I made an ill advised decision last night to not take any valium before bed. I hate the way it makes me feel so stoned in the morning and it makes it really hard to get out of bed as I still feel so sleepy and dopey when I wake up. It turns out that this was
perhaps not my smartest move downright fucking stupid. I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck in my sleep. I have no idea how I manage to stay asleep up until the moment of waking when my back screaming blue murder is the first thing I am cognizant of.
I rolled out of bed, tears streaming down my face, immediately took some pain killers and went searching for my heat packs …. which I had stupidly left on the floor. It’s amazing how overwhelmingly deflated one can feel over the prospect of having to try and lean down to pick up something off the floor. 😐
I need help.
It’s been a year today since my father passed away and in hindsight, I don’t think I’ve ever been affected by something quite so much and yet quite so little at the same time. His passing filled me conflicting feelings from grief, sorrow, sadness and loss to relief… and guilt for feeling so relieved that it was over for him… but also for us. Dad had MND (Lou Gehrig’s disease) and it was a desperate thing to watch him slowly deteriorate and ultimately die from it. People who’ve suffered this particular indignity describe it like being buried alive in your own body, and my father went from being a strong fit man who hiked the Himalayas and white water rafted the Zambezi to being a wizened shell of his former self and totally dependent everyday on my mother to bathe him… dress him… feed him…
My Dad was the strongest amongst us throughout the entire ordeal – he displayed a quiet internal strength in the face of this insidious disease that you couldn’t help but admire his unwavering fortitude. He was always one to accept what life dealt up and handled everything in his life with dignity and aplomb. He was the insightful, sensible and calming influence on all of us… always the peace broker in a house full of women 🙂 Even right up to the end, his primary concern seemed to be for how we were all coping with his condition, and never once did he seem to concede even an iota of self pity. I wish I could have been there more for him – and more for my Mum – but to be honest… I felt so helpless that I often just tried not to get in the way.
I miss his ridiculous inability to tell a joke without cracking up before getting out the punchline. I miss seeing him up a ladder or under the car being all masculine and useful and hitting things with a hammer. I miss him sending us off to ‘stick your head in a bucket and make yourself presentable before coming to the breakfast table’. I miss his lopsided smile and his inexplicable enjoyment of crap British comedies like The Two Ronnies, Auntie Jack and Benny Hill. I miss the way he always tried to temper or softly interpret my often vociferously stated opinions over the dinner table. I even miss his disapproving looks at our pathetic efforts during the ritualized anal retentive Saturday morning clean ups that we all abhorred and tried to skive out on at any opportunity.
I never told him often enough how much I loved him, and how lucky I felt to have a father like him.
Last week the Small Child went to stay in Caloundra with his GrandpaDug who is visiting from Canada at the moment. Being one of those grandparents who rarely gets to see his grandchildren due to geographical disparity … GrandpaDug finds hanging out with the Small Child to be amusing (lack of familiarity breeds unusual patience in cases such as these) and unsurprisingly has a tendency to indulge the rug rat and happily participates in child friendly activities the likes of which full time parents often find tedious. This apparently saw GrandpaDug and the Small Child spending quite a bit of time hanging out at the hotel pool where I am led to believe the following conversation took place –
Anonymous Small Boy at Hotel Pool: I can see that lady’s boobs.
(My) Small Child: Those aren’t boobs… they’re tits!
GrandpaDug: That’s my boy!
Sigh… Obviously this is a result of the Mr K, the Small Child’s father, having a detrimental effect on the Small Child’s vocabulary and there’s scant little I can do about it. I will however take solace in the fact that by the time I am finished with the same Small Child he’ll at least be able to correctly identify that “they’re tits” is the proper form, rather than “there tits” or “their tits” when writing a sentiment of this nature…. unlike his father.
As swiped from Avitable….
Let’s make a band:
The first article title is the name of your band.
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
Now take your pic, add the band name and title to it, then post it.
Hey! We’re all rockstars now!
Here’s one I prepared earlier –
When I first started this journal, it was predominantly a purgative vehicle for me. I had endured years of shit IVF nonsense that finally culminated in an assisted conception pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage and felt unable to formulate my feelings on the subject, let alone communicate them to anyone. Initially I found it hard to put my thoughts into coherent sentences but it wasn’t overly important to me to make sense as I was fairly confident that no one, beside myself, was reading it anyway.
As time has gone by the therapeutic imperative has diminished and I’ve generally used this journal to poke fun at my neighbours and allow them to laugh at me in my turn – which means there’s been decidedly more nonsense and ranting about life’s little injustices, and decidedly less cathartic unburdening of whatever pile of shit was raining on my parade at the time..
But now… I seem to have come full circle.
Since my most recent car accident, I’m finding it difficult to be ‘blithe and bonny’ and whenever I sit down to write… I find I am more inclined to complain about the God awful state of my back and the subsequent bullshit that comes with it… and less likely to have found anything in my day worth jotting down. The back pain thing …. it’s pervasive, all encompassing and absolutely inescapable for me. Morning, noon and night – back pain – back pain – back pain… day after fucking tiring day.
It has become a struggle to ignore it for ten minutes together in order to pay heed to what’s going on around me. I’m finding it increasingly exhausting to interact with my friends and family at the moment… let alone finding the motivation and effort required to extend general courtesies to people for whom I have little of no affection. As anyone who knows me would be aware, my tolerance for the stupidity of others was often negligible at the best of times and now? Well, now it is positively non-existent.
I have no desire to see other people or to be with other people or to be surrounded by the noise of other people. More and more I just want to crawl into a corner… somewhere cool and dark and safe … so I can stop pretending for everyone that all is well. I just want to stay home and have everyone leave me the fuck alone. *sigh…blank stare* I am intellectually aware that all this adds up to something tantamount to clinical depression and while I have acknowledged this and am trying to do something proactive about it – I think the drugs are doing more harm than good and honestly don’t hold out much hope for the counseling either.
So… yeah… anyway…. should anyone have the misfortune to be reading the absolute drivel that I’ve been spewing forth lately, I do sincerely apologize for the repeated references to my sorry arse mental state and chronically painful back… and while I shall endeavour in future to be as trivial as may be, I fear success may continue to elude me.