jmgoyder

wings and things

Charlie Chaplin

My father died on June 9 over 30 years ago and every single June 9 seems to descend on me like a nasty cloud.

Until today. Well, technically it’s today but it’s not even 1am yet so daylight will take awhile and I am going to bed, not with the usual June 9 Dad grief but with a whole bunch of happy memories.

He walked like Charlie Chaplin

Canadian autumn leaves brought tears to his eyes

He talked to himself on the train, just silently, but I could see his mouth moving

Perspiration sometimes beaded his upper lip

He was strong, stern and silent

He was tired, relaxed and vociferous

His adoration of my mother was evident in every blink of his eye, every day I knew him

I was sometimes afraid of his intensity

And my own

But this didn’t stop me from rushing to hug him

He let me buy bazooka bubble gum even though he hated gum-chewing

He was a grammar school teacher

Then he was a chiropractor

If patients couldn’t pay, he would accept milk or apples or smiles

He was not a business man

My brother were playing football when he died

It was too sudden

I was on the other side of Australia

The nun from the hospital rang my mother and told her to come quickly to the hospital but wouldn’t say why

My mother drove those 20 kms not knowing that her husband was already dead

He loved dogs

And squirrels

He loved my older brother’s determination

He loved my younger brother’s gentleness

He loved my being so much like him – well I think he did, maybe he didn’t know

My mother’s gregariousness was difficult because he was a bit of a loner

And a poet

Not a perfect man

Impatient if I didn’t cut my asparagus before putting it in my mouth

No stirring of the icecream

He got us our first television and we watched Disney at its inception – the wonder of it!

Everything about his memory makes me cry and laugh

Live and die

Bleed and heal

Today I refuse, for the first time in all these years, to mourn his death

Today I will walk like Charlie Chaplin

And I will grin my dad’s grin

Because I have thousands and thousands more memories

As Dad might have put it – “buggar off, grief!”

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The ‘now’ of before, during, after ….

I just got permission to name the wonderful surgeon who fixed Son’s spine (you need to see previous post). His name is Peter Woodland and I am trying very hard not to fall in love with him – hehe! Son took this photo from Peter’s computer at our last appointment.

And here is a picture I took today of Son’s brace-free back:

Thank you, Peter Woodland!

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Before, during, after ….

Those who have been reading this blog for awhile will already know the story of Son’s scoliosis and surgery, but newcomers may not, so I thought I’d do a little pictorial recap here. This is because, yesterday, Son was told that he could finally, after over three months, take his post-operative spinal brace off and leave it off for good –  YEEHA!

Before his scoliosis became so severe (it went from around a 40% curve to nearly 80% in the space of around eight months when he was 15), he was a passionate football player and had tentative dreams of pursuing football professionally. He was very good at it.

However, despite taking Son to numerous series’ of appointments with a chiropractor, physiotherapist, osteopath, kinesiologist, personal trainer and others (all of whom were wonderful and possibly prevented his scoliosis from getting even worse), the following X-ray speaks for itself. Surgery, which we hadn’t contemplated before, became a matter of inevitabilty rather than an option, so we saw a surgeon and Son was told he would have to have surgery and that he must stop playing football immediately. As this was two days before a school football trip in which Son was the star attraction (of course he wasn’t the star attraction, but I’m his mother so I like to say things like that), the devastation of this news was difficult to deal with and I will never forget Son’s sobs after that appointment.

So, on Valentines Day this year (Feb. 14 2012) Son underwent major surgery which took, I think, over eight hours and in which twelve of his vertebrae were fused, using quite a bit of titanium, and bone from the bone bank (a bit like a blood bank). I will spare you the gory details as there are plenty of youtubes on how this works. The following pictures show Son with the electrody things in his hair, the evening before surgery (we were allowed to go out for dinner!), the second is in intensive care after the surgery, the third is us mucking around and trying to be silly, and the fourth is Son a week later in the rehabilitation unit with the teddy I bought him and some gravy and chips!

And this is Son in his brace, standing 3 inches taller than he was (I kid you not!) with my mother – and another picture of him feeding the gang with some visitors.

Taking the brace off after all this time (Son had to wear it except when sleeping), has been, for him, wonderful but also a bit scary. He said today, before he went into town with his friend, “I feel a bit naked!” But, apart from that, the exhilaration of such a fantastically successful surgical outcome takes my breath away. Son is a new man!

