Pour me a cocktail

Am in Taupo.

Down here to talk at a seminar to 40+ athletes who want to do an Ironman.  Cam and I (name dropping here - Cameron Brown and I).

It's bloody cold.  I am in an internet cafe trying to keep warm, Cam has gone for a run (bollocks to that!).

It is somewhere around 6 degrees celcius.  To me I may as well be in Antartica.  I have never liked the cold.  I am one of those individuals who relishes summer then spends all of autumn dreading winter and having to drag out all those winter socks and jerseys and jackets and feel trussed up like a turkey every time I leave the house to go outdoors.

It makes me wonder how my Maori ancesters ever survived living in this country when all they wore was grass skirts and flax woven tops - maybe with the odd feather clock, if you were of some standing - thrown over the shoulders.  There were no polypropolenes in their day. No sheep to sheer to make woollen jerseys or scarves.  No heat pumps. No government subsidised insulation to their cold whares, electric blankets. Why oh why did they stay in this land of the long white and lately very black cloud!

They did that great journey all over the Pacific to find themselves a new home, rowing and navigating in their twelve big canoes by following the stars.  Obviously they had not read their stars that week otherwise it would have said, "This week you can expect to meet a cold, wet land where the earth moves and mountains explode, so change your direction and sail north until next week's stars are published". 

My ancesters clearly landed in Aotearoa in the middle of a summer's heat wave, like the lovely summer we had this past season.  My chiefly (yes, of course I have come from high ranking chief descent) greatest grand ancesters must have disembarked from their canoes, unloaded all their gear, built their teatree huts, and decided this was a great, lovely, sunny, warm and abundant place so they would stay.  But then winter would have come.  Why didn't they jump back into their canoes and row north ? - to somewhere like Vanuatu, Fiji, Cook Islands, Noumea or better still, Hawaii?  Then I wouldn't now be in cold, cold Taupo with a bitterly colder breeze, maybe I would have been on the Big Island or Tahiti or some other Pacific isle enjoying sunshine, surf, white sand and Malibu cocktails.

I had to rise reasonably early in the cold Auckland temperature this morning to catch my own waka.  A flying waka with the koru painted on the tail.  That was scary enough, it was the width of my own kayak waka at home in the garage - only one seat on each side of the isle.  And the gusts at Auckland Airport were gusting gustily.  Was not going to be the lovely, smooth flight of the concord that I had woken up this morning in the hope of having.

But it got here, without incident.  Thank goodness for that.  Why?  Because to get to my flying waka I had to climb into my own grey wakavan at home and drive to the waka-port to catch the flying-waka.

It wasn't long after sunrise, only the sun did not rise this morning - well, if it did, there were too many grey or grey-black clouds in the sky that were intermittently throwing down heavy sheets of rain onto us.  I had just driven my waka-van onto the south-western motorway when one of those torrential down pours began to make driving over 80 kilometres per hour very hazardous.  There was little or no other traffic on this waka motorway at this time on such a wet morning but I still kept tidily into the left hand lane and kept my speed to 80kph or less.  Headlights on as it was nigh impossible to see.

Then passing me in the right hand lane was a grey car, literally skidding through the inches of water on the roadway, sending great sheets of spray wildly to each side of it, spraying my windscreen even more, making my travelling that much riskier that before.  This car zapped passed with such unnecessary speed that I shook my head at the stupidity.  Well at least it had it's headlights on, I had thought.  It continued to speed ahead of me and some 100 metres further on indicated to pull into the lane in front of me.  What caused it, I don't know, but suddenly the car went into a total spin - such a spin that it reminded me of one of those fire cracker spinning wheels that sprays sparks into the air.  This vehicle, with it's headlights flashing into me each time the car spun uncontrolably around in it's circle, was spraying water everywhere. 

The adrenaline in me shot through my system and the body went into automatic mode - amazing how it does that - I immediately knew not to put my own brakes on hard as I knew I would end up spinning but before I could do anything the car in front came to a stop on the side of the road.  It had not hit the concrete barrier, it stopped on the other side.  It had not hit me, not another car, as there were no other cars. 

Pulled my own car over just a few metres in front of this and ran to the car.  As I did this two other vehicles came along and had obviously seen this display from further back.

