  Earlier in the day.  Why would you think that?  Because you were down here.  Yes, I was down there - about lunch time.  Yesterday I mentioned the chairs we bought a few months ago.  The much loved much longed for Art Deco Club Chairs.  What chairs, he asked.  You know, the chairs.  He stared at me.  I could almost see the wheels grinding slowly around but the gears didn't mesh.  So I explained to him what chairs I meant.  Oh, those chairs.  I thought you meant kitchen chairs, dining room chairs, not those chairs. 
     They are the only chairs we've bought in years.  It's a minor thing but it's a telling example of what occurs with frightening regularity.
     I think Helen, Richard's friend of 30 years, his ex partner when he was in the drug squad, is annoyed that I'm not pushing him to have more tests or go see a psychiatrist.  I understand.  Despite the clean bill of health from the CT scan and ultrasound, something is going on.  But Richard is now quite annoyed if the subject comes up.  If I tried to get him to go see yet another person I suspect he'd dig in his heels.  He asserts, and it's true, that he's done everything required of him.  He's seeing a nutritionist and doing the exercises required.  He has gone to the doctor with my complaints (not his, he is certain nothing is wrong and that he's as sharp as ever) and followed up with the scans.  He has even gone to Tai Chi as of Monday.  That might be the making of things. 
      I found Tai Chi very difficult when I first learned it.  You are asking your body to move in unaccustomed ways which while not physically demanding is hard mentally.  That's why it's called a moving meditation.  It takes total concentration.  He's going to move mental muscles he hasn't had to in quite some time.
      So I'm trying to remain positive.  We're on a roll to get the house ready and move closer to the sea.  As I wrote to Helen, I feel as though I'm on a deadline.  Get all the hard work done before .... before what?  Before he loses it completely?  Yes, that's my fear.  That he has Alzheimers.  I thought that would show up on a scan so as there was nothing seen it is a relief.  Still, still....   So get the house ready to sell, find another place suitable for all of our furred and feathered family as close to the sea as we can afford to be.  We won't wait for the quarry to start.  We'll do this now while we can.  We've been here for 22 years.  The next move will be the last one. 
      I remind myself daily how fortunate I am.  And I am.  Right now, everything is fine and there's no point in scaring myself stupid by thinking about what might happen.  Today, this moment, it's gravy. 

I spend alot of time vacillating between calm acceptance bordering on a simmering joy and a low grade anxiety bordering on fear.  On the one hand I know that I will never be given something I can't handle.  Even death.  Death has only one outcome and you can't fail.  On the other hand, I am afraid, just afraid.  I suspect Richard not only has Parkinsons but the beginnings of Alzheimers.  There, I've said it.  I've made manifest my deepest fear.  By saying it do I make it true?  Of give it more of a reality than it has now?  Conversely, to pretend I don't notice how he has changed isn't very smart either. 

The changes are little.  Forgetting to close the feedroom gate so that the horses have a real feast.  I furtively check that he's closed it now.  Not rinsing his toothbrush so food debris is stuck not only in the bristles but on the handle.  Asking questions he has always known the answer to, that he hasn't even had to question before.  Asking the same question several times.  Needing reassurance, lots of reassurance, about little things.  Also, a kind of turning inwards.  When we walked yesterday (he's coming part of the way now, just past the Pedersens's) I pointed out a sun dog.  Did you see it, I asked.  No.  Did you look?  No.  Do you know what one is?  No.  So I explained (again) what a sun dog was and pointed it out to him.  Richard wasn't really interested. 

On the plus side, he is building an aviary.  That require math and measuring and accuracy and he's doing a brilliant job.  No major mistakes, it's coming together beautifully.  Since he's started it he's napping less.  He complains about chores and jobs and projects but I suspect he needs them.  He needs to be needed.  So, I'm going to keep giving him projects.  There are lots of them.  They aren't as major as the aviary but anything to keep him involved with life. 

He's very chuffed because on Sunday it's Grandfather's Day at Marnie's school.  He's going.  What do I have to do, he asked.  Just be there and love them.  He does get anxious about things that didn't used to bother him. 

It's odd because sometimes he's so engaged and energized, he is as he always was.  Other times I want to shake him and shout, "Wake up!"

We will make a final decision about the house on July 31.  Shanahan is putting the quarry up for sale.  That would be good news but if someone with lots of $$ buys it meeting the imposed conditions won't be an impediment.  The inheritance is coming through (the timing of that seems to indicate it's time to move on) so we will have a few more options of where and what kind of house we live in.  Moving may be the best thing to do for Richard too.  Out of a rut with new sights and sounds and people.  Might make a huge difference.