In the next post I would like to show pictures of now, and to thank the surgeon publically, but I need to check if that is okay with him before I mention his name.

Meanwhile, Son has decided that instead of playing professional football, he will become a rock star.

And he will!

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A few bloggy questions for those who might know the answers!

1. How come, if I click ‘Follow’ I am sometimes automatically subscribed to a blog and sometimes not?

2. In relation to the above, why is ‘Follow’ enough on some blogs but on others I have to do the email subscription thing (which I don’t mind – just wondering)?

3. Is it normal for photos to sometimes take 20 minutes hours to upload?

4. In relation to the above, why will one photo upload in a few minutes, and another take a century, when both were taken by the same camera, at the same time, on the same day?

5. Where exactly did my blogroll go when I unwittingly lost it?

6. In relation to the above, will those ‘lost’ bloggers now hate my guts?

7. How many posts per day is too many? (Yes, I have raised this before)

8. Is it okay to not particularly like the whole award thing or does this seem ungracious and offensive?

9. How is it that all the bloggers I now know seem like perfect people?

10. In relation to all of the above, is scotch the same as whiskey?

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Time travelling

I am an easily confused person in that I often forget that I am not a teenager anymore, and if I read a novel where there is a character in her 50s, I automatically thing how old before I remember I am too (not old, but in my 50s – ha!).

When I began to write Anthony’s and my love story on this blog, little post by little post, I found it comforting that the difficulties of ‘the now’ (his illness, the nursing lodge etc.) somehow became more palatable via the memories of our past – especially the good bits.

Then I started to get a bit mixed up with where I was up to with the love story, so I plonked it into its own blog and, in many ways, that has alleviated my confusion.

But the strange thing is that this blog seems to be kind of missing the love story blog and the wide stretch of time between the anecdotes in each sometimes seems vast and rather empty. Each post in the love story blog tiptoes closer and closer to this blog in that temporal sense and I think this hesitancy, on my part, is because I don’t want them to get back together.

Sometimes I  want to stay in the love story blog and not come to this one, simply because of an aversion to now even though now is all there is.

I want to go back in time.

Sort of!

View across Anthony’s farm. Photo courtesy of Shaam Burley

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I love this picture!

This is Son with Little Second Cousin, about a year ago. I have an almost identical picture of Son at this age on the lap of Little Second Cousin’s father’s knee but I can’t find it! I will ask Little Second Cousin’s father’s wife to see if she has it because I remember us being amazed by the similarity in the pictures.

Oh, and Little Second Cousin’s father is the Beautiful Little Brat in the love story on my other blog at http://jmromance.com/. Now if that isn’t a blatant plug, I don’t know what is – ha!

Yes, it is a bit confusing!

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Anthony’s farm

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I finally got around to copy/pasting previous Love story chapters into this other blog – that was a job and a half!

jmgoyder

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Resorting to words

I was rather enjoying using pictures instead of words, so today I had a few more, but they wouldn’t upload (grrrr!) so I guess I now have to use words again – alas!

My own words were beginning to trip me up (which is nothing new – ask one of my previous students!) And my grief over my husband, Anthony’s deterioration was beginning to curdle a healthy sense of humour, and clog the blog with a smog of miserable mixed metaphors – hehe!

The last few days have entailed a 3-way battle of wits in our little family – Husband, Son and me. It all culminated in a discussion the other day, when I had brought Anthony home, in which he again asked to stay the night and Son yelled, “Mum, tell him the truth!” and stomped back to his room, and I finally said to this husband, who I have loved for most of my life, that staying the night was impossible because he is a 2-nurse ‘job’ in the nights and I couldn’t do it any more.

“Ever?” Anthony asked.

“Ever,” I said, crying.

“So I can never sleep here again?”

“Never,” I said, folding myself into his arms, in the cusp of the armchair.

Once we got over all that emotional crap, and Son and I had helped Anthony into the car to go back to the nursing lodge, I said to Anthony, “And if you keep on making me feel guilty when I am doing my best, I will never make you scrambled eggs again.”

“Those were good scrambled eggs,” he said, adding, “a bit of bacon would have made them perfect.”

“You are such a bastard,” I said, starting the car.

Son gave Anthony a nose-smooch through the window, then he went back into the house.

“He’s a great boy, but you can be a real bitch,” Anthony said, chuckling now.

We held hands all the way back.

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“Actually, my dear, I think you may have forgotten who was really here first!”

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