jmgoyder

wings and things

One of our turkeys got mauled

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Bubble (on the left) and Baby Turkey (on the right) are our two turkeys. They are our pets, not our Christmas dinner. Anyway, I got home the other day to find Ming had left me a note to say BT was in trouble so I went out and found BT’s feather’s everywhere so I assumed he’d been killed. Bubble and I looked everywhere and (just in case you don’t think birds grieve) I have never seen Bubble so distraught. He kept twitching and looking to the left and right constantly. He couldn’t fluff himself up into his usual showoffy pose and he was frantic but in the end I couldn’t find BT and was about to give up until I saw him. He was staggering around in the adjacent paddock, his back raw with wounds so, as soon as Ming got home from milking, I told him BT needed to be put down because I couldn’t stand to see him suffering. But Ming rallied him and put him into the pen with water and grain where BT ate, drank and walked around. I had a closer look at his wounds and realized that, apart from all of his back feathers being torn out, his wounds were fairly superficial.

Not sure if a fox did this or one of our dogs (who usually leave the turkeys alone).

Long story short, BT is now at the local vet’s and on antibiotics and is recovering well.

And the irony? I will be buying a frozen turkey for Christmas lunch that will cost a hell of a lot less than keeping Baby Turkey alive at the vet’s.

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No such thing as normal

I have always found the concept of ‘normal’ problematic. As a child I was obsessively anxious that I might be abnormal and would constantly ask my mother, “Am I normal?” She would always reassure me but I still had my doubts.

As an adult I eschew the notion of normal. It is such a bland, boring word and it hardly ever makes sense on its own. Without context, cultural and social, it is a vacuous concept. Quite frankly I don’t like it and it doesn’t like me.

I’m not alone here am I. But normal rules doesn’t it. It boxes you in with its perfect corners. But ‘abnormal’ isn’t a very pleasant word either so it is a dilemma for children when they are measured on such a continuum with nothing in the middle. The pressure to be normal or the same as everyone else is a ferocious pressure and can torture the child/person who struggles with not being able to fit into the box.

If you are not normal in the stereotypical way, you are not abnormal, you are just different, unique, original, maybe a bit eccentric even. So what.

If you are ‘normal’ well good on you!

I’ve always embraced Ming’s various idiosyncracies. When his pre-school teacher informed me, in serious tones, that he didn’t conform, I pretended to be concerned but was secretly thinking ‘yay!’ Hell, he was only 4! When he couldn’t grip his pencil in the normal way, a psychologist was brought in to see him at the school. Again, I pretended concern but secretly thought ‘does this really matter?’ He was only 7!

Now, however, I struggle with whether it is normal for an 18-year-old boy/man to emotionally detach from his father. I have allowed this to happen because my only other choice was to force guilt on him. It has been heartbreaking to watch this transition from compassionate to dispassionate son. 15-year-old Ming said to the doctor “we will never put Dad in a nursing home!” with his eyes full of tears. 18-year-old Ming doesn’t even want to see Anthony anymore. “It’s not Dad now,” he reasons.

I bought one of those mini photo scanners the other day. My plan is to scan the best of hundreds of photos of Ants and Ming that I took over the years of Ming growing up.  I will then organize these into a photo book for each of them for Christmas.

Last night I asked Ming, “Can you reconjure any compassion at all?” and he said, “No, Mum, but I can pretend.”

That is enough. That is normal enough.

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Love story 124 – Ming’s Christmas present

Oh, I have been so so excited about Anthony’s, and my, idea for a Christmas present for Ming this year. Ants and I have been discussing it for some time but have finally made the decision to do this (I can’t say what the Christmas present is in case Ming reads the blog; he hasn’t for some time, but you never know).

This will undoubtedly be the last time Ants and I collaborate on this kind of thing, for two reasons: 1. Ants’ dementia is getting worse; and 2. Ming is nearly 19.

I guess it is these two factors that punched me in the face this morning when I drove Ming into music school. I mentioned Christmas Day and said Ants would be coming home for the day and Ming’s reaction to this was so horrible that we ended up having our first row for weeks.

We made up for lost time.

While Ming and I were yelling at each other, I thought of Ming’s Christmas present – the only thing that has elicited a bit of enthusiasm from Ants for ages.

Since this morning’s row, Ming and I have had another, followed by a tentative truce in which he said, “We only have each other, Mum”, and I said, “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Dad.”

And now he is in his room and I am in mine and Anthony’s phone isn’t working.

Ming asked me today what I wanted for Christmas and I said, “Wings”.

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December

In just a few hours, December will be arriving and I have to admit I am a little nervous. Last time December visited, it outstayed its welcome and ruined Christmas and made us all wish it would go away. This time, I’ve decided to welcome December by asking it to be more supportive and I was quite blunt in this request this morning. Thankfully, December wasn’t at all offended and had no idea how badly it behaved last year and has even apologized! Nevertheless I am on my guard because December has a reputation for being unreliable, and rather arrogant about its ownership of Christmas. And, during a further discussion with December tonight, I’m almost certain I detected a little smirk. I hope not because I really want us to be friends or, at the very least, to establish a working relationship. I have been trying to contact December for a couple of hours now but there is no answer so I guess I will have to wait until it arrives to reiterate that if it becomes overbearing again I will have to take action and possibly kick it back to November using Ming’s old football shoes and Anthony’s walking stick.

But perhaps it is my own attitude to December that is the problem? Maybe I should just embrace December like a long lost friend? Yes!

