Only A Month Ago

Just four weeks ago i was grieving the loss of both my feline friend of fifteen years and the jungle that was charitably called a garden by neighbours.  the absence of both is still rather raw and i miss the easy dance that Mr Cat and i had evolved over the years. he dictating the clauses of our coexistence and i avoiding the clawses when momentarily forgetting his supremacy.

As is the way with all losses the immediacy is dimming and adjustments are unconsciously being made daily.  the new garden is growing, though it looks sparse and spindly, and a furry called Fred is soaking up the sun on the chair so recently vacated by his predecessor.   life moves on and if we don't move with it we become like a needle stuck in a groove, repeating the same bars over and over again until all within earshot are rendered tone deaf by the refrain.  Or we sink so deep into the emptiness that the tendrils of The Dark wrap themselves around our ankles and drag us into the abyss.  when younger i wasted too many years, and damaged too many relationships, wandering steeped in sadness and refuse to take the road that leads that way again.

To fill the Mr Cat shaped hole in my home a Cats Protection vagrant called Fred who needed fostering has moved in for a couple of months. he was found starving, homeless, with a small, independent favela nation of fleas living in his fur.   my task is to feed him up, build him up, then talk him up so he finds a forever home.   he and Mr are as yin and yang, day and night, sun and stars, Laurel and Hardy.   where Mr was a white, fluffy, volatile, antisocial whirlwind of teeth and talon, Fred is a slinky black panther who seems to have a bottomless well of affection to share and a purr that would drown out the space shuttle Challenger's booster rockets.... i can even GROOM HIS TUMMY !!!

If the universe had a re-set switch i wouldn't hesitate to turn back the clock four weeks to the time when a Mr Cat and a mature green space were mine to enjoy, but the universe doesn't give us that option we can only go in one direction, always forwards, forever onward.  losses are unavoidable unless we abdicate from humanity but how we deal with them.... now, that is within our command.  as the wonderful writer Barbara Johnson, who experienced more tragedy in her life than you and i can conceive, said :   "suffering is inevitable, misery is optional so stick a geranium in your hat and be happy".

Kindness In Sadness

It was my fault.... i caused The Great Hexham Blackout, all twelve hours of it.  well, my garden did.... or if you want to be pedantic, the mains cable that runs through the garden of my flat, via the road leading to my cul-de-sac did.  and the evidence is captured above for all to see.... behold my ex-garden, in which is buried my ex-cat.

The universe decided a Bank Holiday Monday was a good day to wake jeni to a world without power, a trench where once grass, shrubs and all things green grew in abundance and a moggie meeting it's Maker.   losses that could be classed as minimal in a world where nation is at war with nation, natural disaster flattens entire towns and multitudes are sick and dying of preventable diseases.   minimal to many, but not to the individual at  the centre of the maelstrom.  it was a day when my commitment to positivity was tested and almost found to be inadequate.... almost.   

There is a misconception commonly held about optimistic people that they are emotionless or out of touch with their deeper selves, that they simply don't "feel" as much as other people.   of course, i can only speak for myself but.... NOT TRUE !!!   ask those who saw the tears dripping off my chin if this  putative positive person showed cold eyed, sociopathy  when Mr Cat joined the Mouse Master In The Sky, was reincarnated as a sabre tooth or simply added nutrients to the soil depending on your philosophy.   it's not that we have lives without heartache, it's  that we work hard to find some glimmer of hope in the midst of darkness to help offset the pain.

On that Monday morning the catharsis came in the shape of The Great British Workman.   when their mini digger came trundling round the bend the solution to the conundrum of where to put little Mister Cat was solved.  they dug a cat sized hole, gently took him from my arms, tucked his favourite blanket round him and lay him down to rest.   these big, tough, burly men all downed tools and stood silently at the barrier as the soil was, oh so gently, nudged back into place.   a child pulled from the rubble of an earthquake shattered village couldn't have been afforded more dignity.   they then found a large, round, leaf embossed slab and placed it on top of him to mark the spot.  

