Post Mountain Reflections

Goodness.  It is over a week since I returned from my week away on the mountain.  Well, maybe not quite ‘on’ the mountain – but ‘on’ the mountain sounds better than ‘at the bottom’ of the mountain.

Today I downloaded some of the photos I took on my solo sojourn to Ohakune and the photos have had me reflecting once more. 

I went away because I felt I needed to get somewhere where I could be myself by myself;  where I could enjoy lolling around in self-pity;  to mourn the great loss I have had;  to be able to express it without inhibiting factors;  to ponder on what was, what had been, what is, what will be;  to come to grips with the fear factor that life now is for me; but most of all, to just cry over the fact that I have lost the greatest purpose in my life – my darling Tony.

Since returning many have asked whether I had a good break?  a good holiday?  a good time away?   I understand that folk may not understand the purpose of my getting well away from home and the city and everything I am involved in but did find it rather bemusing that they thought I had gone on holiday.  Only nine weeks after Tony died and they think I went “on holiday”.  Guess some folk can’t  or don’t have empathy or comprehension of empathy.  That’s OK.    We all have different levels of emotional quotient;  I understand that.  So in answer to their questions I would just say that the week away “served its purpose”. 

I think it did.

I have been ever so grateful to the person who suggested and offered the venue.  It could not have been more perfect.  A completely self sufficient ski lodge, with no one else in it but me; well away from any other person, there were no humans to be heard or seen from the lodge.  It had a lovely view of the mountain, the weather was conducive too – so much so that I was able to sun bath on two afternoons whilst stretched out on the grass reading yet another of the books I took with me. There was no television, or video recorder, or Wifi which made me feel I was somewhat more remote than I really was. 

The goodest part, it was only a five minute walk to a local bar – where I could get TV, Wifi and human contact if I wanted.   And a nice beer.

Actually there was one instrument of modern time in the lodge that I did enjoy, greatly.  The radio.  At home I liked to keep the radio on at most times during the day.  Particularly when Tony was home as I had learnt in my research a few years ago that having music or talking in the background was good for the brain; that certain music helped the brain cells keep functioning and even prevent some from folding down and becoming defunct.  Always trying and thinking of anything and everything that could or would help with Tony and brain tumour-damaged cells, I maintained that the background radio was good to have going when at home.  But the radio stations in Ohakune were different from the radio stations at home so I fiddled with the tuning dial for a couple of days before settling on a station that rated highly for me.  It was the Wanganui (or I should say, Whanganui) Maori station.  Not only did it have the best music, but helped me with my dead or dying brain cells by reminding me that once upon a time I spent two years at university learning Maori language.  A language which in my brain had long since died away.  It is true, one can regenerate dying brain cells.  Kia ora …. See!

Going down to Ohakune at this time of the year was an unexpected bonus as whilst the temperatures were unseasonably warm, the autumn colours were magnificent – the magnificent autumnal coloured leaves took me back to 2010 when Tony and I were in dreamland with our friends Jerry & Lis in their US home state of Vermont.  It helped with my nostalgia, with my mourning.   We (Tony and I) have been fortunate in our life together to have gained so many close and warm friends and Jerry and Lis rate up there among the best so it was very special for us to be able to enjoy their homeland, their towns.  We were in Vermont in autumn so the Ohakune autumnal colours took me back to Vermont.

There was beauty every day for me to see.  Mountains always seem to create amazing skies where cloud formations are particularly beautiful.  One of my favourite painting exhibitions was held many years ago at Te Papa in Wellington – it was Constable and his cloud paintings – I flew down to Wellington especially to see the exhibition.  I spent what seemed like hours looking at his paintings of clouds.  In fact, I went back for a second day, just to have another look at the Constable paintings.  And felt privileged to have seen them.  Just as privileged as I felt last week when looking skyward each day and being soothed by the brilliant and unusual cloud patterns across the skies.  Constable would have been kept busy painting for many years had he been lucky enough to come to our mountain.  How I wish I had the talent to put on canvas that which we see with the eye.  My two sisters were born with such talent; my father once told me that I was born with other talents… am still looking for them Dad.  Think I would prefer theirs.