Got to the car and opened the door and heard the screams of the two children in the back.  Both were buckled in and were still sitting safely in their child seats.  Mother was belted in on the front seat but was screaming.  They were all screaming.  They had all had a huge fright.  One can sum up a situation very quickly and I noted everyone seemed safe, there was not bodies strewn within the car, all were still belted in, there was no broken glass, not broken panels - nothing seemed to be damaged - except for a frantic mother screaming at nothing and the two children in the back doing the same.  Other people came up to the car.  They opened the back doors and tried to settle the children whilst I tried to calm the mother down.  She was of Indian descent, and a mental mess.  Held a hand and tried to talk calmly to her.  She settled.  The children didn't. 

It took a few minutes for us to have them all quiet and realise they were all OK.  The car engine was still running, even it was unharmed.  Fortunately the heavy shower had passed and other cars had stopped to help.  After a few minutes of realising all was well and that the other people were doing very well at helping this family I returned to the safety of my own vehicle and gently pulled away.  Funnily enough, I began shaking.  I realised how lucky that mother and her children were.  I realised how lucky I was not to have been hit.  I realised how stupid she was to have driven so fast in such wet condition.  Sure, she was not speeding, but she had not driven to the conditions.  I bet she will in future.

My eyes dropped to the dashboard clock.  Oh my god.  I had spent longer there than I had thought.  It was 7.45 am and my plane to Taupo was due to leave at 8.10 am.  I had to get to the airport, park, walk to domestic and be checked in.  Supposed to be checked in by 7.50 am. 

Try driving to and airport, late for a plane, on a wet, wet road, in strong gusts, with your flight going in less than half an hours, after witnessing a near accident without your heart rate rising, blood pressure pumping and thoughts of a long and unwanted drive to Taupo coming up.

Got to the airport car park, ran to the terminal and sure enough, the check in machine told me I was too late.  Went to a counter to try my best - after all, it was only two or three minutes after 8 o'clock (I had performed a miracle to get there by then) but was rejected by the poe-faced Air NZ employee, which I knew I would be.  Went to another, same result.  Told me I would have to pay and catch the next flight down.  It wasn't until 3 pm.  The seminar is at 1 pm.  Texted Cam, and Janette & Maria from Ironman, to let them know I would have to drive down. 

Bum, bum, bum.  I wanted to get on that flying-waka.  I did not wish to be encased in my own big waka-van for 7 hours today.

Then walked, literally, into Cam - he pointed out boarding had not yet been called, clearly the flight was a little late - so went with him to a nice, matronly looking Air NZ clerk at the boarding desk - gave her a quick precise of what had happened - she took my boarding card and booked me on.  Could have hugged her.

That is, until I saw how narrow these little Taupo-flying-wakas were.  Maybe 7 hours in my big waka-van may not have been a bad idea.

Too late.  And now I am here.  Filling in the time and wishing to stay in here in the warmth until I text for my pick up ride to take me to the Taupo Events Centre to organise the seminar. 

Was supposed to be such a pleasant, easy way to pass a day.  All the planning was done by the girls at Ironman, my scheduling done perfectly.  I'll blame it back onto my Maori ancesters - had they packed up and found a warmer, drier place to live and procreate until my arrival on earth, I wouldn't have had to drive down that wet, dangerous piece of motorway - I wouldn't have had a near death accident - I wouldn't be sitting in here trying to keep warm.  I'd be on the golden sands, ordering my next cocktail.

The Little Black Taxi

Well that last posting about says it.

Posted about midnight last night.

This morning had a rare morning when I didn’t have to get up sometime around 5 a.m. to be somewhere at 6 or 6.30 a.m. so thought I would enjoy a lie in; the sort of thing most people do on a weekend that I never do– lots of other things are always planned.  For which I am very pleased they are.

So a sleep in was long looked forward to for this morning.  Still woke at 5 am though but merely reached over to pick up the book I am reading and lay snuggled up enjoying ‘A Street Cat Named Bob’.  Ironical really.  An easy read and a light interlude of a read after plugging through Rod Stewart’s book last week and before heading into a rather different theme of Iron War, or maybe The Year of Magical Thinking.  Both sitting on the bedside and both will be heavier going that a true story about a London street cat named Bob. 

