It’s been one whole year.

 Mum.

Everyday I think of her. Every day I think of something to tell her. Funny or dumb or frustrating, she’ll laugh, or sigh, or tell me it’s ok as appropriate.

Then I remember she has dementia and won’t understand or respond.

Then I remember she died.

In her last few days, she weakened more and more.

The last few weeks, her voice weakened, she gradually stopped eating and drinking. Her body wasted months earlier, yet her eyes brightened when we talked to her.

The last few months, her humour, sarcasm and fun were still evident in her expressions and gestures.

The last year was a rapid decline, from walking, talking, still defending the underdog and offering “help”. She knew she knew us but couldn’t place us. (My favourite - “one day I’m going to work out who your mother is, I know I know her”) … that to a frail, totally dependent, skin on a skeleton, little old lady.

It still seems surreal. If you’ve lost a parent, you know. If you’ve lost a parent you were close to, you know.

I miss her, she was my best op shop buddy, a sounding board, and made me laugh til I cried. She told me when I was being ridiculous but thought I wasn’t… and when I wasn’t but thought I was.

I miss who I was with her, and the parts of me she brought out, and the parts of her I brought out.

I miss her.. but…

I KNOW mum’s not “looking down on me” or helping me, sending signs, or ‘with me in spirit’. Nor is she an angel. This is said to us to comfort us, or by us to comfort ourselves. It’s comfort as this world knows it.

But… Seriously, if we get to Heaven and have to keep looking down on the wreck of this world, the stupidity, cruelty that happens around it, and the bumbling of our loved ones, what makes Heaven different to this life on earth? Where is the comfort in that scenario? 

Heaven will be filled with joy for those who love and accept Christ, the sheep who have heard the voice of the shepherd and followed. That was mum.

Surrounded by the glory of God, a light like no other. No tears, sickness, infirmity or sorrow. 

That’s comfort.

Comfort comes from knowing her poor brain is again whole and healed, her frail and brittle frame is strong and healthy, and her croaky whisper of a voice is now strongly singing praises to her king. She couldn’t sing well in her earthly life, so she’ll enjoy that. :)

Comfort comes from believing I’ll “know” her in Heaven and will see her there. 

Comfort is knowing that the second she closed her eyes here on earth she opened them to see Jesus. 

And that’s a comfort beyond earthly words.

 

Rev. 21:4 He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death, or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.

1 Corinthians 2:9 But as it is written, “what no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined what God has prepared for those who love him”

See also:

https://www.gotquestions.org/death-of-a-parent.html

https://www.gotquestions.org/who-will-go-to-heaven.html

https://www.gotquestions.org/heaven-like.html

Looking and really looking

'I'm glad you brought me here, I'd never have found this on my own'

I needed to fill an hour or so, mum was visiting so I took her out for one of our long time favourite shared activities, op shopping.

I know there are some who shudder at the thought of op shops, others who like them, and still others who are ... Ahem... Slightly obsessed. 
We're of the latter persuasion. Mum and I look at every shelf and every hanger. Many are the times people would say, of our purchases,  'I was just in there and I didn't see that!'... And we'd smirk because we knew.
We know the difference between looking and really looking.
Gaudy, fancy, horrible, dainty, ugly, beige.. It all counts for a look.
Stuff is hidden under stuff and behind stuff and someone else didn't even see that stuff you saw because they were only looking for blue...

And nothing was ever beyond the reach of our potential purchase...
Clothes - for barbie dolls, baby dolls, ladies in the outback, ourselves, our friends kids, the dog who liked to wear silly hats. 
Coffee mugs - like the time we filled my brother's cupboard with mugs bearing people's names... Barry, Warren, Judith, Brian... Not one name from his friends list but all the names on the rejected mugs in the salvos. 
Garden ornaments - that time we hid garden gnomes all through someone's house so they'd find them for months. 
Books - Serious and silly, quaint titles, quirky covers. 
Used and unused birthday cards, just so we could give the dumb pictures and jokes another life... there isn't much that can't be repurposed. 
For good or for bad.

We have a few op shops in town, one is reasonably new, I took mum there first. We had a good poke around but something was off. Mum was looking and seeing but she didn't seem quite herself. She bought a few oddities; I figured she had reason though they weren't her usual trinkets or style. I was a bit puzzled by her detachment but figured it was one of those things.
I drove to the next shop, she gets breathless if we walk too far. As we drove, I pointed out a few changes to the Main Street shops, she made appropriate noises and seemed interested. 
Nothing out of the ordinary.