It will take a couple of years for my garden to return to it's lush, jungle like previous incarnation and i will miss the private little oasis it had become.  it will take much longer for the Mister Cat shaped hole in my heart to fill despite fostering homeless furries.  but when i look back on that cheerless Monday i have a choice of what to focus on and speak about.   i can allow the losses to take precedence and drag me down by the roots, into the depths or i can remember the kindness of those big men shown to a stranger, smile and be thankful.     

Nine And A Half Lives

Fourteen years ago, this little cutie looked more like the bruiser below......

Don't believe me....? leave a comment at the bottom of the page, there are plenty of people reading this blog who will enlighten you, and if their vision has faded with the years their olfactory memory wont fail them.  when he entered my flat via the fire escape the stink announced him !!!   green slime hung like kudzu from his tail and the ears had edges reminiscent of a Scandinavian coastline.

He wasn't a cutie by character either, more a collection of violent neuroses with fangs.  a bemused veterinary student asked why i kept caring in the face of repeated attacks.  the response bubbled up unsought.... "i can see the cat he could become if given the chance."   throughout my life i had used up a host of chances so how to refuse this scrap of rejected fluff.   my scratched legs would heal.

And they did..... though the scars remain. his many wounds, both physical and emotional, took much longer.  it was easy to forgive his random onslaughts by remembering the abuse he experienced as a street kitten, as  the root of aggression is often fuelled by fear.   as the years passed he mellowed..... mostly, though it's still wise to treat the teeth and talons with a measure of respect and NEVER TOUCH THE BODY.

Vets warned me "he wont make old bones after such a poor start." malnutrition had caused blackouts that could potentially lead to brain damage.  calcium depletion would weaken bone.  mineral and vitamin insufficiency would leave vital organs prone to early failure.   he might be a beast but not for very long.

Fourteen years later !!!   .....   his nine and a half lives have been used up and he's dying..

The old kidneys are packing in.  he's tired and at times depressed.   the medication is helping keep symptoms under control but it's only buying some time so pesky emotions can catch up with rational thought before it's time to let him go.

Friends ask if i'll have another furry.... oh yes, life would feel rather empty without one.   the plan is to foster.   look after the companions of those who are unable to fulfil  that responsibility for whatever reason.   perhaps older cats who need a quiet place to end their days or short term care when a fur-baby's human is in hospital or on holiday.

The furry creature has given me so much pleasure and entertainment over two decades it seems churlish not to share the love.

Tomato Or Not Tomato

JUNE

There's going to be a heat wave, they said....

Super hot summer, they said....

Let's grow tomatoes, we said....

Played our part we did, loved them, fed them, watered them, tended them, nurtured them....

JULY

did the sun didn't play fair?   oh no it didn't.... not yet anyway.

AUGUST WEEK ONE

Our little corner of Northumberland has had that infuriating weather cycle that sees  blue skies and sunshine at dawn and dusk, then for the rest of the day thick dark cloud rolls in and we descend into a mini ice age with high winds and rain.   having to put central heating on in August as i did last night is positively apocalyptic, enough to send a girl apoplectic.

So there they sits more like goose-gogs than tomatoes, green, hairy, SMALL !!!   but growing, oh yes definitely growing.   If August did what August should do they would be turning orange and getting fat by now, definitely tomato-ish in fact.   but we don't give up, there are four more growing weeks to go.... if the sun would shine.

AUGUST WEEK TWO

We console ourselves with the knowledge that it's our first experiment, we started a few weeks later than optimal, our corner of the yard is in shade part of the day, we live in the north east and it was 10* last night.   Ten degrees.   TEN  DEGREES  IN AUGUST.

Despite knowing the science, surely there is something akin to trusting in miracles when burying a seed in cold darkness and confidently expecting a lush, green transmogrification to ensue with the warming of the world.   Of course all gardeners are optimists.... particularly if they live north of Watford Gap.  