Had eventually read myself into the lovely half-awake-half-asleep doze that one so enjoys on these rare occasions.

Then an almighty CRASH!  From somewhere in the room.  Sat bolt upright, it was still dark, couldn't see a thing.  Reached quickly for the bedside light, looked down at the floor at the end of the bed and broke into a deep and sorrowful cry.  Could not help myself.

Seems the powers that be, the spirits that are supposed to care at times like this have skipped off on annual leave ever since Tony passed away.

Smashed to smithereens and spread all over the wooden bedroom floor was a treasured piece of Tony.  The little black taxi money-box ornament that he loved, he treasured, that had been his father’s, which he had so often patted, stroked, dusted and smiled over.  The little treasure that had given him the simple pleasure of father memories, smashed into a thousand pieces.  He would have been heartbroken.  I was for him. 

In life, it is the simple things that matter.  That little black taxi was emotionally worth more than a brand new real car could ever be worth. 

It was not just the smashing of the Tony treasure that threw me into desperate sobs but the compounded fact that this is the second wonderful treasure of I have of Tony that has recently been smashed to smithereens since Tony passed away.

Many years ago when we were travelling through the UK we were in North Wales with our oldest (literally) and dearest old friends.  We had driven to Conway Castle for a day’s wandering the streets of the little town and I had seen a little black ornament that truly took my eye.  Wales was once a country of coal mines, particularly North Wales where we had been travelling and one of the products of the now defunct mining operations is the manufacture of lovely little figurines made of coal dust.  Probably the Welsh version of cheap Asian trinkets, but nevertheless beautifully molded with each one almost telling a story of the figure it produced.  The figurines are only about six inches high and the one that took my eye was of a miner walking home from his day working in the mine, disheveled clothes, pick thrown over one shoulder, his little girl picked up and sitting in his other arm looking lovingly up at him, and he at her and her little dog was trotting happily alongside him.

It was a delightful little molding and one could almost picture a whole story being told when sitting looking at this small piece of Welsh product.  It was called ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’.

I had looked at this figurine but as is usual when one is travelling, budgets are tight and the purchasing of trinkets where ever one goes means the dollars would soon be spent, thus I looked, admired, mused for a while then walked on along the cobbled pathway.

Later that night over a nice dinner cooked by myself in our friends’ home, Tony produced a little box; inside the box was that little coal figurine. 

He had seen the look on my face when admiring it and had decided to slip back later in the afternoon to purchase it.  It wasn’t expensive.  Maybe £25.  But £25 was a lot back then to spend on a holiday trinket.  With the help of our hosts using subterfuge, he had successfully purchased it and secreted it in the car until later that night and presenting it to me over dinner.

That little figurine traveled home safely with us from the other side of the world and stood all these years on one of the shelves in our home.  It would have meant nothing to anyone else, but to me it represented the love it was purchased with and was one of many treasured love trinkets Tony had given me over the years – this one being particularly special.  It was on the trip that changed our lives.

I came home one day, some few weeks ago, may only a week or two after Tony had passed away, walked into the entry way to see ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ broken into many, many little pieces.  How it fell from up high I have no idea.  But it did.  And there it was, pieces strewn all over the floor.  Cannot explain how deeply upset the sight of this caused me.  I sat down and collected all the pieces and cried. 

This morning that all happened over again.  Treasures of Tony.  Taken from me.  Just like Tony.

It is no wonder I am having such difficulty getting through this period of grieving. 

Thankfully the phone went when writing this and a Pollyanna friend, who knows not of this story, lifted my spirits enough to let this trinket grief ease.

Writer's block

Have had writer’s block these past two or three weeks.   Funny how it happens.

There have been some momentous moments during the past period which would normally have contributed to a great blog, or many great blogs.  None more so than the birth of little Anthony Lyall Farnham last Wednesday, not quite a week ago.  So much had happened before that big day, so much has happened since yet finding the ability to type out on a screen my thoughts and feelings and views has been difficult.

There is no doubt that Anthony is a great blessing to have and will bring many years of pleasure and happiness to his parents and family, a life time full one would hope.  As with all parents and grandparents the hopes and dreams of what his life will be are little more than one of happiness, safety, security and joy. And there appears to be one particular uncle who intends to be around to help make most of that happen.  Lucky boy that Anthony is.