She stared into a shop window at dresses; I said 'not quite this one, mum, that's the boutique' she laughed, replying that that was a good thing, it looked 'pretty fancy for an op shop'
We walked into the arcade, past the boutique on the right, the takeaway on the left and to the shop at the end, where if you go a few feet more you're in the carpark.

In the second shop, she wandered and touched things, again, she didn't seem to quite understand what we were looking for. She found a few things she thought were nice, one or two things she didn't. She smiled, said hello, and made a bit of small talk to the ladies on the day's shift. She seemed distracted yet detached. Quite beside myself by this time, unable to concentrate, I smiled at mum and said I thought we'd go home for a cuppa and see dad. I think she was relieved. 

She said she liked that op shop, the ladies were friendly. But 'I'm glad you brought me here, I'd never have found it on my own. And I wouldn't find my way back to the car'

This second shop is one of the 'good' op shops. The prices are reasonable, the stuff is of decent quality and proceeds go to local community groups. 
The location hasn't changed, nor the layout  neither have any of the fittings. In fact this is the same op shop I used to go to when the kids were growing up, with exactly the same layout and the same ladies at the desk as it did back then.

Back then... when my mum volunteered there at least one day a week. For many years. When it was one of the main interests in her life.

When mum was one of the ladies behind the desk sorting out the clothes, taking money, walking around the shop tidying it and helping people, and not getting lost finding the shop in the Main Street.

I felt my gut fall, my brain screamed and my stomach twisted. There was not even one flicker of recognition. Not of the shop's sign, it's angled entryway, it's location or... Anything. 
There had back then been the boutique on the right, the takeaway on the left and the shop at the end, where if you go a few feet more you're in the carpark.
But it might as well have been on another continent. The shop was entirely new to her.

And that's when 2 plus 2 really started making 4. When the grieving started for the mum I knew I was losing and missing and would continue to lose and miss. The mum who made shopping so silly we'd often be cry laughing. 

I hesitantly  told my daughter. She said 'well it's been a while, they don't live here any more, she's forgotten, that's all'. I said maybe it was so.

But me, as the daughter of her, the mother, knew that it wasn't all; that it was the start of something I didn't want yet, I wasn't ready for yet and couldn't believe signalled the beginning of this dreadful journey that she is aware of now, but soon won't be. 

And we, the family of she the mother will look at her and wonder. And wish and watch as she fades even further into herself, distracted yet detached.

Stinging singing

I often wish I could sing.

Just open my mouth and have something akin to a melody come out.

I can kind of carry a tune and my job entails that I sing nursery rhymes for kids, but it mean really sing.

In a grown up way.

This is how a blog started ages and ages ago, then I got to thinking about it, and a little voice in me asked which other gift or talent I'd give up to have it.

Would I stop loving reading stories to kids?

Stop writing?

Stop working on drama events?

Stop getting an insane amount of joy out of spending time with kids?

.. And other stuff.

Um none of the above, actually. 

There are people who wish they could do those things.

There are people who wish they could do other things.

And I bet those people can sing. 

Or if they can't sing, they can do other awesome stuff, like cook, or talk without over-talking, or tell jokes without forgetting the punch line.

Other things I struggle with.

So I will continue to confuse people who can't work out the tune I'm singing, hum occasionally, and sing twinkle twinkle with all the gusto I have, leaving the proper real singing to the people blessed with that particular talent... I'll still be jealous, but I'm okay with that.

Pantry delights

The other weekend I tackled sorting our pantry,

No biggie, I know.

Not expecting kudos and congratulations. 

The pantry isn't my favourite place, but I decided it needed sorting.

I didn't go so far as alphabetising the shelves... Yet.

As I rearranged the various coffees and spices, I got to thinkiing how the pantry has changed and been a reflection of our lives.

When we were young hip and wonderful.. We were, just stay with me here, the pantry had a different look.

We lived on mainly 1980s staples for meals; so not a lot of multiculture or trends. The ingredients for heavy sauces and stodgy casseroles rocked the shelves.

As one then another (then another and another) child joined the family, the pantry continually took on a life of its own. Through about 6 house moves, the contents of the pantry remained a source of frustration and sustenance.

Over time, the small room took on its own life.

