So much for floating.

 

The lightening bolts came thick and fast today.  And no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t dodge them.  And no matter how much I lived in the moment, was mindful, I couldn’t stop myself being sucked down in to the whirlpool, delivered back to the bottom of the sea bed.

 

On my rocky sea bed, at least it is quieter.  I can’t get struck by lightening and there are no whirlpools.

 

I can do my final wrapping in peace, savouring a mince pie, watching Christmas TV.

 

On my rocky sea bed, at least I feel protected from the elements, less vulnerable, less exposed.

 

I can relax.  I can blow bubbles to the surface.

 

On my rocky sea bed, I can scream out loud, thrash my arms about and no one can see, no one can hear the muffled, muted disruption.

 

I can let it all go and prepare myself to be able to put on a good performance for Christmas. For my boys.  Their excitement will be my excitement.  Their joy, my joy.  Their laughter, my laughter.

 

And that is enough.

 

 

 

I don’t think I am sat on my rocky sea bed anymore.  I am no longer rendered immobile, speechless, paralyzed in fear from the threat of more hurt, more lies, more pain.

 

I think I have surfaced.

 

It’s been gradual.  I am not sure when or how I floated up but I have.  And I find myself a long way off shore, floating.  Just floating on the surface of a not unpleasant rocky sea, my ears underwater just listening to the calming sounds of the waves lapping at my ears and my eyes closed.

 

I am just floating.  Floating along with the comings and goings of friends, family, birthdays, events, meals, chores and errands to prepare for Christmas as a family.

 

And while I float, with my eyes shut and my ears occupied, I just feel the sensations.  I feel the undertones and the undercurrents beneath me, like fish swarming below and I feel the thoughts high above my head, floating around like airless, meandering clouds with a hint of sinister nature.

 

Above me.  Below me.  And I float in the middle, a constant decision and choice to stay afloat and stay in the moment.

 

But every now and then, a big lightning bolt will fire from the sky or a whirl pool appears  as a memory or a fact or an image will flash in to my consciousness and I am immediately short of breath, starved of oxygen and I am pulled under the water again, fighting for air, tight in my chest and cold fingers around my heart.

 

It’s a lot like grief.  The parallels are frighteningly similar.

 

When Mumbo died, there so many feelings:

 

• the sadness that she had gone, no longer there to speak to, share or create memories with.
• The shock and numbness mixed with denial that it can’t be true.
• The anger and the incomprehension that it had to be her who had gone who had gotten Alzheimer’s, my Mumbo – why her? Why us? Why me?
• The frustration that it was totally out of my control, nothing would bring her back, make her better but also the obsession, to try and work out if I could have done anything differently, she could have done anything different to change the outcome.
• The period of awakening and the realisation that this was reality… a life without Mumbo in it;
• and finally the time of calm acceptance, adjustment and positive focus, letting it all go, to be at peace, in my head and in my heart.

 

Many people talk about a ‘grief cycle’.  I think I used to even think of it as a cycle, not moving on to the next phase until the one prior had been completed.

 

But it wasn’t really like that and neither is this, this awful, awful reality.  It may be a cycle, but the wheel keeps turning and like a bicycle wheel with spokes, you can miss phases out and find yourself at completely the other spectrum. And I have often found myself completing the whole bloody cycle in one day, or even an hour!

 

It’s exhausting.  So floating is the only thing and the best thing I can do to conserve energy.  Just waiting for the undertones, undercurrents, lightening bolts to strike, knowing that I will have the strength to resurface and not end up back at my rocky bottom.

 

 

And at least while I am floating, I am able to appreciate and even enjoy life and the little important treasures that pass me by.  The boys running in the winter sunshine in Roundhay Park.  My Dad and Edna and their happiness.  A mince pie made at the French boulangerie where I made mince pies as a young girl.

 

 

Floating.  I have always loved floating.

 

 

 

 

 

The night of the banana arm, Tom and I had quite a long time to whisper and chat.  The rest of the ward might have been noisy, but weren’t going to disrespect the sleep of others.