For me the day he was born will be memorable for more reasons than just his birth for his birth was one part of one huge day – be it the most important part – but there are at least half a dozen stories I could tell about that particular day, but I won’t.  Yet.  They can wait.

It seems that at the end of each day I tell myself that surely tomorrow will be less eventful, less time consuming, less hurried.  Then the next day comes and the phone will ring, or the door bell chime or the email will arrive, one or the other to add another element of unexpectedness into my day.

I do not lead a boring life.  And hopefully son and his son will ensure that will be the case forever.  

Of Gods & Men & Other Things

Phew.  It has been a full and eventful day.

It began at the Auckland Museum at 7 this morning and finished at the Auckland Museum at 9 tonight.  Wasn't actually at the Museum all day though.  Been out and about and home and about in between.

Despite being at the same venue twice today, both meetings were for completely different events. 

This morning’s meeting was a fortnightly gathering of the Toastmaster club where we meet in the Columbus Café in the atrium foyer.  Always a nice way to start a Thursday these Toastmaster meetings.  There is always something uplifting to take away each time.  There was a theme on art at the meeting this morning.  Interesting that.  Seemed that theme continued throughout the day.

Tonight’s museum meeting was for the monthly LATE Smart Talk events with the overriding theme being Of Gods & Men.  More specifically tonight was all about Hermes & Communication.  The foreword reads:

• If we know anything about Hermes, it's that he is the Messenger god. On that basis alone, we could easily appoint him the patron of an era where a billion Facebook users send around eight billion messages a day, and where trillions of IP packets every second flash across the global network, each like a tiny digital envelope, carrying the address of its sender and recipient, and some fraction of an image or an idea.

Geddit?  A panel of discussion with a couple of hundred or so sitting and taking in whatever it was that was to take in.  Most of the hundred or so were imbibing in wine and food.  I had earlier dropped into the St Lukes foodhall for my food tonight – about a third of the cost and a third of a delight  but prevented me from being tempted to spend large at the museum on absolutely scrumptious plates of cuisine that I would dearly have preferred.  Oh well. 

The LATE series always has an ‘Object Highlight’ at these events.  Usually some form of ‘art’.  Tonight it was a pendant lampshade.  A symbol of the impact that technology and ever increasing level of communications has on all aspects of our life.  Geddit?  I didn’t.  But it was ... interesting.  I just don't geddit.

The point of my reviewing today was the fact that I had many mini-break downs throughout the day but still managed to hold it together.  The first mini-break down was during the Toastmaster meeting, the second to last being at the meeting tonight.  Something someone said at both meetings initiated a memory of Tony.  As soon as that happens the tears well up and I feel instantly nauseated and I want to sob out loud.  But on both occasions I managed to hold it in and let it pass.  Thus, I am getting better.  On both occasions I was fortunate to be tucked away in a corner where I did not need to panic about being observed.

But I am improving.  Well, so I thought until I came home tonight and once more, as happens every night, everything in the house reminds me of Tony.  At least at home I don’t have to stifle the sobs.  But I am getting better.  They last for shorter periods.

Aside and despite all of that, reflecting on today I realise what a diverse little world I live in.  No day is the same and every day I seem to be doing something completely different than the day before and in the company of people completely different than those I was with the day before.

Found myself out at St Kentigern College at mid-day.  Watching secondary school cross country.  I had a purpose to be there, someone to watch, some people to see.  But this was the site of another mini-break down.  Last time I walked those fields I walked them with Tony.  We were officiating at the secondary school duathlon champs.  Today it was just me. Sad.

Was interesting watching the races.  There were hundreds of teenagers there.  Stood at the finish line of the races and was bemused at the hissy fits many of the girls gave when finishing their races somewhat further down the field than they had imagined.  I watched with bemusement the mothers trying to pacifying their precious daughters who had clearly never raced in such big fields with such competition before and had never learnt the lesson of winners and losers.  I watched with bemusement in the knowledge that some of those girls throwing the hissy fits will probably never race cross country again.  Such was their distraught disappointment at not coming first, or second, or third, which they no doubt always had done at their own small school championships.  But this was another story.  This was the Auckland secondary school champs where the top of all the schools were.