AUGUST WEEK THREE

To remain sane us humans convince ourselves that we live in an ordered world over which we have a modicum of control.  A + B + C = D.... or does it?   "hardworking families" will enjoy the benefits of their toil.... or do they when earning minimum wage?   stick to the speed limit and you will be safe.... but what about that idiot coming towards you on the wrong side of the road?   eat healthily, exercise and you will be hale and hearty into old age.... don't genetics play a role?  water and tend your tomatoes and you will reap a harvest.... unless the sun plays hookey.

If you want a short, sharp epiphany about the insecurities of life do some gardening. and if, as looks likely, the summer in little Hexham is a total washout we can always make green tomato chutney. 

Superlative Superhuman Olympians

Have you seen the  Channel 4 Meet The Superhumans trailer for the Paralympic Games?   if not have a look at the link below and prepare to have your mind blown, your flabb gasted and your dumb founded by mere mortals performing awesome feats - occasionally without feets and other body parts.   

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IocLkk3aYlk   (click link on left for trailer)

The only sport i excelled at was cheque bouncing. games of any sort, Olympic or otherwise, tend to roll over me without a great deal of interest. though i admit to becoming caught up in the the emotion and drama of the opening and closing ceremonies in 2012 and appreciating the subtle, or not so in the case of Danny Boyle's paean to the NHS,  politicising that goes on, but when it comes to  the sport itself.....nah, not bothered. perhaps a childhood sense of shame rumbles away in the depths of my schoolgirl soul for "letting the side down" as i always hobbled  last, by several laps, over finishing lines.  i suffered education in an age when disability wasn't accepted as a reason for not participating in sports, no matter that the emotional fallout of constant failure, the imposition of pain on a child with surgery scars the length of her legs, the harassing and tongue lashing of a recently hospitalised pupil would be considered abusive today.

Dan Brooke who oversaw the ad is quoted as saying "We wanted to say any disabled person can be a superhuman."   agreed !!    for many of us with chronic illness getting out of bed every morning and facing the world with a smile requires a cape and a hefty dose of arachnid venom, though i don't think that's quite what he had in mind. Sam Ruddock the track and field athlete echoed the sentiment when he said "if we can do this, there is no reason anyone else can't....it's about a positive attitude."   

Now, i'm all for positivity, and have plenty of attitude after particularly bad nights, but i'm also a pragmatist and with all the will power, bloody mindedness and dedication in the world there are some who can and some who can't.  otherwise it's akin to expecting an able bodied, fubsy, five footer to run like Usain Bolt without being endowed with those legs of his that reach from the bottom to the bottom. when did you last hear an able bodied Olympian suggest that the rest of the population could attain Gold on the podium if they only tried a little harder.   if everybody could do it there would be no need to sponsor athletes or build Olympic Villages. football stadia would be obsolete as we would all be budding Beckhams, transport companies would be bankrupt and bank accounts would blossom as hordes of proles marathoned their way to work leaving the grind of the commute behind.
        

That we elevate these amazing athletes to superherodom isn't surprising as what they achieve is truly mind boggling, but i'd like to speak for the 99.9% who never had a hope of reaching those rarefied heights since not all damage can be surmounted by a positive attitude, not all maladies have an outward manifestation, not all disabilities are equal.   

When you see somebody in a wheelchair please don't see a failed Paralympian lacking the moral and physical fibre necessary to overcome gravity.   when a friend or colleague with an invisible illness drops out of a social event AGAIN don't assume they are being weak, lazy or lacking enterprise.   when a family member with chronic pain quietly leaves Sunday lunch early to rest don't see it as a rejection..... 

.....unless, of course, you too are prepared to expend the Herculean energies necessary to live the life of a superhero.