Shelves of basic foodstuffs gave way to childhood favourites including home made biscuits and cakes (back when I was 'a good mum') 

Boxes of breakfast cereal sat on the bottom shelf where the kids could self serve their weekend breakfast. (Anything for an extra half hour lie in)

As the kids got more independent, tins of baby food were replaced by tins of baked beans, we could have had a factory for three minute noodles, and the makings of fairy bread slowly gave way to more mature tastes.

Meal sized tins of tuna, muesli bars, packets of biscuits and cup a soups dominated during the high school years, giving way to meal in a can or packet options for after school snacks.(tacos, etc)

The bread shelf has been in different positions but always always full. Sometimes of homemade bread, sometimes fancy store bought bread, (you know, stuff with 'bits' in it..) plain store bought bread and other yeasty delights. The bread maker given to us one Christmas was a Godsend. We went through so much bread it was crazy, after we got thread maker we went through even more bread because.. Smells and soft dough. 

As the children grew and moved on, the arrangement and contents changed, reflecting their and our lives. Only one adult child remains at home; snack foods still exist, but not so many.

Today the shelves have a cornucopia of sauces, sticks and spices. Mostly Asian based, but such a variety...

Rice is bought almost by the bushel, and coffee by the wagon load.. 

The memory of chubby fists reaching to help gather ingredients for tea giving way to competent self caterering hands...

The giggle of children playing hide and seek in the confines of this small room giving way to people calling out that we're out of chcolate topping again...

The breakfast cereal going from weetbix to rice bubbles to nutri grain to porridge to weetbix ....

Through the changes and shifts, a few things remain the same. Besides the kids knowing they can invade the area at any time, that is...

The impossible pile of mismatched Tupperware ...

and the fact that we are ever so blessed to have always had enough food to stock a pantry. 

Tale of dog.

The dog was unwell.

He was drinking copious amounts of water, foraging even more for food, and lying around exhausted.

Either he was getting to be a middle aged man, or he was unwell.

We decided unwell. Google approved of our decision.

Husband made an appointment for dog with the vet, then, on the day of the visit, he had to work.

Son was already going out, daughter was already out.

Oh. That leaves me to escort said canine to the vet.

Sigh.

I've taken kids to the doctors many many times for years, and many many times for other medical stuff, how hard could it be, really? How different?

Oooohhhh.... That different. *facepalm*

When I go to the doctors, the receptionist looks up and asks who I am, points to where to sit.

Go in to the vet, receptionist looks not at me but at the hound and says "ohh hello milhouse! *fuss fuss fuss pet pet* Aren't you beautiful? And so funny. Does your mummy want to sit down?" 

(Note: You really need to know at this point that I do NOT refer to myself as his mummy. If I gave birth to something like that it would be a medical miracle. And I'd be very afraid.)

Note, however, that this happened after we got into the actual clinic.

On the way into the clinic... Oh good grief where do I even start. It's been over a fortnight ... And I'm almost ready to spill details.

Getting him into the car was ridiculously easy. Trying to explain to him halfway to the car that I had the wrong keys and needed to go back inside was the stuff of horror movies. Wailing, begging, hunkering down... Dragging the lead... (Uh yeah him)...

Then he thinks he's people so shouldn't sit in the floorwell.

Well. He sits there now. 

Score one to me.

As soon as I opened the car door outside the clinic and grabbed hold of the lead, he leapt out. He trotted nicely along the path through the gate towards the door. 

We looked like any normal pet owner and pet, really.

The dog looking for all the world like a normal dog. Me looking like I was holding a lead.

He saw the open clinic door. And shook his head madly, dislodging the lead. (Still don't know how) 

He ran inside the door, leaving me to collect the abandoned lead from the path. He raced into the reception area where he was greeted as described above.

He then ran around sniffing everything in sight and scratching the walls, the chairs and the weight scale while I was picking up the contents of my handbag that he'd knocked out of my hands; then the packets he pushed off a shelf. He then raced out of the room, down the corridor, though the clinic, through the staff room and into their kennels.

Where he sat waiting for me to find him.

The clinic cat sat on a bench looking rather alarmed at the unwelcome visitor.

Even the receptionist was amazed. And amused.

I was furious.

Had he been a child, I'd have been tutted at, had whispered comments about naughty children, bad parents, ADHD, WHS standards and repercussions, etc. by anyone in attendance.

Because he is a dog, he was 'cute'. Not even remotely naughty or disobedient, even though I had called him several times and his claws scratched me when he wouldn't be held.

He was called 'nervous'. I called it 'painful'.