Funnily enough, the boys’ competitions had just as many entrants but never saw a ‘hissy fit’ with one of them.  Seems the boys keep it more internal, or maybe they could handle the fact that they were beaten by better athletes.  There were no mothers fussing around those little darlings.

An interesting session of human observance.

Left there to meet an old friend who had told me about an interesting art exhibition at the Te Tuhi Art Gallery that is very near St Kentigern which he thought I would be interested in.  He is an artist and Tony and I had been to a various art exhibits with him over the years, so I went, and it was interesting in a weird sort of way.  It was called Destroyed World.  The whole theme was on man and his destruction all due to Kapitalism.  Yes, capitalism with a K.  It was ‘different’.  And fun.  But again, the last time I was in this gallery was with Tony.  It hurt.  Fortunately the gallery was literally blacked out, we look in the dark, so no one could see my mini-anguish.  Wiped away the tears before exiting and joining our friend for a coffee and chin-wag then waved him goodbye as he walked off on the footpath Tony and I last walked on together.

On the way home from there I had to call into a friend’s home.  He had lent me a book and it was long overdue to be returned.  Thought he would be at work, but he wasn’t – home sick with the annual bot that seems to be hitting many.  He too is an artist, be it a hobby artist, so I was given a showing of his latest works.  Weird.  But I didn't say so. 

It was then time to return home, to the house of cats and memories.  Both warming and welcoming.  And Fred.  Dear Fred.  One of Tony's oldest NZ friends. He came for a massage but I somehow think he really comes to make sure I am all OK and fine.  And that massage is just his rouse to be able to keep an eye on me.  He knows I am hurting.  Dear Fred.  Always feel good when Fred is around.  Isn't it nice that someone can do that to you all the time (rhetorical question). Never found anyone who doesn't like Fred.  Such a lovely man.  If I believed in God I would ask him to bless Fred more frequently.

It was then a case of rushing in a chore or two in between Fred and my evening sojourn to St Lukes food hall pre-museum activity.  No time to stop and rest – until sitting in the food hall – when I had another mini-melt down.  I was somewhat rapidly devouring the rather instant meal when I pondered how Tony and I would have walked through that food hall hundreds of times, holding hands – yet only once sat and ate something there – and it was in the last few months of his tenure.  Another mini-break down.  Oh well  …  wiped this lot of tears away and I went off to the museum  …  and more art … for the mind and eye…. and  to find out that Hermes, who I now know is the Messenger God probably has a Facebook page and must be on Twitter.  Must finish, wanna make Hermes a friend on my Facebook page while I am still thinking about it.  

And because he is the Messenger God, I can message him to get God to bless Fred.

I can still laugh

It’s not all gloom, doom, misery and grieving with me.   It may seem that way but that is because I find writing about those times is very cathartic.  Writing makes me feel better.  I write when I have no one to talk to, when I am feeling most alone and vulnerable.  It takes the vulnerability away.   Seems to unload a burden too.  They say that a trouble shared is a trouble halved.  So putting my troubles onto anyone who bothers to read them must be off loading loads for me – and it works.

But, despite those glum times there are some really up times and some really positive times and some really heartwarming times.  And even some good old laugh out loud times.  I’ve had three of those today. 

First one was a voice message on my phone from a very long term friend of mine/ours who has been invited to come to my son’s and his partner’s baby shower.  Seems my long term friend intends to come, which is great.  But she phoned and left a message along the lines of, “I was just wanting to talk to you about  Sunday’s Baby Shower as we figured that it is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO  LOOOOOOOOOOONG AGOOOOOOOOOOO that you had anything to do with babies that you wouldn’t have a clue what to do or where to start.”

Now I cannot put the emphasis on the real emphasis she had on the words ‘sooo looong agooo’ that she left in her voice message.  What made me laugh is that she was being serious.  Cheeky  heifer.

And it made me laugh.  Laugh out loud.  Wished I could have share it with Mr J.  Hope he heard it.  He would have laughed.  And he would have agreed.