 

One of our topics of conversation was his birthday, at the time only 3 weeks away.  Originally he had wanted to take an army of mates (aka the rugby team) to a trampoline park and go wild.

 

But when I asked him again, in a small voice, he snuggled in to me and said, ‘I just want to eat cake with my Granny and Grandpa, my lovely Grandad and Edna, you, Daddy and Willy. My family – that’s all.’

 

A shock and an unexpected event triggering any level of vulnerability is all you need to make you realise what is important, no matter how old you are.  So that is exactly what we did… and as the shock wore off and his confidence returned, a couple of his little mates came too.

 

And he had a super day with fun outdoors, family, Rogue One, far too many sweets, cake before bed and all that remains is a bedroom littered with little boys snoring and a snug full of Grandparents doing the same.

 

And me. Breathing.  Reflecting on the lesson of today.

 

There isn’t much I remember about the 33 hour or so long labour I had to endure before Tom’s dramatic.  But I do I remember the first contractions outside Browns in York at about 2.30pm and not saying anything until I knew for sure they were regular and I needed the tens machine. About 4 hours later.

 

I remember we watched ‘knocked up’ (hilarious!!) while I paced the kitchen and the Big Man stopped the movie every time I had a contraction to time it.  The 90 minute film that  lasted double the time.

 

I remember sitting in the footwell of the backseat of the car to the hospital… and then snippets of laughing gas, drugs, vomiting, different drugs, vomiting again and vowing never to eat babybel or drink Ribena again.

 

I remember shouting loudly to rub my back harder, HARDER…. Until he said he couldn’t bring himself to do it anymore as I had no skin left…

 

I remember having an out of body experience.  Probably the concoction of different pain relief, lack of sleep, lack of food, intense pain and my body shut it out.  I remember feeling pinned to the ceiling of my sterile NHS room and looking down at myself in my blue NHS gown as I rocked myself, comforted myself and breathed through the pain.

 

I remember the intense, brief pain as Tom partially arrived and just as quickly after, the intense panic as the room filled with many medical staff and I was quickly put into a strange position while all I could hear in my ear was ‘don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic’… either my mind or the Big Man’s voice.

 

I remember my first view of Tom and my heart was never the same again.  The feeling of knowing him already at the same time as meeting him for the first time…

 

I remember feeling numb as the paediatricians whisked him off to the SCIBU as he wasn’t breathing.

 

I remember the Big Man bringing my baby back in to the room so I could hold him and feed him for the first time.  And the memory brings tears to my eyes now.

 

My angel son.

 

I remember my angel son, his smell, his mew, his snuggles, his softness and all the pain, fear and worry dissipated in to nothingness, just a few snippets of the 33 hours hours.

 

An intense period of time.  An emotional rollercoaster of a few days.  The worst bits forgotten.  Just acceptance of the inevitable and excruciating pain and emotional turbulence and the memory of the precious moments as the dust settled and the realisation that life would never be the same again, just far, far better because of the journey and outcome.

 

In 9 years from now, I hope I will feel the same about the last 57 days;  acceptance of the excruciating pain and eventual settling of the dust, knowing that the best outcomes happen after the hardest journey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today was another significant date day.  Both sides of the penny – the shiny side and the dark side..  So the day involved a lot of breathing and calming techniques, as well as 2 hours in hospital for a pot replacement, distraction in the form of present shopping and presence with the boys on their first official day of holiday.

 

I love a book with a daily saying in, or daily passage and I have them littered around the house for moments of darkness, to pick up and read.  And the words that helped me move from thinking of the dark date to the lighter date were:

 

“If you find yourself in a negative situation with someone in your life, take a few minutes each day to feel love within your heart for that person, and then send it out in to the Universe. Just doing this one things helps to remove any resentment, anger or negativity towards that person.”

 

After reading those words and a morning of frustrated, angry, hateful thoughts, I was able to draw a line.  And I started to breathe happiness and life and love and remember the date for the happy date and the love that was present 9 years ago;  9 years ago when I went in to labour with Tom Tom and he rubbed my back, counted the minutes between contractions, held my hand and poured love in to me to help take away the pain.

