jmgoyder

wings and things

The maternal conundrum

Mothers

Sometimes we want them to get lost, stop interfering and giving advice, and to stop implying what we should do/be.
Other times, we limp, bruised and bloodied, into their laps, for the kind of hugs that nobody else can give.

On my bulletin board I still keep a note that Ming wrote some months ago – “Stop mothering me!” At the time, he was referring to my overbearing attitude to his diet, so I stepped back from this, finally willing to let him fend for himself.

But. tonight, it kind of went the other way because Ming was asking me why I had taken so long to be okay again, since the car accident. My response was sarcastic: “Not sure, Ming – might have something to do with the fact that five kids were injured?”

Ming: But, Mum, they are all okay now and I always knew they would be!

Me: Well I didn’t know for sure, so I was terribly worried.

Ming: So, Mum, please can you stop worrying now? They are all good!

Me: Okay. I am still reeling from the court case result and can’t quite believe it, Ming.

Ming: Just accept it, Mum – it’s over now. Stop (s)mothering me!

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Effervescence!

Ashtyn is my eldest niece and she has the gift of effervescence in spades. Recently, she, and her Scottish beau, were married in Edinburgh but have now returned to Australia to settle in Perth.

There is something so sparkling about Ashtyn that, no matter what anyone else is going through, she lightens it up with her smile, her positivity and her wisdom. As her aunt, I respect her and applaud her for all of her accomplishments and for her ability to love each individual in her ever-expanding family, not just with sentiment but with a roll-icky humour. She actually reminds me sometimes of my own father, “Dad” who died before ever seeing her. Dad was mostly pretty serious, but when he broke out into humour it was amazing.

Ashtyn’s humour is contagious; she has a way of making you feel good even when you are feeling bad and I now realise that she is the epitomy of effervescence.

Happy birthday, Ashtyn!

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Question: How many times do you begin again?

Answer: Every single day.

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Ming's Christmas present 2010 - 'Black beauty'

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Julie and Woody best

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EVERY
SINGLE
DAY

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Court case

Tomorrow, Ming and I go back to court for the third time since the car accident last October. (For those who don’t know, Ming lost control on gravel whilst taking four cousins and a friend on a bit of a joyride on the back of his new ute/truck, and all five children were seriously injured.)

Since then, all involved have been through different versions of hell, but, with the five children healed now, life is beginning to resemble the joy of before-the-accident instead of the trauma of after-the-accident.

Ming (now 20 – he was 19 at the time of the accident) has, over the ensuing months, taken full responsibility for this accident and now awaits tomorrow’s decision from the police as to whether the charge of five counts of dangerous driving might be reduced to one count. Obviously my whole family, including the injured children, are hoping for that latter but Ming and I are now prepared for whatever happens.

Actually no! Ming is prepared, but I am terrified. If the charges against him are reduced he will plead guilty – easy – but, if the charges are not reduced, his lawyer wants him to plead not-guilty in order to negotiate further.

Several times, over the months when the children were in neck and spinal braces, and leg, arm and wrist casts I despaired and sometimes became uncharacteristically angry and, in retrospect, my family coped very well with my unfocused aggro.

I only expressed anger towards Ming once because I knew how traumatized he already was. It was a few weeks after the accident and he and I were in the car and I said, “But why, Ming – why did you take the kids for that joyride – WHY?”

At that hint of blame in my voice, Ming began to scream, then sob. Since that day, he has been calm and taken the whole legal process in his stride, whereas I have been on tenterhooks. Obviously his remorse goes without saying.

I don’t think I can go on with this tonight but glad I have written some of it down.

Wish us luck tomorrow in court!

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Oh how much I miss the dancing days!

I was going to write something both poignant and eloquent but have hit a blank tonight. Nostalgia I guess. I tried to show Ants how to use his new phone to no avail this afternoon. Then, just a moment ago, he actually answered it!

Anthony, Julie and her mother, Meg, on wedding day 1993

A Goyders Dardanup

The treasure chest of memories of my dancing days with Anthony (and Ming too) is a constant source of absolute joy in the face of what we are going through now. This afternoon Ants was more frail and confused than I have ever seen seen him and I got a bit of a shock.

So, yeah, I miss the dancing days.

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Telephone traumas

Over the last six months it has become increasingly difficult getting hold of Anthony on the phone. He has one of those big mobile(cell) phones with big digits but he is now too confused to answer it. When it rings, he either doesn’t realize it’s a phone or else he presses the wrong button and ‘hangs’ up immediately. Until recently I was able to reach him around three times a day if I kept ringing (especially on days I couldn’t get into town to see him) but now I am lucky to reach him once per day.

So, at the suggestion of a couple of nephews, today I cancelled his mobile(cell) phone account and spent an hour on the phone to Telstra to set up a landline to his room. I had already bought an old-fashioned handset with enormous numbers on it and tomorrow a technician is coming to the nursing home to get the line working. Poor Anthony is (hopefully temporarily) confused about what is going on as I did all this Telstra business on the phone from his room in the nursing home.