I know I'm up to it.  When I'm tired I don't feel as optimistic.  Usually, however I trust that the Universe provides me with everything I need, including strength. 

A naked woman with no legs riding a chestnut horse with no saddle or bridle. That was my dream. Or rather part of it. She was amazing to watch. They both were. She and the horse were so linked that thought seemed to unite them. How she even stayed on was a miracle. She was like a thalidomide victim as her legs were missing from the pelvis down so she was balancing on her groin. She did lean forward to ride, supporting some of her weight with her hands on the horse's neck but even so it was quite a feat.

I was riding too, in another part of the dream. Getting on Balthazar was a non-event. Obviously I decided to dismiss the 'invitation to ride' scenario. But we managed. The dream or series of dreams was, as always, long and complicated and I don't remember most of it. I do remember a huge black roiling storm that was coming from the wrong way. Lightning and thunder assailed the eyes and eardrums without surcease. It meant big trouble especially as it was heading east, out to sea and then changed it's mind (and it did seem to have a mind) to come back.

Jamaica hurt his toe on Monday. It might be broken. We weighed up the options and decided to do nothing. Jamaica is the wimpiest dog I've ever met and getting a foot splinted and bandaged and then having to wear an elizabethan collar as well would just about do him in. Because he is such a wuss he is very careful with the foot and is keeping it immobilized himself. He is tied up most of the time and only let off to do his business. Richard does walk him to the gate and back in the morning but it's all on three legs. The swelling is starting to go down a little so hopefully we're doing the right thing. As long as he appeared bright in himself and kept eating I was willing to give this a go. This is the same toe that was broken when he was a puppy (Richard stepped on it). Whippets have such fist-like upright clenched-toe sort of paws they are more susceptible to breakage than a more flat-pawed breed.

Almost two weeks since a cigarette and can definitely feel a difference. Have calmed down a little which is good although nervous energy does get chores done. No smokers cough in the morning and only cough when doing certain lung opening postures during yoga and even then very seldom. The right lung, which has had something going on with it for a long time, a *catch* and *itch*, feels more normal. I am still seeking that elusive fully satisfying inhale that I remember but it will come. I give thanks every day for my Breath and I am so happy that I have given this gift to myself. I can beat myself up in other ways if I wish but I don't have to commit slow suicide anymore.

I notice that Richard is not taking afternoon naps anymore either. I think he's had two in two weeks. He went to the doctor about his hip. The doctor suspects arthritis. Richard now admits that it was sore before he fell on it. He fell a month ago and has had problems with it since. Doctor says he can resume walking. Richard has a bit of a palsy now. It is especially noticeable in the morning. It's only slight but it's something that wasn't there before. It breaks my heart. I try not to be scared of old age. I'm not scared of mine, in some odd way I seem to be getting younger, perhaps only an illusion but an illusion that serves me well. But seeing Richard age is hard. Not the brown hair turning grey turning white. But the palsy and the shuffling his feet rather than picking them up and walking (I bite my tongue. I want to shout at him, WALK! DON'T SHUFFLE!), the sitting slouched over with rounded shoulders gazing at the floor looking like a little old man in an aged care home. Stand tall, I think to myself. Look up and Live to paraphrase an energy company safety commercial. When we walk he looks at the bitumen, I look at the world around me. Of course walking is great for mulling things over. I will look at the road when I am thinking but I am always brought back to the present by the presence of Nature. Not so, Richard. He will walk 6km staring at the three feet in front of him. I bite my tongue again. Usually. If I do say something he tells me not to pick on him. And what right do I have to tell him how to live his life? Except that I love him and I KNOW that it is better for him to stand tall rather than slouch, not only physically but mentally/emotionally/spiritually. There is a dulling of the mind that comes with a perspective that is so foreshortened.

So now I've had my complaint and voiced my fears. Richard will never use the yoga lessons I bought him. At least since his doctor's appointment he is starting to lengthen his walking distance. He's meeting me on the other side of the Pedersens now. I trust that gradually he will build back up to the entire distance. The other day a friend came down who is enduring the heartwrenching reality of a breakup. Because of that he brought champagne. So I drank it with him. When he left I was feeling distinctly buzzy. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. Took Radar for his walk and under the alcoholic influence I ran up every hill and along every flat bit of land. Felt great and I was entirely sober and alcohol free by the time I returned home an hour later. That night I could hardly sit. Not muscle or joint soreness but sciatic in the groin. Bummer. Felt great to jog again and if I could get away with it I'd start running again. But I can't so there.