Despite my bad knee giving me much discomfort I still went for runs along the little river that flows through town.  Many of you will know the track that runs along the river.  My knee gave me cause to stop a number of times on the track and each time I would turn and look into the little river and be calmed again by the beauty of the water, the clarity of the water and the mere movement of the water over the river bed rocks.  It had a mesmerising factor to it.  Beauty of its own.

Paralleled by the beauty I found on the bush running I did.  Tony and I had spent over twenty years running the bush tracks of the Waitakeres and Hunuas and any other bush tracks we would find on our travels around the country.  It has been four or five years since we last were able to do that with the usual pleasure and free running joy that we had shared for all that time.  Running these bush tracks on Ruapehu’s mountainside brought back many, many memories and had emotions flood through me with every step over the bush floor.  I don’t think I have ever realised how defined the bush smells are before.  Maybe it was the damp mornings or evening air, but each time I went into the bush I felt there was an aroma of nature that felt refreshing yet wistful.  I guess it was just the smell of memories past.

Not such a bad thing.  Memories past.   They are a treasure we all own, memories past.  I know though that life moves on and one must look and plan forward and not dwell on the past.  At this particular point in time that is not so easy for me to do.  But I will, and am.  It takes time.

There is a Maori proverb that I cannot recall word for word, but its essence is that one cannot look to the future without looking to the past.  I may seem to be spending a lot of time looking to the past but perhaps only by doing that will I be able to look better to the future.   

Hei maumaharatanga ki te tino tane.  Ka aroha.

Mountain Reflections Five - Ohakune & Carrots

One whole week in Ohakune and I have yet to eat one carrot!

Which is really funny because it seems that aside from winter skiing and snow the whole purpose of Ohakune is carrots.  Every second conversation from the locals seems to have something to do with carrots.  The other night when the two Deliverance chaps were talking to me they introduced me to the “biggest carrot grower” in the district.  A fellow who is clearly a descendant of early 20^th century Chinese market gardeners who spoke with the most Kiwi accent, and drinks Speights.  Anyway, he told me they are busy harvesting carrots right now and have been for some months and will be for a while yet.  This is the time of the year when the carrots are the nicest, the sweetest.  Yet I still haven’t eaten one while down here.  Cause no body is actually selling them at the gates anywhere and one would have to go to the supermarket to purchase the carrots, which seems rather silly when the entire countryside is covered in carrots.

The big carrot just on the outside of town has recently been repainted, maybe for the winter seasonal tourists and visitors.  It is oranger than orange now.

 

Actually, the town is really a puzzle to me.  Having travelled every little street and track and pathway of this town over the past week I could not help but notice how many trades people were busy working on properties in the town.  There are a couple of lovely ‘suburbs’ of the town which you would never know about unless you were exploring the minor side streets and I was rather surprised to see the high standard of houses on the properties.  The properties are clearly holiday homes for those city folk who like to ski and play in snow over winter – and have purchased or had built their own home for the snow season.  In summer they probably go to their holiday homes in Omaha or Pauanui.

My point is, everywhere I went I saw tradesmen painting, building, re-roofing, concreting, electricalling, gardening, lawn mowing.  There seems to be enough trade industry in the town to keep the local trades people very busy.  Yet the retail township looks very sad.  The usual empty shop fronts with For Lease signs on the window. 

Tony and I and others have travelled the road to Ohakune on many occasions over the past several years and were always interested to find the town, as small as it is, had a great café, a great retail shop selling super clothings and jewellery and gifts, as well as four or five really smart take aways or restaurants.  And this was in the main time of our so-called ‘recession’ three, four or five years ago.  It seemed to be booming.

Well the café has a new owner and the food and coffee is shite; the clothing-jewellery retail shop is obviously in new ownership too and is half the size with half the goods with half the quality.  And the neat restaurant's' is reduced to one and there is only one takeaway shop which reeks of old oils or fats.  I walked in for a coffee, took one whiff and walked out.  So the commercial part of the township is barely holding up, yet the residential parts are buzzing and growing. 