It would be so wonderful if he is able to manage answering this new phone because then all the people wanting to ring him would be able to cheer him up. The disadvantage, of course, is that if he is sitting outside in the sunshine (often) he won’t be able to answer it, but, with winter coming, he is more likely to be in his room anyway.

Fingers crossed!

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A Sunday drive

Going for a drive with Anthony, which I now do quite often, has proved to be a great success. If I am doing errands in town, I take him with me and he sits in the car while I do banking, post office, grocery and other jobs. He loves sitting in the car and watching passersby and it is a way of being together that doesn’t entail the heavy lifting of him in and out of the car except for when I collect him from the nursing home and take him back.

By lifting, I don’t mean lifting the whole of him but, in order to get him out of the car, I have to help him twist around, then grab my hands, then we do a 1-2-3 attempt to get him standing up. Then he can usually walk with the walker but sometimes not so I have to get the wheelchair. (I have now bought one that can be folded one way or the other). Getting him into the car is easier; I just use my bum to push his bum into the seat, then I lift his legs in if he can’t, then I get into the driver’s side and sort of shove him over because he has become very crooked and leans over to one side. Then I put his seatbelt on and we’re off!

I have decided to do this more frequently, rather than bringing Anthony home or taking him out to eat, or visit people, because it is so much easier on my back than the constant transfers necessary in those sorts of outings. On Sunday we went for a long drive down to the small, picturesque town where he was brought up, Balingup, and I learned a bit of a hard lesson in that I suggested we go to the pub there for a drink and some fish and chips. Ants was more mobile than usual so he managed the walker, very slowly, in and out of the pub, but once seated, he kept nearly falling off the chair because he leans so badly to the right. I had to sit on that side of him and keep pushing him upright (not particularly gently I might add!)

Here is our conversation while we ate fish and chips:

Me: Sit up for God’s sake!
Ants: You’re so rough, Jules.
Me: Wipe your moosh – you have fish all over it!
Ants: Give me the dribble rag.
Me: You had it – argh, it’s on the floor!
Ants: I have to go to the loo.
Me: What? Oh no!

After a very strenuous and slow trip to the loo with me, we got back to our table to find the fish and chips cold of course, but the beer was good. By then, however, I just wanted to get Ants back to the nursing home because I could see he was faltering (like clockwork 3pm), but he didn’t want to go.

Ants: But I’m having a good time.
Me: Too bad – I have to get you back before dinner.

It took around 20 minutes to get Ants out of the pub and into the car and we were off again! But then another problem – our thermostatic incompatibility – occurred.

Ants: Jules, I’m freezing. Put the heater on.
Me: What? It’s boiling in this car already!
Ants: Is there a blanket?
Me: Okay I’ll bring one next time, wrap you in it and put you in the boot (trunk).
Ants: You’re so sexy when you get mad.
Me: Get your hand off my knee – I’m driving!

So for the hour it took to get back I had the heater on Ants and my window open so I didn’t suffocate or sweat (I am avoiding perspiration at all costs due to the stupid pompholyx).

Long story short: I got Ants back into his room at the nursing home and comfortable in his chair, put the ABC channel on his TV and then told him I was going home and would see him the next day.

Ants: Where are we staying in Balingup?
Me: No, I’m going home to Bythorne.
Ants: So where am I?
Me: Wattle Hill – the nursing home.
Ants: Who is going to look after me?
Me: The nurses.
Ants: But they always kidnap me.
Me: No that’s just your Parkinson’s confusion – nobody is kidnapping you, Ants!
Ants: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, you’re safe and in good hands and I’ll see you tomorrow.
Ants: Give me a hug.
Me: Okay, and I love you so much babycheeks!

I got home around half an hour later and Ming asked why I was so exhausted and, when I told him about the day, he suggested that, from now on, I just do the drive thing and not get Ants in and out of the car so much.

Ming: I don’t get you, Mum. Why do you keep bothering?
Me: Because he’s my husband and I love him.
Ming: But this is not good for your happiness – you deserve it way more than Dad!
Me: Why?
Ming: Because he’s old and you’re still young!
Me: So does that mean you deserve to be happy more than I do because you’re very young?
Ming: Of course!

Okay – a few lessons learned here (I think!) One thing for sure is that our car is going to accumulate a fair bit of mileage in the coming months!

Happier days:
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Blog blessings

I began blogging in November 2011, with no clear intention other than to write something every day, which I have for the most part. The subject matter meandered from birds to Anthony’s Parkinson’s disease, to Ming’s teenage-hood and scoliosis, to our personal struggles. I dabbled in novel and romance writing, briefly promoted my book about Alzheimer’s disease, attempted some poetry, began to write about Anthony’s and my love story, posted pictures, and generally wrote a whole lot of this-and-that.

In view of the miscellaneousness of my posts, I suppose “Wings and Things” isn’t a bad sort of blog title so I’m sticking with that because it allows me to meander in the usual way. This is obviously not good for the stats as themed blogs get more ‘hits’ but, despite wanting to make more people aware dementia sufferers should be treated with more respect, I don’t care any more about the stats.

