Another Christmas

Another Christmas.  How they whirl past, one after another.  We have, save for a quick gift delivery to neighbours, spent it at home.  We had planned to drive to either Picnic Point or the  Range Lookout this morning, while the roads were still quiet, to have a coffee and enjoy the view.  Rain, however, put an end to that.  The promised rain has not eventuated, this morning's drizzle not counting for much so it's been quite a pleasant day - although I would've preferred a cozy rain confined day at home.  The grass has recovered but still we are in drought.  The soil is bone dry beneath a very narrow band at the surface.

The last vestige of small talk and small writing; the weather.  I have these thoughts I want to explore when I am no where near the computer (or a notebook) and have no chance of pursuing them.  

One of them is the nature of guilt and punishment.  Again.  I'm not Catholic but repeatedly I return to this train of thought.  If I don't get what I want or something bad happens, is it punishment, is it karma?  Am I not holding my mouth just right?   This house still hasn't sold and there's a part of me that believes it's my fault, that I don't deserve to live in a place more suited to me than here which is, although beautiful, killing me slowly as I watch the .... have to say it, environmental vandals/philistines/rednecks destroy it by degrees.  For years I've watched as the bush is chipped away through burning and now, tree clearing, which seems to be the new tool of the cognoscenti farmer.

I cry when I see, almost daily, the results of the latest attack.  Or at least my eyes well up with tears.  Perhaps I now qualify as a silly old woman for crying about the loss of the bush.  And maybe it's selfish to not want to feel bad when I see the new piles of freshly bulldozed trees waiting to be burnt.  But I do.  So I feel guilty because I'm still here, the house hasn't sold and I must be doing something wrong. 

Or am I being selfish to influence Richard this way?  He'd stay if I said I'd stay.  He doesn't ride through the bush so he doesn't feel as strongly as I do about its demise.  If I talk about the creatures who die when they burn it hurts him so I don't talk about it.  So I suppose I am being selfish in pushing for this but in the end, I have to.  Being old here is out of the question (or should I say older).  Is it sinful to want more (or something different) when I already have so much and billions of people have next to nothing?  There is much guilt attached to that.

The other side of me says, I am already blessed in being well fed, clothed and housed.  I just want to change locations, spend Christmas in the Tweed Valley rather than the Lockyer Valley.  So get over it, stop feeling guilty and just get on with it!

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 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. 

Learned of my step mother's death today.  Haven't seen her for many years.  Mixed emotions.  She made Dad happy and my sister unhappy.  There was shenaigans with Dad's will and obfuscation and roadbloaks that were probably unnecessary.  Loretta wasn't my kind of person.  In a way she was the antithesis of Mom yet she was vibrant, funny (often crudely), enthusiastic and loving.  I know she was in love with Dad and Dad wasn't an easy man to live with.  I think he was sometimes unkind to her because he could be.  She was a smart business woman and a great help with the airport.  I suspect that although the final say always remained with Dad she was the boss in day to day matters.  That was definitely true as Dad became ill and weak.  Sadly her last 10 years were in a fog of Alzeimhers disease.  A sad end to a sharp and savvy lady.

Her death means Dad's will comes into play.  What was once a possible inheritance of $750,000 each has dwindled to about $300,000.  Less now that the Australian dollar exceeds parity with the US.  But the timing is perfect.  We are nearing the end of preparing the house for sale.  Have the verandah to paint as well as one section of the living room (final coat today and tomorrow!) then it's ready.  Richard is building an aviary so that the flighted verandah birds may be moved allowing for the repainting.  Then we wash the outside of the house and de-cobweb and it's done.

I am torn between loving this house, this 10 acres and these surrounds and being ready for a change.  Was a bit depressed about the idea of moving.  Just all too much trouble and bother when we have everything just as we like it here - but then, this may be the best thing that could happen.  It will force Richard to re-engage (even building the bird aviary has made him more lively, less likely to sleep away the day).  With the inheritance we will have a bit more play with what we can afford to buy.  If we can get somewhere near the sea, all the better.  Richard can take up kayaking if he pleases (and I hope he pleases!) and I can get involved in whatever's too hand - yoga, art, horse stuff.  Anyway, that may or may not be in the future.  I definitely don't want to be too old and frail to move and suddenly find the quarry is in full swing with the 160 trucks a day past the front door along with the visual agony of watching the slow devouring of the mountain by heavy equipment.