And then lovely Global Wanderer Chick sends me an email.  If I can I will post at the end of this.  This one had me guffaw in a belly guffawing way.  You figure that one out.  Not so much belly laugh because there was an element of smuttiness about it – so a belly guffaw is the best way of describing it.  I shared it with some others.  Some will find it offensive – but as a coach to triathletes – and many of them presently seeking to purchase a new bike for their next season, this picture seemed to be most timely.  You will have to scroll down to see if I was able to cut and paste it.  

Later:  Could not paste it in here.  Maybe just as well.  If you would like it, you will have to email me.

Then this afternoon I had a text from one of my ‘athletes’.  A very dear friend who has commissioned me to be her coach for a major event next summer.  Earlier today we had a nutrition session, discussing the importance of fruit and vegetables in an athlete’s daily diet.  I suggested she endeavour to consume at least 5 pieces of fruit or vegetable a day to keep her body working well and have all the right elements to fend of bots and viruses.

So this afternoon I received this text – “Does 3 mandarins equate to 3 pieces of fruit or one?”  That did make me really belly laugh.  Laugh because it was cute.  Laugh because it was a really good question.  Laugh because she had clearly taken my advice seriously, gone out and brought and eaten 3 mandarins, then didn't know how to tick them off her 5 fruit or vege a day sheet.  Laugh because I knew I would have to think about the answer very carefully.  It made me laugh.  That was so cute. 

It’s at these times that I really feel good.  Laughing has always made me feel good.  I received a wonderful card last week – a sympathy card – from a relative who had also lost a dearly treasured husband some years ago – and in it she wrote, “I know the pain you have been feeling - this grief is a long journey.  But Tony would hate to think that you never laugh again because you have a beautiful unique laugh Verna. …”

It is true.  Tony loved my laugh.  He used to tell me that all the time.  He loved to hear me laugh.  Well thanks friends – you've given me three jolly good laughs today.  I am lucky I have you.

I remember the window

Took in some self nostalgia today.  Nothing to do with the present life, or my life with Tony.  Or the past 10 or 20 or 30 years.  Nah, today was real nostalgia.

I walked down the street where I spent ten years of my life, from five years old to fifteen years old.  

Had a chore to to in the area so diverted to the street and went for a walk - so much has changed, yet so little has changed.  Walked passed the house when I spent the best years of my childhood.  No 15.  It looks almost exactly the same.  

Here I was, walking down the street of my childhood almost fifty years later, with the curiosity of any adult revisiting their childhood home, and I remembered the window.  

The bedroom window; the one that I used to jump from when I was sent to my bedroom, either as punishment for some child indiscretion or sent to because it was my bedtime.

On those light summer nights I could not sleep; or on the times when I was in the room for punishment I could not sit and sulk for being dealt such a punishing blow as being sent here.  Both were boring and there were so many more exciting things I could be doing.  So much playing to be done.

Heart in my mouth I would quietly pull down the latch to the window, push the window out as wide as it would open, climb onto the sill and then leap – hands out in front, leap and land firmly with both feet on the firm grass below.

 

From landing it was always then a fast escape from our home, running through the gap in the hedge to the house next door, knock on the door in the hope that one of the five neighbouring children could, or were allowed, to come out and play.  Usually they were.

So here I was, almost fifty years later, rewalking the street of my urchin childhood, taking the nostalgia trip, taking in the rewards of memories, reliving the past. It was fun.

That's when I remembered the window.  That bedroom window.

I walked along the footpath in front of the house, along to one side of the house front so that I could have a clear view of that bedroom window down on the side wall.  I estimated that I would have jumped from that window at least fifty times, maybe more during my childhood tenure of being a five to fifteen year old.

There it was, the window.  I was astounded, aghast and horrified.  That window had to be at least eighteen to twenty feet from the ground.  Surely not!  Surely it is.  I looked, relooked, blinked, reblinked.  Yes, it is at least eighteen feet from the ground.  Glory be.

Clearly the nutrition of that time and the milk we had to drink each day at school from those small little glass bottles had fed me enough calcium to strengthen my bones to become sheer rods of steel. 

For never on one of those leaps to happiness did I ever as much as twist an ankle or hurt a knee.

Yet only last week my neighbour’s son of nine had jumped off a jungle gym not more than a metre from the ground and broken his ankle.  And his mother is fraught with anger at the dangers of jungle gyms.  