Go Pokemon Go

I feel sorry for The Young don't you?   not today's young primarily but The Young .... there are brownie points for the best collective noun you can come up with, suggestions can be logged in the comments at the bottom of this page, management retains the right to censor all entries and steal any royalties hereby endowed.... I have seen "a grunt of youth" suggested but that seems less than charitable when i consider how voluble my sons were, and the young'ns who worked for me, when i had my bizniz, could debate for England about every issue you could conceive of more knowledgeably, and with far greater passion, than most of my customers .

Why my solicitations for the young?    Well, it appears that us crumblies believe everything ill under the sun is their fault, when all they are doing is living up to the job description.   They are SUPPOSED to rattle cages, annoy their elders, be inconsiderate, driven by sex hormones, wear outrageous clothes, have an opinion on everything. just ask a 1920's parent's opinion of flapper dresses and the Charleston or the following contingent who ranted and railed when rock'n'roll rolled into town !!!

Every generation has used adolescence as a launch pad for change probably since the stone age, and every generation's parents have struggled to adapt.  prehistoric daddy comes home to find his offspring has painted a bison on her bedroom wall.... "A BISON FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!!! no respectable cave has paintings inside, what will the neighbours say.... bison are for hunting, eating not daubing.... and while you are at it go scrub off that woad, no daughter of mine is being seen in public with body art.... antediluvian? go wash your mouth out with soap.... what do you mean 'it hasn't been invented yet'  go invent it why don't you?"    like i said, it's the job description.

I was a 1950s baby and no surprise that the Age of Aquarius called to my cohort.   the wounds of conflict were still raw and we wanted to move on from war mongering and xenophobia, the world had seen enough bigotry and intolerance it was time for liberality and the acceptance of difference.   the time was ripe for a Summer Of Love and the freer the love the better, to the horror of our parents. how ironic that those who still remember post war austerity and a divided, desolate Europe are the same ones who have voted us back to those dark and difficult times.   it's the young, the same ones who are accused of wasting their votes during an election year by not turning out,  who are now being berated for choosing unity and diversity over isolation and division in the referendum.    look at the stats:  75% under 25 voted to remain 61% over 65 voted to leave.   the generation gap made manifest.

  

Don't get me started on fashion, the only consistency is it's inconsistency and every time a hem rises or falls out come the predictable cries of moral degradation, youthful lack of self respect and the downfall of humanity encapsulated in a strip of fabric.  it was easy pre 20's as floor length was the only show in town.  then came the above knee flapper dress and from that point all was lost as every decade saw a rise and fall as predictable as the tide on the causeway of my old home of Holy Island.    i caused scandal at a family wedding one hot summer in the 60's by removing the lower half of a trouser suit and consorting with a cousin in a tunic that barely covered the fundamentals. 

So what are the poor children being accused of now?   Pokemon Go is what !!! the media is full of warnings of rampaging youth chasing computerised beasties on private property, bringing traffic to a full stop, risking life, limb and liberty in pursuit of Pikachu.   these supposedly pasty, spotty, overweight, sun deprived, gruntlings have found the temerity to leave their couch potato status behind and step onto our streets to pursue their fun in the real, via virtual, world.   and after all our complaints about their lying in bed till noon, watching movies till dawn, texting and surfing till the sun burns cold are we happy about it.... are we.... ARE WE ???  no we are not.   In stereotypical geriatric grouch it's all doom, gloom and downfall of mankind at the hands of angsty teens.....AGAIN !!!!

Introducing Spoonies

Spoon Theory - or Spoonies as it's advocates call themselves.... have you heard of it? 

