jmgoyder

wings and things

Pondering 2

Some people say that love never runs out but I think this might be a lot of crap (and I don’t mind debating this), because it does run out. It runs out all the time in all sorts of different situations. Sometimes it dries up from the heat of exhaustion; sometimes it trickles into other ponds; sometimes it kangaroos away; sometimes it smothers itself with toomuchness; and sometimes it simply evaporates.

Some people say that the opposite of love is not hatred but indifference and, to some extent, I understand this theory but not entirely; I have been the recipient of both and the perpetrator of both. I hate Anthony’s disease(s) and I hate those who have hurt him and both of these hatreds will never become indifference while he is alive.

Son’s attitude has altered from hatred (of Anthony’s disease, of Anthony himself, of life and circumstances in general) to indifference (again, supposedly the opposite of ‘love’). This has only happened recently and, to begin with, I was upset because, as Anthony’s wife and Son’s mother, I wanted Son to keep on loving his father, but the fact is, quite simply, he doesn’t because he can’t. And that is perfectly all right because he is only 18 and has helped me in the caring role for many years now and he deserves to soar ahead of us.

Last night on the phone to Anthony I told him that Son had a problem coping with the situation, and with him, and Anthony, always pragmatic, just said, “Give the kid a break, Jules! I love him and he loves me and we both love you more than anyone in the world.”

Some people say that love never runs out and I agree. It just gets a bit whispery.

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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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Get off the car!

Anthony (Husband): Would you mind putting the car away, Jules?

Son: Put the %$#@*^#@** car away, Mum – the peacocks are pooping all over it AGAIN  – aaaarrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhhhh!

Me: They’re sweet aren’t they!

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A difficult decision

I have just made a difficult decision. I am not going to get the emu chicks after all.

Why? Because after Son came home from milking the cows for our neighbours this morning, he took our three adult emus for a walk and eventually came inside angrily because one had gotten away and it took him ages to get it back with the others into the yard. (Also, I hadn’t told him about the emu chicks).

So, I got my priorities straightened out. Son gets his spinal brace off on Friday and we can do all the things we haven’t been able to do over the last few months, like arrange driving lessons, arrange his driver’s licence, fix up the old car for him – and lots of other things in response to his request the other day that “we spend more time together, Mum, having fun!” How lucky am I to have a teenager who wants my company!

The emu chicks can wait until next year; this year I will concentrate on Son and Anthony and not get any more birds (well maybe just a few hens).

I feel rather relieved!

(Son’s wrath is something to behold, so I don’t want that – hehe!)

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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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Laughter

Anthony has always had such a wonderful sense of humour and a way of being firmly planted, accepting of all contingencies, and light-hearted. I used to think these attributes were rather superficial and that he didn’t have depth (whatever the hell ‘depth’ means!) but I have, over our nearly 20 years of marriage, learned to do what he does, which is to laugh his way into and around various situations and then dismiss them as unimportant.

Well, no, I haven’t actually learned to do that exactly, but I am trying and I have Anthony’s verbal handbook by my side just in case I forget. He could run around paddocks and round cattle up without a murmer of exhaustion; he could climb onto the roof of this house during a cyclone and stop it; he could nurture a rejected calf and bring it up (and, until a few years ago, before ‘Reject’ died, this calf-come-steer would actually leap into Anthony’s arms and give him a hug.)

“Am I like you, or Dad?” Son asks me and I hide my anxiety behind a chuckle that reminds me of Anthony’s attitude.

“You are you, kid!” I say.

“Yes, but I think I might be more like you, Mum – serious and sad….”

I take a deep breath and say, “No, you are much more like Dad because of your sense of humour!”

“You know the way you laugh, Mum, in that loud way – could you try to do that a bit more often?”

“Okay.”

Anthony hasn’t laughed for a couple of years now. He used to have this raucous guffaw and his whole face would crinkle up in mirth and it was absolutely contagious and Son and I would be swept into this wonderful hilarity – always.

Anthony can’t even smile anymore and, the other day, when I said to him, “I wish you would just smile at me,” he said, “Jules, I have Parkinson’s – remember?”

“Yes,” I said, “but can’t you just try to smile?”

Anthony tried and failed and then looked at me (I was smiling hyena-ishly, trying to get him to do the same), and said, “Jules, you really are quite thick, aren’t you!”

And we both smiled….

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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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That strange bird has now been identified as something called a ‘teenager’ – a very interesting species indeed!

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How to unfold a day

Anthony was home for most of today and, for a couple of hours, he was okay and mobile and trying to do some jobs, and he and Son got the Aga lit. Eventually! Teenagers (Son) and geriatrics (Husband/Anthony) don’t always agree on these things. And, it struck me, as I withdrew from their Aga-lighting tiff, how amazing that my two ‘boys’ – this father and son who look exactly like each other but who have an age difference of nearly 60 years – can communicate at all.

After a lunch of doner kebabs, which Anthony used to love but couldn’t manage because his hands don’t work so well any more, everything went a bit downhill and Son withdrew as Anthony became more and more crippled up. His morning drugs for Parkinson’s seem to work well, but by early afternoon it became a predictable downhill slide and by 4.30pm he was more than ready to go back to the nursing lodge.

None of the things I had planned eventuated. I wanted to show Anthony the latest blogposts, which he usually loves, but he said he was too busy for that even though he was just sitting in the armchair near me, drinking a cup of tea. He wanted to sweep some of the bird crap away from the back door, even though Son and I had already done this, so I walked him outside very slowly with his walking stick, saying ‘1,2,3’ which usually gets his legs working. Eventually I put the straw broom in his hands and told him that if he fell over I would kill him, and left him out there to try. And while I watched through the window, he did a little bit of a sweep and then froze, head down, unable to move; this is Parkinson’s.

On the way back to the nursing lodge, Anthony was a bit incoherent and seemed to be having another ‘turn’ but then he suddenly said, “Jules, when you bring me home tomorrow, can’t I stay the night?” and I had to, once again, say it was too hard, he was too heavy etc. He accepted this and my guts twirled with how horribly humiliating for this man who used to be such a macho machine to have to ask me if he could sleep in his own home.

So, tonight, having rung Anthony to say goodnight, and having fed Son who is now milking cows again for the beautiful neighbours, I am unpleating the day and wondering if I could have done it better, wondering if I should be crying, wondering and wondering and wondering….

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