Phuff!  They clearly don’t make children, or mothers, as strong nowadays as we lot were made back in the 1950's.

Ohhh.... that makes me sound sooooo old.  Guess I am.

It's Been A Tough Week

God it’s been a tough week. 

I've tried everything imaginable to make it anything but tough.  But no matter how hard I tried, it stayed tough. 

They told me it would be like this.  ‘They’ being the wise and experienced others who have been here before and the frustratingly hopeless counselor I have had.  They were right.  At the most unexpected times and places some memory, or thought, or sight, or smell, or noise, or person would immediately remind me and send waves of grief through me, like an electric shock, throughout the whole body but most powerfully through the heart.

It is so unpredictable which makes it unavoidable which in turn makes it momentarily unbearable.

When it happens I try so very hard to bring out all the tools and mind games to make it go away, to shelve it, or to at least soften the impact, but have yet to get them into action quickly enough.  It is a case of stopping and just letting it flow away when it is ready.  And it does.  Certainly more quickly than it did only a few weeks ago.  Therefore I tell myself that I am improving and that things are moving forward.    But it’s something I cannot speed up, no matter how hard I try.  After all, it is only twelve weeks now.  Just twelve weeks.

It has its humorous side.

And I am living proof that an entire bag of jelly beans does not cheer you up.  No matter what orange or red coloured ones you eat.  Nor does the entire box of chocolates that was devoured before the jelly bean bag was opened.

Tonight it was a bunch of lamingtons.  Wonder what will be at arms reach tomorrow night? Maybe tomorrow night it will have passed, this inability to handle grief thing.

Winning Lotto?  Yep, that could do it.  I’ll work on that. 

The good thing about all this grief is that I am finding the only way I can dodge the huge depth of pain so much is to make myself as busy as possible.

That has its down side.  Came back from Ohakune feeling that maybe the week of self-imposed depressional grief will have taken me many steps further down the bereavement track and that I could dust the mourning clothing off for a while and become immersed in life and living and be a far more positive person to be around.

So I threw myself into everything and every invitation I received.  Well, that didn't work.  One and a bit weeks down the track and I found I had made so many commitments that I wasn't able to focus on any particular one very well.  I hate doing that.  So closing up shop this next week, with the odd break for Pilates or swimming or a run.  Closed up the shop a couple of days ago actually, therefore have managed to achieve much in 36 hours and get on top of some promises I had made.  But it’s the chicken and the egg situation that ended up throwing me back into sadness again because I suddenly have had too much time to think.  What a screwed up person I have become!

Still, not to be deterred, am allocating out my time a little more wisely for the next period, focusing on the really important jobs to be done (thankfully that excludes vacuuming, lawn mowing and dumb things like that) and ensuring that everything I do is going to benefit someone else, whilst keeping me sane.

Had a lovely friend take me aside last week and tell me that I needed to “let go”.  She was quite right, I do need to let go.  I was very pleased, and touched, that she felt she needed to have the conversation with me.  ‘Letting go’ is something I confess to having had difficulty doing.  It’s because I find it too hard to confront the fact that Tony has actually died, that I no longer have the greatest love of my life around to share my days with.  The thought of that in those first two, three or four weeks after he died had me on the verge of not wanting to go on.  The pain I felt was so great, so unbearable.  It still is.  But there is that tiny bit of something inside me which tells me that now is not an appropriate time to toss it all in.  That staying in bed all day and willing myself to be with Tony in the spirit world – however or whatever that may be – is merely an easy way out of my self-responsibility.   I need to be that strong woman that so many people tell me I am.  What those same people do not realise is that I never actually have been that strong.  That’s why I loved Tony so much.  He knew that and was the one who held me when I needed it in the times of vulnerability and weakness, yet admired my ability to carry the strong image that others saw.   In our partnership Tony was the strong one, I lent on him for strength.  This is why I am having so much trouble now in finding the strength to make it through each day.

But I am conscious of the ‘letting go’.  Every time I had one of those horrid moments this past week, when grief came flooding over me I would stop and think to myself, let go.  It is helping.  But am not quite ready to fully let go.  It has to come naturally. 

Maybe another packet of jelly beans might to the trick?  Or the rest of the lamington pack?  Giant licorice all-sorts, a packet of those will definitely give me strength!