I reattached his lead, lifted and carried him back to the waiting room, and sat with him on the ground firmly wedged between my legs waiting his turn. I wished I could distract him with a book or a look out the window as I could with a child.

They still called him 'excited' and I had to remove him from the waiting room while another family brought their dog out, as the staff were worried about them meeting. So was I, so was I. He had become 'that dog' and I reluctantly 'that dog's owner'.

So anyways, after reaching the treatment room, there was only a bit more trauma (for me) as he tried to dislodge his lead, climb the furnishings and explore... This including my receiving praise for how much he loved me because I had him so calm (HAH!!!) while they extracted blood....

and a quick blood test ruled out diabetes, but they sent his specimen away for more testing.

Inconclusive results but we're pretty sure we know what's wrong. Apart from having a ratbag attitude, that is.

He sits nonplussed, I am in fear of ever entering a vet clinic again. 

The lizards in the backyard are still endangered as are the birds, butterflies and garden. His stupidity knows no bounds, and his desperately seeking sustenance from empty breakfast cereal boxes continues.

As yet, my brother's dog still holds the record for bizarre behaviour (it pooped out a whole sock) but since Milhouse heard that story a few months back, he appears to have taken this record as a personal challenge. 

Weirdo.

Medi-cision

It's been a while now, waiting to see how my brain and body responded to the absence of meds.

Hmm. Interesting. I wrote here that I felt wretched, and I did. Then I got an interesting insect bite on my leg which itched and ached.... And when I finally got a doctor to look at it, she diagnosed it as shingles. 

Caused by the herpes virus which lies dormant, the stress I'd put my body under - meds withdrawal and emotional - brought it out as shingles (again). Aha! Wretchedness made sense. Took a wee while to get over, not sure I'm there yet as the scars of the spots still survive.

And here I am back to square one, all the feels that drove me to the doctor for the first GAD (general anxiety disorder) diagnosis years ago. 

Sigh.

Continual feelings of dread (you know, when you're a kid and waiting to get into trouble for something, that pit of the stomach feeling? That. All day.)

Brain unable to stop. Insomnia.

Over processing.

I look around and know I live comfortably, I know when my family are and they're safe, I have great friends and a solid job.  Nothing to be anxious about.

In this world where judgements and opinions are freely and easily shared, I hesitate to tell people. 

So many "know" how I feel, and offer me advice. While their motives are good, their actions stunt my progress, as the frustration I feel about their actually not knowing (when you 'know', you say different things to what I hear) adds to the pile of unnecessary emotions.

I've acted horribly, said things I regret and not been a nice person to be around at all.

But it's not all gloom and doom. Life goes on and stuff has to happen, so it does. 

Every day I feel better, every day I understand it more. Yet every day I still wonder about my decision.

 

The joy of the kids.

One child in China in particular who I refer to as my child in spirit. A connection I cannot fathom... 

I knew she'd remember me but would she remember the bond we had? The connection we made?

Here's my Facebook status from that day: 

"I scanned the faces at the orphanage doorways looking for her, then as I turned to ask my husband to have his camera ready in case she WAS there... An almighty yell, and a body leapt from the group, was wrapped around mine - legs around my waist, arms around my neck and my face smothered in kisses. She remembered". 

I held back the tears of joy as I held her, amazed over again that this bundle of energy chose me. 

A child who last year spoke to a only few of us ... after the year before ignoring team because of the pain of being orphaned at an older age. Who this year chatted and joined in.

The young man whose face showed his defeat, that the system had broken him; but his shy smile when team members helped him choose his 'English' name.

The little man whose feisty spirit was matched by his temper. His distinctive face puckering up as he roared at us, his frustration at his inability to fully communicate in even his own language evident. His eagerness to run outside, then his surprising skill with a soccer ball, plus his occasional cheeky smile endeared him to many. 

The shy child who blossomed when selected to be "it" in a game.

The bossy child who had to show their craft work first.

The children..

whose tongue-out-of-mouth concentration while doing their work, 

whose attention to detail in drawing faces,

Whose catching and throwing abilities varied

Who loved the idea of parachute play

Who hated the idea of parachute play

Who knew early on which bag the treats were kept in meaning you had to be vigilant

Who manage a few English words as they shout along to your songs..

The definitive factor -- they're just kids.

They are no different to the kids at your local playgroup or kindergarten. No different to your children's friends or your friend's children.

And like every child, they want to be seen heard known and loved.

And they may only ever get two of those.

So showing them love is easy, so easy.