In the meantime I'll work on my asana, Bird of Paradise, or, as I wrote to Jen my yoga teacher, the Fractured Turkey. That's why I feel younger. Rather than giving up things because I'm getting older, I'm learning something new. Not French or calculus or Cordon Bleu cooking but yoga postures. When Jen first introduced us to Bird of Paradise at the workshop I couldn't even attempt it. At home it would take me 5 or 6 steps to get my feet parallel. As for standing upright on one leg, forget it. I could barely get my other foot off the ground. But perseverance pays off. I can stand up now. Slowly, with great effort, but stand I do. And I love it. There are many many postures that I cannot do nor will I ever be able to do. I can graciously admit to the impossibility of some things but there are many that I cannot do now that I could do in the future with practice. I like that. I want to add on to my life, not subtract.

My Reality, His Reality

What you put out is what you get back. I'm slow to learn this key and valuable lesson. Just wrote in Balthazar's training log how I instinctively slapped him when he started to mug with his muzzle on my breast. He pinned his ears and why wouldn't he? I'd just hit him. Not hard. I could've slapped the cats that hard and they'd think I was just showing them attention yet the intention behind it was not one of affection. So I received what I gave.

Richard can be of a dour disposition. In private smiles don't come readily to his face. Sometimes I feel like the court jester capering about in a vain attempt to make him laugh or at least crack a smile. This morning he came out while I was feeding the birds. 'Good morning,' with this cat's behind set to his mouth. I started to smile a greeting but then, being in a contrary mood, I returned his expression and his greeting. He grimaced. I grimaced. Then he came over and gave me a hug. I notice when I 'chase' him for a smile or a pleasing demeanour it seems to have the opposite affect but when he perceives my face as 'set' or grim he's after me, 'Are you all right? You look sad.' So who is to say?

I worry about Richard. Try not to, remind myself that in *this* moment, all is well yet the niggling voice of unease whispers in my ear. As I said, in frustration, when Helen was here, I believe him to be mildly depressed. Depression would account for or be a symptom of the underlying worrying he grapples with most of the time. It would account for his negative attitude. If I say the sun is shining, he says it's too hot. If I say we're going to get some welcome rain, he hopes we don't get floods. If I point out the beauty of a flowering tree, he reminds me that it needs pruning. Perhaps it's only the difference between the way men and women perceive the world. Perhaps I am nit picking. But I can say that I perceive *him* as not being happy, not even content. Sometimes, he is reminded of how fortunate we are to live how and where we do when he sees how most of the world struggles for food, freedom, shelter, the basic human necessities, but those times are rare.

I lost patience with him the other day. He'd gone to get his knees seen to by the doctor who sent him for xrays which showed nothing wrong. His knees don't hurt, they get tired. I believe what he feels is true. I'm not denying that. And I am very proud of him for walking as much as he does. But otherwise, like most men, he does little to preserve his own health. Sometimes I even think he has given up and decided he is an old man. He's only 65. When I see him shuffling his feet, bowed forward like an elderly decrepit I am overcome with sadness imbued with annoyance. When we walk our beautiful walk down a spectacular dirt road surrounded by hills and wildlife, Richard is walking while staring at the ground in front of his feet. We walk separately. I am *there* enjoying the scenery, the feel of the wind on my face, looking for what creatures may be visible that day and Richard is a million miles away thinking/worrying. I used to remind him where we were and didn't he want to look but saying anything just made him cranky and I quit. I quit looking at him too for seeing him staring at the ground as he walked ruined my walk. I was resenting him rather than enjoying what I was doing.

It is useless to try and get someone to live their lives as you see fit. It only makes for friction when they don't comply. I *know* that. I do. One can only set an example by the way one lives ones life and if it appeals to others then great, if not, fine. That is a hard thing to do when married and your life is tied in with another. I get mad when I see him give up. I see the difference when he's inspired. He comes alive. His being is imbued with energy and purpose. But I cannot find him his joy. He has to. When we walk I get ahead of him and then wait for him to catch up, then walk on again. Unfortunately, I cannot amble. I need to stride out. A failing on my part but when I have tried to walk with him our walk deteriorates to a saunter. A few weeks ago, however, Richard was animated about something we were talking about. I can't remember what it was but I had to stretch out to keep up with him. He was alert, energetic, ALIVE. How can I help him to feel alive all the time? How can I help him remove this cheesecloth curtain he has placed between himself and life?