No, neither had i till a week or so ago.  it was after one of "those" nights when the combined efforts of toast, cocoa, music, book, relaxation, even the example of this somnolent, fur baby cutie had failed to nudge me into the  universe of Slumberland, where most sensible mortals spend the hours of darkness.  indulging in a rare moment of dejectedness over breakfast the next morning, and with my spoon deficit hovering around the level of the National Debt, the link below popped up on Facebook.   what a high fiving, air punching, fist bumping epiphany.    a contemporary allegory existed for a conundrum faced by the many who endure invisible, chronic illness, ergo.... how to describe something that is one hundred percent subjective and lacking a common vocabulary.  

http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/category/the-spoon-theory/

The term spoons was coined by Christine Miserandino in 2003 in her essay The Spoon Theory, which is posted on her website But You Don't Look Sick. In it she recalls a conversation in which her close friend and roommate asked her a vague question about what having lupus feels like. The two were in a diner and Miserandino took spoons from nearby tables to use as a visual aid. She handed her friend twelve spoons and asked her to describe the events of a typical day, taking a spoon away for each activity. In this way, she demonstrated that her spoons, or units of energy, must be rationed to avoid running out before the end of the day. Miserandino also asserted that it is possible to exceed one's daily limit, but that doing so means borrowing from the future and may result in not having enough spoons the next day.

Special considerations

For some people spoons may be replaced after rest or a night of sleep. However people with autoimmune diseases, other chronic diseases, and various disabilities may have concurrent sleep disorders which result in a particularly low supply of energy. Some disabled people may not be fatigued by the disabilities themselves, but by the constant effort required to pass as non-disabled.

Chronic illness often has no obvious signs, no plaster cast, no bandage, no sutures, just an inconsistent, sometimes non-specific, set of symptoms with little or no chance of improvement.  one of the hardest things for a Spoonie to hear is a cheerful "oh.... hope you feel better soon".  that's the problem with chronic, it's    C H R O N I C   IT  AIN'T  GOING  ANYWHERE ! ! !

The Spoon Theory offers no false promises of miracle cure no transformational technique, no master plan for overcoming debilitating disease, it's simply a life style management system made manifest.    a spoon equals a unit of energy, and those with chronic illnesses tend to have a seriously curtailed number of units/spoons to use in a day, also our spoon doesn't hold as much as yours and that's before you add in the pain and fatigue quotient common with most invisible illnesses.   

When we were well if we used all our spoons it wasn't a disaster, a good night's sleep replenished our cutlery drawer and off we launched into the feast of life again full of bounce and with energy to spare for dessert.... once the coffee kicked in.   but for Spoonies sleep, if it can be found at all, doesn't revitalise in the same way and leads to physical and mental exhaustion accompanied by a menu of nasty, toxic symptoms that  can flatten faster and more comprehensively than a bout of e-coli in a fast-food deli.   sadly spoons don't come with a refund option.

The Spoon Theory suggests we have twelve spoons to use each day and certain tasks/actions use up a spoon.   so.... i use up one spoon simply by the Herculean task of easing my hurting body out of bed in the morning, putting on a kimono and feeding the cat.   a spoon is used making breakfast, another eating it and clearing away.   showering and getting dressed consume a spoon and lunch can use two or three depending on what i have.   so that's over fifty percent of my spoons used up and the day isn't half done yet.   when i was well i could tackle an entire day's employment using less.  the secret lies in using your spoon allocation wisely.   for me that means ready meals so i can have coffee with a friend.   paying a cleaner so i can potter a little in my garden.   breakfast in bed in order to do the laundry.   there are no winners in this game only trade offs.

It's abundantly clear that when the Great Cutler In The Sky was dishing out tableware some were bestowed with ladles, others teaspoons and even the ladlers can become Spoonies at any point in life as we are all just a mis-step away from life  changing infirmity.   i didn't say it was "fair".... it's simply the way it is.

Me ??.... i'll continue to count my utensils every day in an effort to avoid feeling like an Eton Mess and be grateful that there's enough in the rack to have an acceptable, if severely limited, life.   i can still shovel coffee into a cup and sit with my toes touching the grass in the garden whilst day-dreaming of world domination.   it's still a pretty good life, far from a dog's dinner.