No doubt that will change again once the snow comes.  There will be a seasonal rush of business makers temporarily leasing the shops for bars and retail junk.  One of the empty shops has already been leased for a week by a company who is now interviewing for winter staff, so there are all manner of good looking young men and blonde ladies, dressed like snow bunnies, queuing up in the street for their interview. 

Back to where I started.  Carrots.  I’ve had none.  Had lots of baked beans and one of the very, very, very, very rare positives about being on one’s own is that flatulence doesn’t matter. 

Fortunately, I think, neither Tony nor I considered being free with your wind around the house was something mutually agreeable.  If it did happen and I accidentally had one slip through I would be in a semi-state of embarrassment to have allowed Tony to know that my body actually could create wind.

So baked beans was a good choice of main meal for a couple of nights.

Indeed, last night I decided my lovely plate of baked beans on toast deserved to be accompanied by a glass of wine so I went to fetch the bottle.  After pouring a glass I returned to my plate of beans thought I was have optical illusions.  There was a rather large daddy long legs meandering his way across my pile of beans.  He must have dropped from the ceiling.  Had me looking ceiling-ward for the rest of the night for fear of other creatures up there.

Speaking of creatures, went on a little mountain bike jaunt along part of the Old Coach Road and on returning into town decided to stop by the big (and new) sign that the Council have put up that shows the maps of all the mountain bike and tramping tracks. There was a rather older gentleman, well dressed, well heeled, standing on his own reading the sign.  So, as you do, when I pulled up on my bike I greeted him with a cherrie “Hello, lovely afternoon isn’t it,”  (that’s a rhetorical question so I don’t need a question mark after it).  Whereupon this well-heeled, elderly gentleman looked me up and down then promptly turned his back to read the map again, without even attempting a grunt.  Rather made me question how bad I actually do look nowadays. Do I really look that bad in my cycling gear?  (that’s not rhetorical, it’s a real question). 

May he choke convulsively on his next carrot.

The mountain bike ride was lovely but I did not venture too far for fear of fear.  

I find I am now in the insidious position of realising I cannot do the adventuring things ad hoc as Tony and I would have normally done.  Everything I do now I have to think twice about, is it safe?  is it sensible?  what happens if something goes wrong?  Does anyone know where I am?  If I died, I wouldn't be missed for days.  How long would it take before they found me?  Are there any bogeymen out here?  ....  Whereas pre-tumour, Tony and I would just go. Bit of a bugger this being a oneself now.  Having to curtail the adventures is not fun. 

Oh well, think I’ll go buy a carrot.

Mountain Musings Four

Am already exasperated at the solitude.  But ever so pleased I have it.

Solitude has one pondering constantly.  That’s why it’s good.  I can now understand why those monks or yogi or nutters like to go up into the mountains for months, years on end, without speaking to another human being.  With solitude you focus on nothing but your ponderings.  Bit selfish really.  But when comes a need . .. and all that. 

I lasted two days.  In solitude that is. But even then I cheated.  I had to speak to the lady to order my latte on Monday and then again yesterday.  And to do that I had to come down from the mountain.  But I still kinda getit.  All that self time and stuff.

Then today I busted out.  Actually, come to think of it, I did it last night really.

It was dark and on looking at my watch realised it had been a few hours since my last repast so picked up the unopened can of baked beans on the bench knowing there is nothing healthier for the body than another can of good old Mr Watties Baked Beans.  But, realised that baked beans don’t taste any good without either a slice of toast under them, or a poached egg on top.  As I had neither in my box of foodstuffs I had brought down from home I couldn’t figure out what other option to cook myself for dinner.  I’d already eaten through two-thirds of Fiona’s latest fruit cake – that as a main course for dinner didn’t appeal.  Dessert maybe.  There were a couple of little cans of tuna and some dried apricots too but they didn’t send the taste buds salivating either.  Nor did going down to the local supermarket for a healthy supply of greens and lean meat or fish.  When on one’s own, that becomes quite expensive and one ends up with two thirds of a broccoli head left over and can never purchase a small enough portion of fish to meat for one, so end up with more than half the goods left over for the next night.  And why would I want the same stuff the next night? 