When I lost patience with him, after his visit to the doctor, I told him what I thought, that he must take responsibility for his health, that a doctor isn't going to give him a pill to fix his knees. I know how crooked Richard is from years of compensating for a sore back (which troubles far less than it used to). I see the bottom of his shoes which are worn very differently. I see his left knee larger than his right because that's the knee he always uses when kneeling. I see the natural crookedness and one-sidedness of anyone multiplied and magnified in him. Of course, I see yoga as an answer to help him. I want to share the positive difference it has made to me with him. More, I want the mental aspect in learning how to meditate, the relaxation, the mindfulness, to be a part of his life too. Naturally, I don't have those things all the time. It's a process but I am aware of them and the benefits are more obvious in my life than they used to be. Most of all, however, I want him to find his joy. I guess the only answer is to love him. Just love him, no matter what. And if he chooses to believe the self-made myth that he is old and shuffling and bent over with care, then I must love that too.

Hospital

Richard is in hospital. He went in for a routine inguinal hernia operation and is now in CCU for observation. All went well beforehand. At the pre-sx med check his blood pressure was brilliant, his ECG normal. He was a little apprehensive as one would expect but good. I left him at 1pm as the animals needed doing. He was going in for surgery at 5:00. I was to call at 6:30 when he should have been back in his room. At 6:20 Cameron rang. His sx was delayed, he'd just gone in. I was to ring his room at 8:30 instead. At 8 I got a call from Richard's sister. He was in CCU, something about his heart playing up during surgery. Rang the hospital, couldn't get anyone who really knew the details except he was okay and was only being monitored. Cameron rang, he'd managed to speak to a doctor. Richard would be monitored all night, perhaps sent home with a halter heart monitor, if that showed up any anomalies, it was possible he'd have to be fitted with a pacemaker. Rang the hospital again, got Peter on the CCU ward. Yes, he confirmed all that Cameron said plus telling me that Richard's heart had not beat fully for ONE or TWO MINUTES during surgery. It was half beating but the ventricle was not closing - if I've understood correctly. Perhaps it was only a side effect of the surgery and the drugs but if not....

I'm going down this morning, very soon in fact. Having coffee now which I need as I've slept like crap. Talk about a runaway mind. Two a.m. and I'm still running the same loop through my head. Richard is my everything. I've been thinking the past week about how to write about him, how I feel about him, some of the worries I've had, not related to his health, but hadn't because I wasn't ready. I'm not ready now except to say he must be well. He is strong and good and full of love. He does not need this. Besides his good qualities he does have one that is not so good. He is a worrier. Like his mother. Like his eldest son. He is like a terrier with a bone when he worries. He obsesses. During and after the floods in January I was concerned about it. Before it was just one of those idiosyncrasies that he had that could be passed of as nothing serious but his behaviour post-flood was worrisome. Weight melted off him, partly because we were walking more but more because he worried, lost sleep, didn't eat as much. The next big worry was the termites and just when he was getting to accept that would be all right too this has happened and worry will only aggravate his condition. If he has a condition. Please God, let there be no condition.

I try and discipline my mind to think good thoughts, not to make nightmare scenarios but those gloomy goblins creep in regardless. If something happened to him, I would survive. Of course I would but life without him would be bleak. He is my everything. After 30 years of strangers I met my best friend and lover. I've only had him for 25 years. Not nearly long enough.

There are some good aspects about this (and I know I'm anticipating as the whole story is not known). If he does have a *condition* , than it is best to find out now. Steps can be taken to manage or rectify it. Also, this episode might impress upon Richard the fact that time is not indefinite. He is always going to do something fun later, when he has some time. Fishing, exploring, I don't think he would hunt any more, activities that he's talked of are always in the future, 'when I have time'. He makes time for everyone else. If they need something, especially his sons, he drops everything and goes. As he should. But that same care and attention should be lavished on himself. Perhaps having a scare like this, although he was unaware of it at the time, will cause him to reassess his life. Perhaps to my detriment if he insists we move to the suburbs. I don't know. I don't know what the future holds but as long as he's in it physically and mentally healthy I won't complain.

Just got off the phone to him. He's fine. His heart was fine all night. It's still possible they may keep him in hospital another night. Hope not. Still, we'll do what is required.