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.