So bugger it, I thought.  I’ll hit the town and savour, flavour and devour the best the town has to offer.

BIG mistake.  Shoulda gone to the supermarket and bought the broccoli and steak.  Lesson learnt.  There’s no Simon Gault down here.

But it did take me away from the solitude.  I got to speak to the surly wine waitress, the foreign barman and two of the most Deliverance-type-characters you could ever imagine.  Full grey beards and all. 

Brokeback Mountain I would have loved.  Officer and a Gentleman even more so.  Trust me to have two hickory dickory local yokels trying to be friendly.

I went straight back to the chalet for solitude and reflecting.

Did some of that on top of the mountain today.  Well, maybe not quite on top of the mountain, and maybe not quite reflecting.  But drove up the mountain road as far as the car would take me.  Bit of déjà vu.  Last time I went up there I was with Tony.  But that’s not the point of this story.  Point is that I went up there and had a jolly good bawl.  Literally.  With an outlook and view to stun any tourist, I had it to myself and told myself I was as high up and as close to Tony as I would ever get – then the tears flowed.  And the solitude meant the tears could turn to bawling my eyes out. 

Did that yesterday too.  Bawl my eyes out.  But not up the mountain.  Did it during a mountain bike ride.  Thought I would be brave and venture out on the mountain bike onto a small part of the Old Coach mountain bike track.  Got about twenty minutes in when emotion flooded over me like a tidal wave.  Thank goodness it was totally out in the wop-wops as it would have frightened even the bravest adventurer to have come across this woman howling over the hill sides.

It has to be good for me, surely?  I feel totally exhausted afterwards so figure it must burn up some calories.  Yeah, nah?

So today it’s been back to solitude and reflection - that’s been the agenda today.  Me and only me.  It does remind me how depression is all about being me-focused.  But in saying that I know I am not depressed, I am grieving – but there is a very fine line and parallel to both.  Both are all about thinking about self.  I know.  I have been to both places, now.  That’s why I am here, at the bottom of this mountain.  To give myself total indulgence in thinking about myself, me and what I have lost and will never see, or touch, or smell or love again.  Death then grief is a valid reason for being depressed.  So I feel I can give myself license to be so.  But I don’t have license to inflict it on others.  That’s when it does become truly selfish.  That’s why I have come away.

I thought I would come away to totally indulge myself in self-reflection, self-interest, self-made depression, grief and not damn well give anything back to someone, anyone else.  I haven’t liked it though. 

The one thing I have been telling myself on each day of these nine weeks and four days of grieving depression since Tony passed away is, “What have I done for someone else?”  When I ask myself that question I immediate refocus and will do something, some small thing to let someone else know I care.

Often it’s only a phone call, or email, or text.  Or going for a walk and patting the local cats that stroll on the footpath, smile at the lady walking with her toddler, pushing the cross now button for the old dear with shopping bags in both hands or smile at the man taking his dog for a walk.  I even pick up litter from the street like one of those bag ladies one sees in movies. But doing something as small as that takes that brain focus away from self and actually puts a little goodness back into the soul. 

Doing something for someone else without seeking reward that is. 

Serotonin, I think that’s what they call it.  Natural serotonin, instead of the pill form.  I’ve got the pill form in the cabinet at home – but decided to ditch those.  It’s too easy to use those as an excuse to keep focusing on self.  They keep you there.  Doing something for someone else is better, nicer, more rewarding than swallowing a pill.  And it’s natural.  And can become a habit.  I am missing it.

Now, is it the baked beans or the tuna tonight?

 

 

Mountain Reflections Three

To be more precise: Mountain Ramblings Three

This break away has added benefits and bonuses that I never expected.

Already I have experienced the self imposed bereftness I felt I needed.  Haven’t finished with it yet. It must come naturally.  But I have been pondering too.  Ponderings of the naval about ponderings of the future, the past and the now.

I have also found this little sojourn has given me the opportunity to acquire new taste buds otherwise never to be experienced.  As well as that this little break has given me the opportunity to compare and evaluate the effectiveness of sleep inducing products.  I have pondered and given deep thought to physical and psychological factors relating to health and fitness - for others, and even for me.  And dare I say it; there has even been some bird watching, no butterflies, too jolly crisp down here for a butterfly.  And best of all, whilst doing all this I have found that I have unexpectedly taken myself on a retreat for altitude training.