 

And so, as I was coordinating bed time, I felt genuine happiness when the boys shouted delightedly as ‘Daddy’ walked in to the bedroom, surprising us with a day early return from a business trip.

 

Genuine happiness. Not anger or sadness, not hatred or disgust.  Happiness and love.

 

And that is progress.

 

 

I have frequently heard over the last few years that everyone deserves not only to live a good life but also to live an ‘extraordinary’ life.  And the words have been floating around my head over the last few days, sometimes at the forefront, sometimes further back.  But hovering none the less and right now I feel it is the time to address those words and thoughts.

 

What is an ‘extraordinary life’?  What does it mean?

 

The dictionary defines ‘Extraordinary’ as beyond what is usual, ordinary, regular or established; exceptional in character, amount, extent, degree, etc;  noteworthy; remarkable.

 

But what is ‘usual’?   What is ordinary? Regular?  What is the ‘usual amount’ or the ‘ordinary extent’.

 

So if you want an extraordinary life, you have to determine what your level of ‘regular’ is but based on what?  Your peers?  Your society, demographic or community?  What about your race, religion or even country?  Depending on where you pitch your comparison, that could lead to drastic and potentially devastating feelings of lack or drastic and uplifting feelings of abundance!

 

As I sat, as I do every night, propped up with all my cushions in bed, socks and dressing gown still on but before I moisturise (or my pen slips!), last night I pondered that question.  And I looked at some of the photos on the wall of my beautiful, warm, insulated, carpeted modern boudoir lit by a flick of a switch and hot and cold water readily available at the twist of tap.  The photos were of the the incredibly positive, energetic, grateful and abundant members of a small village in Kenya we met on honeymoon over a decade ago.  It wasn’t really a village, more a cluster of mud hut dwellings.

 

Last night, my gratitudes and prayers gave thanks for the abundant life I have, the extra ordinary, astonishing and probably unbelievable and unimaginable life I have (to the tribal Kenyans) and am blessed to wake up each day to.

 

And so as the thought of chasing an even more extraordinary life flows in and out of my consciousness, I see it and acknowledge it with gratitude for reminding me that I have everything I need for an extraordinary life already. And that actually everyone has an extraordinary life, if they just look close enough. As, in fact, the happy, positive Kenyans believed they did.

 

Just like the tribe inspired me, we can all inspire others by being the best we can be, the most positive, grateful and content with whatever we have, whoever, we are, wherever we live, whatever the circumstances.

 

Last night I slept peacefully for the long time in a while and today I woke up with gratitude and positivity in my heart and it was one of the better days in a while.

 

 

 

I feel so much kindness from friends, colleagues and readers in many forms.

 

One act of thoughtful kindness arrived in the post in the form of the book of ‘Hygge’.  During noisy moments in my head, it is one of the books I reach for as it is simple to read, interesting and full of ‘hygge’…  the Danish nown, verb and adjective for ‘well being’ and examples of how to apply it.

 

So as I receive a particularly surprising tax bill from 4 years ago, I remember a line from the introduction on how the Danish see taxes:

 

“We are not paying taxes, we are investing in our society.  We are purchasing quality of life.”

 

And so as I pull out my files and paperwork, the Big Man opens a bottle of Crozes Hermitage, we throw another log on the fire and eat shortbread in cosy socks – all forms of ‘hygge’.  And as ‘Hygge’ would have it, as I fill out a self tax return to rectify a mistake made by an old employer, I also find evidence that this bill and over payment has already been long paid, my investment in society and quality of life not overdue.

 

 

Here’s to ‘hygge’,  the feeling of wellbeing, to hyggesocken, fires, candles … and no more annoying bills!

and another bottle of wine.

 

 

Another day, another Christmas service.  This time, the end of term Carol and Reading service.

 

As a young girl at boarding school, the Christmas Carol concert was always the first time I would get a glimpse of my parents before we finally got to go home for the end of term.  I remember the excitement and scanning the congregation.  Mumbo was only 5’3”ft.  But she always wore a hat and heels.  I always thought it was a style thing, part of her elegance and love of clothes and dressing up.