One of the things that has astounded me about my blog journey so far has been the incredible friendships wrought (with people I may never meet in person), and the mutual support system enabled via WordPress. The blogs I subscribe to are an eclectic mix of bird, photography, illness, writing, grief, dementia and philosophical blogs (to name a few) and it is often very difficult to keep up. The good thing is that most bloggers understand this difficulty and don’t mind if you don’t read their every word/post – phew!

I would never go to a support group, I already have enough friends in my non-blog life, and I am not naturally gregarious, so I am rather astounded at how much I have come to depend on the bloggers with whom I have become close – an extraordinary community made up of some of the kindest people I have ever come across. I also enjoy offering my own friendship and support to these fellow bloggers and this has become a meaningful part of my life.

This blog has also connected me better to my already-there friends and family, sometimes disconcertingly. For example, I said to my friend the other day, “Guess what happened yesterday?” and she said, “I already know, Jules – I read your blog.”

Oh!

So, in the spirit of miscellaneous gratitude, here is Diamond, our shyest goose….

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…. saying thank you with me!

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A very quiet house

As many of you already know, Ming lives in an old shed we began to renovate for him years ago (before Anthony went into the nursing home). It has been a very long process but also very exciting. Once it was finally finished, with a new paint job, lino on the floor, windows put in, electricity connected and his bed moved out there (around six months ago) he began to sleep out there regularly. But it wasn’t until recently that he moved all of his stuff out of his old bedroom (in the house) to the shed. Then, two days ago, he moved our old refrigerator in there too so he now has that and a microwave, so he can be (sort of) self-sufficient when it comes to meals.

Ah, meals, yes – a contentious issue for Ming and me. You see he has always been extremely fussy with food. No, let me rephrase that; he has always been extremely FUSSY with food! Let me exemplify. As a newborn, he wouldn’t breastfeed or take a bottle without our coercion (Anthony’s confidence that he’d had this problem with calves, and he could fix it, was unfounded and Ming actually lost some of his scrawny birth weight in his first month of life). He simply wasn’t interested in any sort of sustenance full stop. That first summer of his life I had to actually syringe water/milk/custard/mashed banana into his sweet, rebellious little pursed lips. It was an absolute nightmare.

Long story short, he survived on the bare minimum for years. During toddler years it was crackers and orange juice and sometimes butter, but nothing else. Eventually I took him to a naturopath who did some magic and he got a bit of an appetite but he is still (at 20) one of the most unhungry people I have ever come across. He just doesn’t seem to have a normal appetite reflex thingy – a weird anorexia? Mostly, he doesn’t think to eat, meals are haphazard and then suddenly he will eat four steaks in five minutes.

Needless to say, Anthony and I gave up when he was a kid and just let him ‘graze’. And now that he isn’t a kid any more, he either rejects meals I prepare or says he isn’t hungry. So, a few weeks ago, Ming and I made a decision that has actually saved my sanity (and probably his). When it comes to food, he fends for himself. He buys and prepares his own food and I am not to interfere.

Well, since I don’t eat that much anyway, this has come as a bit of a relief. But it is so hard to let go of 20 years of trying to feed the brat and let him fend for himself.

But it’s so weird and so quiet now and it only hit me tonight. With Anthony now in the nursing home, and Ming in his shed, there is no need any more for me to buy, prepare or cook food for others, so there is no sound of something simmering on the stove or in the crockpot and, because there is nobody in the kitchen any more, the television is off, it is very quiet.

All those years ago, when I first met Anthony and his mother and family, this was the noisiest house I had ever entered – loud voices, radio blaring, eggs and bacon sizzling, kettle boiling, Aga thrumming, dairyhands eating, and big, boisterous Anthony yelling for more toast-and-marmalade please.

So now, with all of that fading into history, and Ants in the nursing home, and Ming in his shed, and food no longer being something any of us share any more, the house is deathly quiet and strange and a little bit unfamiliar.

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Cooler weather, finally!

As you can see from the pictures below it has been very very dry here but finally today it rained properly. Ahhhh! The best thing about this for me is that my nearly healed pompholyx condition will hopefully not come back. It is definitely much better now that it isn’t so hot.

Pearl and Woodroffe searching futilely for insects in the dry grass:
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Michael Jackson wishing the pond were fuller:
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A forlorn parrot on a dead palm branch:
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Freckle and MJ waiting for rain (or bread!)
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One of our many crows in a dying wattle tree:
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I did a whole lot of reading today (once again) about pompholyx, and was alarmed at various people’s stories. Some people had suffered repeated outbreaks for over 20 years! One man had tried to kill himself. Another had had to quit his job because it entailed the handling of chemicals. One woman was unable to change her baby’s nappies due to the pain. I read story after story after story and it became very clear to me that there is very little known about the disease, there is apparently no cure, despite many remedies, and I have now compiled a list of vitamins and creams and potions that I will buy tomorrow. My dermatology appointment isn’t for another week and a half so in the meantime I have taken bits of advice from all I have read and will endeavor to avoid all of the possible triggers: water, soap, coffee, cleaning products, dairy, wheat, dust, tea, heat, stress, alcohol, wool, and anxiety.

I feel very positive – and cool – and a bit dirty!

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