Rose from the sleeping bag this morning and produced a blood nose.  How odd.  How did that come about? me wondered.  Ah ha! .. the logical brain in me responds, you’re at altitude!  You are a whole couple of hundred feet above sea level and have been for 36 hours, that’s equivalent to some mountaineer being at Base Camp.  So hang around for another couple of days to acclimatise and soon will be able to venture higher.

Not to take this altitude benefit for granted, the populous of this little town will soon have the sight of that funny lady who’s staying at the end of town flogging her way around the streets and streams of the bustling town of 20.   Flogging is literally that.  My wretched knee is giving me one hell of a problem to overcome.  It does not like being used at all and on yesterday’s walk around town I noted how much I walked like a woman with a soon to be needed hip replacement.  The little jaunt on the mountain bike wasn’t favoured by the knee either.  Bugger the surgeon who stuffed this up.

Still nothing I cannot work on to help it – once I actually to get working on it.  Some specific exercise strengthening for the rest of the body would help.  When I get around to it.  There is still much pondering and naval gazing to do that takes preference.

Mind you, the extra weight I am carrying cannot help.  Last night’s evening meal was yet another one of the culinary delights from the Hawkes Bay.  Spicy Tomato & Meatball Soup, a la the Watties factory.  The night before it was the extra smokey baked beans, taken to clear the other problems one can have when travelling. 

I noted on the label of the 535gm Spicy Tomato & Meatball Soup can that it had 3½ serves per can.  Must be a Jesus can I thought.  One must open it an out pours a gallon of soup, and maybe the bread to have with it.  Well, I went through that 3½ serves within a four minute period.  Plus all the bread slices to accompany it which did not come poured from the can but from the dried up bread scraps I brought from home.

On typing this I did go fetch the can from the rubbish and reread the label a little more closely.  It says 3½ serves … of veg per can.  The label also tells me I could find “the diamonds” (true), but seems the diamonds self expired on 30 April 2013.  So I missed out there.  Where were the diamonds then?  Did they actually dissolve in the can on the 30^th April?  Could they perhaps reconstitute internally and be ‘passed’?  I ramble.  But I do wonder what delight I shall treat myself.  And I know that my stability is less that great at this point in time.  Therefore the concept of applying for jobs and having interviews where I will be asked questions on how I am at the moment and whether I consider myself suitable for their particular position – well it certainly begs the question of do I wish to lie to people?  I don’t.  I am not stable.  I am insecure, frightened, grieving and completely unreliable.  I cannot possibly know what it is I can do in paid employment where those factors would not end up creating a difficult situation for them, and me.

With some soul search, some encouragement from experts in various fields, I have decided that I will turn to that which I know best and do best.  I will help others achieve their sporting goals in whatever manner my skills and knowledge can do. 

I do not see this as  a long term permanent situation, but see it as a ways and means of getting me through this next eight, nine to twelve month period when I know that I will be clear headed enough and experienced a good year of life on my own to be able to figure out what/how/where and who I need to be to make myself financially secure.

Besides, there is nothing I enjoy more than seeing someone enjoy the results of their physical successes – whether it be just getting them to pedal on their first bike for a revolution or two – or managing to finally swim a length of the pool – or finally overcome that long term running injury they have had – or improving the past times like never before – or finding that touching ones toes can actually make a different to your cycle success …. Or breaking that 3½ hour barrier in a marathon or 11 hours in an Ironman is possible … I could go on.

I do love people and I do love sharing my experiences and knowledge with people if it means it will help in some small way.

There is nothing more satisfying that to see a satisfied look on someone’s face after they have completed something they may not have done without encouragement.

Ah, what a great way to earn a that next can of Spicy Tomato & Meatballs.

And that’s what it boils down to.  I need to earn some income to put food on my table.  And that brings me back to the start of my ramblings.  Once I get myself over this desperate week of self time I will be working very studiously in finally placing together everyone’s’ goals and programmes and place in motion my own annual planner that focuses on ‘my athletes’ … ‘their goals’. 