 

But now, as a Mummy myself, as I stand in the congregation, I follow my Mumbo’s tradition, not just because of my inherited love of the hat, but so the boys can find me in the crowds of enthusiastic parents.  In fact they now see me, before I can see them!  And it always makes my heart sing and melt at the same time as our eyes meet and our grins and waves are mirrored.

 

Music and singing has always been a wonderful way of uplifting my mood and spirits.  A good belt out of ‘Oh Come, oh come Emmanuel’ and ‘Hark the Herald’ helped provide an outlet for some of the pent up emotions stuck in my chest from a sleepless night.

 

However, it was Mumbo’s favourite song that softened my heart.  The words ‘In the bleak midwinter…’ struck a chord and the last line,  “What can I give Him, poor as I am….. give my heart’ was a reminder that during the bleakest of times, the poorest of times, all anyone ever wants is the feeling of being loved.  That feeling of love and of giving love, unconditional love makes you feel like you are the richest person on earth.

 

The Beatles were right – Love is all you need.  To feel good, to heal, to mend and to find the light in the dark.

Throughout my reiki session this week, apparently I was giving off the image of a tunnel heading towards a bright light.  But as I was travelling through the tunnel, there were periods of darkness with moments of light interspersed along the way.

 

So have decided that to say I had a ‘good’ day probably isn’t really realistic.  To say I had a better day or a worse day is probably a better gauge of how dark I feel..

 

On the scale today, I was worse than yesterday. But perhaps better than my darkest day last week.

 

My earliest memory of Christmas was always the Christingle service in the church I was christened and eventually, the church we were married at the same time of year.  The entire church was decked out with candles, big chandeliers from the ceiling, tall candles at the end of each pew and each member of the congregation held a candle too.  It was magical.  As we bellowed out the carols, it marked the start of Christmas, the countdown to the big day but for me, it signified all my family, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents being together as a family.   Even from a little girl, their presence excited me more than their presents.

 

So today, there was dark and light.

 

Darkness because I was alone at Christingle again.  Darkness squeezing my heart when Tom replies that all he wants for Christmas is his family together again.  Darkness because I remember the excuses of last year and darkness because of the choices made this year.

 

But I was reminded, as the chaplain turned off the chapel lights, darkness is required to allow the candle flames to shine brighter.

 

So in my darkness today, I reminded myself to look for many small flickering lights that glow.  And as the school choir sang silent night, I started to count them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have been told I will go to hell and back.

I have been told it will be a roller coaster of emotions.

I have been told that I am right where I am meant to be.

 

Whatever I have been told, it sure feels like a dance.  One step forward and two steps back and sometimes all in the same day.

 

With a bit more sleep and a bit more food, I am able to control more of my highly irrational thoughts and feelings and I am able to respond in a calmer way to the ‘triggers’.  And I am able to be present in the moment, repel thoughts of the past and panic less over the future, future choices and decisions.

 

Being present in the moment, I am able to enjoy a badass gym session with my badass buddies, I am able to enjoy a conversation with a compassionate and loving friend and I can focus on my super boys, watch them in their performance and listen as they share their thoughts on the day.

 

And then comes ‘the moment’.  The moment that I am brought back to life as Willy gives us his separately drawn Christmas cards, and one with the message,

 

‘To Dady, I happy you have a gud Christmas from Willy.  I wish you culd be lifing with us.’

 

And my heart breaks.

And my head screams in anger, resentment and total frustration.

And my chest tightens with the overwhelming realisation that while he put us in this situation, it is me that can relieve it as soon as I can answer the question of whether I can forgive enough.

 

The pressure is crushing.

 

And while I may have floated slightly off my rocky sea bed, it is those moments that has me right back at the bottom, floored.  The only option to breathe and focus on blowing bubbles, watching them float up to the surface.

 

And while I am there, I focus on the words a friend sent to me today:

 

‘You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think.’