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Love story 120 – Romance

When Anthony suddenly transformed from a macho machine into a rose-buying romantic all those years ago, it was a massive shock to me. As a macho machine, he was never demonstrative or loving or generous and I was so used to this that the ‘new’ Anthony took a bit of getting used to.  In the nearly 20 years since we’ve been married he has given me the most beautiful gifts: pearls (a few strings), silver bangles (around 20), expensive perfume, a carriage clock, an Omega watch, a couple of other watches, an antique lithograph (well he had wanted this himself), my first ever electronic organizer, my first laptop, a min-tv for my office, a beautifully framed picture of me at my graduation, two antique cameo broaches and the list goes on. Most of these were surprises but over the last few years, since he became too ill with PD to drive, he would tell me to go and buy my own Christmas and birthday presents with instructions like “Go and buy yourself a nice frock” which is ludicrous of course since I haven’t worn a dress since I was around five years old so I would come home with expensive jeans or boots instead! It wasn’t as magical to have to choose my own presents but after a year or so I began to look forward to this. I would ring him from whatever shop and tell him I was trying to choose between this bangle and that bangle and he would always say, “Get the best one, Jules.” So I would!

Don’t get me wrong. When the dairy industry was thriving and I was working, we were comfortably off, but not wealthy and Anthony, having always been extremely scroogy careful with money, continued to astound me with his birthday and Christmas gifts to me. But perhaps the best and most extraordinary gift was his ability to say “I love you, Jules.” The first time he said this, a few seconds before he proposed marriage, I laughed because I thought he was joking. For him the word ‘love’ was a definite taboo and whenever I had used it on him he had shrugged and grinned, but never reciprocated. Since the first time he said these words, he has said them every single day of our marriage and they have not lost their power.

Lately, love has become the main topic of conversation for him. When I am in the nursing lodge, or he is on a visit home, or on the phone, he talks about this big love we have for each other and his eyes smile even though his mouth can’t. He loves talking about love, so much so that I sometimes say, “Yeah, okay, I get it!”

After months of rather mopey misery on his part, Anthony seems to have finally accepted what is, so when I see him, his eyes light up, and he almost yells, “Jules!” He does this on the phone too and seems to have stopped begging me for the impossible – to bring him home to stay. Our conversations are lighter. Of course the confusion and disorientation of PDD is still there but this love-talk seems to bypass that and now, when I leave the nursing lodge, I say goodbye with a smile because I know he knows that I am in love with him too.

A few years ago

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Nurture

Last October it was my mother’s birthday (she is one year older than Husband) so my gift to her was a weekend with Son at the best, and most difficult, golf course in Western Australia. I knew I had to do this while Son was still young enough to want to do ‘Grandma stuff’ and my mother knew it too! Anyway, it was a great success as you can see from these pictures!

It was just after this golf weekend that Husband’s condition began to deteriorate rapidly. That’s what happens with Parkinson’s disease when someone has had it for nearly ten years; the disease becomes voracious – monstering and masking all the best efforts in terms of medication and doctors’ advice – obliterating the future.

No amount of filling these grey-black weeks with the birds, a cuckoo clock, and a beautiful Irish terrier, could compete with a disease that mocked us, a disease that disempowered us, a disease that swallowed Husband, Son and me into a Jonah’s whale vortex with no chance of escape.

Hence, for the first time in Son’s nearly 18 years, Christmas was a great big fizzog, with the usual joy supplanted by multiple weepings – Grandma, Son, Husband and me.

So, that evening, my mother and Son exchanged notes and this is what they said to each other. I wasn’t privy to these emails until a day or so later.

An excerpt from an email from my mother to Son 25 December 2011:

This has probably been the hardest Christmas you have ever had hasn’t it. Moving from childhood to adulthood is an ongoing transition anyway, but Christmas zeros right in to the heart of things, and for you, the childhood anticipation and wonder is having to be replaced so suddenly and harshly because it’s all tied up with your dad’s illness and the trauma the family is going through.

I am just so glad you had those beautiful gifts for your mum. She is so devoted to you and gosh, she wouldn’t be surviving this stuff without your strength and the love you have for each other.

I love and admire you more than you’ll ever know, and when I can’t be there to take care of my daughter, and I know she’s falling apart, it is such a comfort that I know she has a son like you, to help shoulder it all.  Years from now, you’ll look back on this time and know that this is what has formed your strength of character, and made you a man. But right now though, you are a boy/man and have a right to feel hurt and confused. I am always available if you need me. You know that don’t you. I love you so much Darling. Gma xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

An excerpt from email sent from Son to my mother the same night:

Your the best Grandma and this is the best family / life anyone could ever imagine to have. I am indeed too lucky. In so many ways there’s a lot of good and some bad never 50/50 I grown to realise life gets harder but it also gets much better! There is always hard patches that seem to get worst over time but the that makes the good so much better! Therefore “Life really does get better and better!” I will always remember that saying you said years back “dark can never go into light – But light can shatter dark” & I thank you so much for your help. Todays a new day and I feel real good!

Thanks Grandma xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I am very lucky, aren’t I, to have such a wonderful husband, son and mother!

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Son’s last Christmas as a child

Yes, even though Son is nearly 18, we are still doing the pillowcase thing (I think some call this the ‘Santa sack’). Our tradition, since he was born – derived from my parents’ tradition – is for him to leave an empty pillowcase at the end of his bed on Christmas Eve which then gets magically filled with presents before the morning.

I have never loved doing something as much as I love doing this! I always get so excited that I am the first one to wake up on Christmas morning – sometimes as early as 4am – then I have to go back to bed and wait for Son to wake up.

I guess this will be the last Christmas I go to such efforts – ha!

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