For those ‘athletes’ who are a little out on the edge at the moment due to your coach taking retreat, fear not.  I will be back.  I need to be back, I need to put food on the table and if it is more of the Hawkes Bay tinned culinary fare, so what! – it’s food – and it has 3½ servings of protein per can.

 

Mountain Reflections: Two

It’s morning.  It’s a perfect morning.  It is perfect where I am.  It’s a ski lodge that sits at the bottom of the mountain in Ohakune.

Actually, it sits on a small knoll, making it slightly elevated from the town and has a superb outlook back over the town in the early evening when the sun is setting.  At least it did last night when the sun set.  I have been blessed with glorious weather for yesterday’s drive and this morning’s awakening.

The sunset last night was indeed glorious.  I was wise enough to arrive within thirty minutes of daylight to enable me to find where I was staying and then find all the relevant power and lighting switches.

Just as well I had been given finite and a hand drawn map to direct me to this place as it is not an easy find, if unexplained.

Once in the lodge went searching for my camera as the mountain was reflected in the most glorious sunset pink with the setting sun highlighting brilliantly on the whiteness of the snow that has fallen.

Alas, the camera was buried deep in the various boxes so the moment was missed.

Besides, don’t think I can download photos into the blog thing anyway.  At least my Tutor of Blogs, F, has yet to show me how. 

The ski lodge is perfect for me too.  Not quite the ski lodge that one may imagine with an continuous and roaring fire with a handsome young skier leaning on the mantel above – directly under the taxidermied stags head and antlers.  It has the fire place but not quite that one.  Nor is there a handsome young skier anywhere to be found.  I know, because I looked.  I searched every bedroom in the place and there was not a skier or sole or soul to be found.  Thank goodness.

Well, that’s not quite right.  There were a lot of souls.  Dead ones.  In the form of ginormous blow flies.  Where do they come from?  Why so many?  Dead and alive ones. 

I understand now why there are six cans of fly spray in the kitchen.  Have zapped a few already and my first task this morning was to locate the sturdy Tellus vacuum cleaner and vacuum up the greatly spread piles of dead blow flies. Should have done this last night but really did not want to do housework on my first night.  I am here for a retreat, not to vacuum.  Mistake really; avoiding standing and squashing the dead and large blow flies became a game of Twister.  Many ended up being kick under the tables until vacuuming time.  The Tellus shall remain leaning in the dining room, awaiting the next spraying of insect genocide.

Speaking of bugs – when did that bloody great Moa arrive in Taumarunui? 

Never seen it before.  Is it new?  Is it a monument to some great moa find in the King Country?  Was there some great unveiling of the thing?  Is there history of moa down this way?  Have I never seen it before, would that be because I have usually been sleeping as we have driven through the sleepy township?  Can anyone tell me anything about the Taumarunui moa?

To close this rambling reflection.  Where I am is within walking distance of the Powderhorn/Keg – that could be handy if I tire of baked beans and stale bread (last night’s a la cart), and cake.

There is no television, no radio nor any WiFi (nor handsome young skier – I am truly solo – hurrah).  So I shall have to take myself to the local cafe and update myself with emails over a latte.  That should be the daily delight for me.

On my mountain bike, should the weather gods remain as benevolent as they are today.  Must wrap up warm though.  Am still in my pyjamas – they don’t need to be described. Think grunge, then think more grunge.  Might just throw my cycle clothes over the top of them, load up PC on back and go! ....  bet you I wouldn’t be the first in the Ohakune cafes dressed in their PJs.

 

Mountain Reflections: One

I’ve made at least one half day of my unknown days of solitude and silence. 

There has certainly been a lot of silence in the past few hours.  I do wonder whether I will be able to sustain this solitude for more than a day, such is my nature to inevitably find myself among others more often than on my own.

Over the past three days I have been asked the question on more than one occasion whether coming away for some days of quiet and self reflection would actually be a wise or good thing for me.  Even I hesitated when first asked the question as it had not crossed my mind that perhaps coming away for a few days on my own may perhaps not be a good thing to do or one that I could very well regret.

Until being asked the question it had been something I felt the need to do.  The only difficulty I seemed to be having was being able to extricate myself from an already over loading diary of activities and actions that keep me from bird and butterfly watching.

It almost did not happen, I almost turned down my own invitation to come away by myself, such was the lack of anticipation I really had for my own company.

However instinctive (or in plainer terms, “gut”) reaction was that I had to, I needed to get away.  It has been an almost overwhelming need to get away.  There has been an inner feeling of oppression that seems impossible to shake or remove at home and everywhere around home.  I feel as it has been wrapping around me like a tightly fitting blanket and squeezing the hell out of me.

The blanket of oppression.  It’s the grief.  It’s a blanket of grief that I cannot shake off my shoulders.  Its weight won’t drop off my shoulders and it’s causing a great smouldering heavily inside.  It is smouldering inside me like my own tumour that is growing and growling and not receding with time as so many people tell me it would.

I cannot remove or dislodge this tumour.  No matter how much of a brave and positive air or face I can put on; no matter how many firsts I am ticking myself through;  no matter how many runs or races or bike rides or swims or walks I do, no matter how many places I go, the tumour is not going away.  It is just sitting there, still, and getting heavier and heavier and burdening me down. 

I know it is still early since Tony passed away.  I am typing this exactly nine weeks, one day and a few hours since Tony passed.  I am more than aware of the fact that nine weeks is but a blink of time.  I also know that I cannot possibly hope to pass through the tunnel of grief in a mere month or two and that for me it will take an inordinately long time, no matter what the future holds. 

And my love for Tony was such that I may even end up wallowing permanently in a mire of grief and never really come out the other end of that tunnel, no matter what the future holds.  I actually do hope that will not be the case.  He would not want that.

But I do know I have had a real need to get away and to get away now.  Not later in the year or next year.  I need to have come away now.  Ideally I would like to have made it months, but a few days to a week is still a bonus.  And it needed to be somewhere where there is no one.  No one I know and no one I want to get to know.  I felt the very strong need to travel somewhere where no one can see me, no one can hear me.  Because I need scream.  I need to really, really cry.  To really, really howl.   To bawl my heart out.   Something I have not been able to do since Tony died.

Can’t do that at home.   It would scare the neighbours.  And anyone passing by.  Could cause quite a stir.  Getting carried off to the funny farm isn’t even an option nowadays.  There are no such things as funny farms anymore – so whilst men in little white coats may carry me off, due to government cost cutting all funny farm inmates are now sent back home to live in the community, so the neighbours would only end up with me howling from my hallways again. 

And true to form, my instinctive need was so very correct.  Didn’t make it far past Auckland before the waves of loss broke over me.

I was in my own little world, driving ever so carefully, humming along to one of the nostalgia CDs I had grabbed as I left the house, when I was suddenly aware that I could not glance casually to my left and see my darling Tony sitting there in the passenger seat.  The seat he sat in for so many of our fun or sporting journeys was no longer filled.  It was empty.  Nor would he be ever sitting behind the wheel of the vehicle again, driving me off to yet another mini adventure of our own.  He is gone.  Forever.  Never to be sitting with me, never to be with me again.  I cannot just reach out and touch him.  Feel  his hands, his face, his hair and remind him as I so often did at these times that he is my ‘beautiful man’.  He would look back at me with that soft smile, gently shake his head, and love hearing it.  He was a beautiful man to me.  I always told him so when we were together in our quite times. He loved hearing it, I loved the smile I got back or the arm reaching over to gently squeeze my hand.

The over powering and deep emotion of loss was dreadful. It was pull over time on the main highway.  The loss, it really is physically painful.  It really reaches deep into the deepest part of the stomach and twists and turns and hurts like hell.  And as it twists and turns the achingly heart twists with it and the flood of tears begin all over again.

It is that which will not go away.  That’s my own tumour.

It is that which I cannot move or budge.  It is that which I feel needs to be purged. 

I cannot do that at home.  Someone will ring the doorbell.  And be bringing more cake. 

And I am still 67.6 kgs.