Everything
has a humorous side, I guess. I certainly
can see the humour in my present situation that I seem to have got myself into.
For the past 6 days have supposedly been
domicile in the Coromandel holiday town of Whangamata. A town that is most people’s idea of a
perfect place to be at any time of year.
Most, but not me. I have this
feeling of desolation, isolation and disconnectedness from my real world. Thus I sit here in my semi-bemused yet
incarcerated state and ponder on my own failings; one of which is the inability
to say ‘no’.
Am getting
many texts and messages from folk telling me to have a great break, or to enjoy
my holiday, or hoping that I am finding the time away relaxing. Relaxing is the last thing I feel, or have
felt, since I first left the environs of Auckland last week.
This
situation began some 7 or so months ago.
I blame Shelley. Friend
Shelley. For it was she who accompanied
me on a post-Tony-funeral couple of days away to our friends who live in
Whangamata. Being a teacher she was on her
April school holiday break and no doubt she felt, quite rightly so, that she would
be doing a good social service by accompanying me to Whangamata for a couple of
nights staying with some mutual, old friends of hers, mine and Tony’s.
I was in post-funeral
stage, which was probably why she felt she could be of most value to her
grieving friend and in a sense I would guess that in itself gave her some sense
of helpfulness – in the care giving of a friend in need of hugs, love and soul
sharing. She’s good at that, better than
most and no doubt took on the responsibility of her role most seriously. So when these old friends of ours in
Whangamata insisted I come and visit and
stay with them as their own gesture to help me through this grief period I
recognised it as their reaching out to help, as did Shelley.
The reality is, I did not want to leave my
home where everything that mattered to me was around me, contained in my own little
home; my place of solace and comfort,
surrounded by the things that had been Tony’s and my life for nearly 20
years. But I did understand and
acknowledge that our Whangamata friends were reaching out to help and help is
something I am often, frequently, blamed for not taking when I should,
so on this occasion, with the willing support of Shelley, I accepted the offer
of two nights’ accommodation at their Coromandel home to enjoy their
hospitality.
For the
purpose of this story one should know that our friends are renowned for their hospitality
as it extends greatly to fine, and copious amounts, of good wine and heavily
sauce and calorie laden, delicious creations called meals. Tony and I had been fortunate enough to have
shared in their hospitality on more than one occasion over the years and when
reflecting on the times we visited the instant photographic memory pictures are
those of delightfully chilled white wines, followed by the clinking of over
flowing champagne flutes, followed by bowls mellowed red, burgundy wines; all
shared over rich, filling meals digested with many a laugh and retold pre-lived
stories. I can hear the clinking of Tony’s
glass now and his chuckles as he sat at their dining table and waffled on with
flowing verbosity about life, experiences and loves.
So I guess
these friends considered that imbibing in wine and beautifully rich foods would
seem the perfect way to help Verna pass those early nights of post-Tony grief
and having Shelley accompany me down to their home was their added bonus of
seeing two friends at once.
And sure
enough, around the midday hour one April day Shelley and I arrived at their
abode and within moments of our arrival a crystal glass of beautifully chilled
white wine was placed benevolently into our ever so resisting hands. It was a warm, sunny April day and we sat in
their very overflowing and over growing back garden, under the shade of the
kauri tree with the happy little twerpings of the local birds in the warm April
breeze creating the perfect background natural ambience to share mutual
friendship and caring.
The first wine
glass was barely empty when a sparkling champagne flute followed, a flute that
magically never emptied, no matter how frequently Shelley and I sipped its
contents. The sun was warm as was the
company and after another few hours of sitting outdoors sipping bubbles we had all mellowed and moved indoors in
preparation for the early evening meal being carefully prepared by the male
partner of our friends. And of course
with the meal another bottle of wine was opened, this time a smooth, red
burgundy to match the evening casserole and heavily syrupy tiramisu. Yes, our friends had indeed done a good deed
and Shelley, as my minder, was fulfilling her role admirably.
Funnily
enough I don’t actually clearly recall much of the rest of the evening; despite
the fact that I am sure both Shelley and I had declined further sippings of the
wine on offer. I do know I was not what
would be termed as intoxicated, but no doubt over the period of hours the wine
had taken the sharpness of mind away, the sharpness of any bodily moving part actually,
but I know I did sleep better that night than I had for a very long time. And I recall waking in the morning with a
totally clear head and no ill side affects thereby not having to analyse
anything from the afternoon or evening before.
That is
until three weeks ago when I received the phone call. The phone call telling me what a wonderful
person I was to be travelling down to their home to look after their two much
loved and adored cats for them while they travelled to Australia to finally
spread the ashes of one of their mothers into the Australian east coast ocean
as was her final request before she passed away.
For the
first few minutes of that phone call I had absolutely no idea what they were
talking about and had to try to piece together the one-sided conversation they
were having with me to finally come to the conclusion that I was seemingly,
expected to travel to Whangamata for a period of up to two weeks while they
toddled off to Australia for their ash spreading ceremony.
And I was to do this in mid November. This month.
It seems
that seven months earlier, according to their phone conversation, there had
been an agreement made that I would fulfill the role of cat-sitter for them
while they went ash-spreading.
The
majority of the phone call was taken up with their intenseness of gratitude
that it was due only to my role in looking after their cats that was enabling
them to finally plan to distribute mother along the golden shores of the Australian
Gold Coast. Their tickets were booked,
they were flying out on a certain date, would be away for 8 days and strongly
suggested I travel down to Whangamata a couple of days prior to their
departure, thus enabling me to learn the ropes of the routines and habits of
‘Rattie’ and ‘Molly’ and return to Auckland two or three days after their return,
which would leave us all a good couple of days of post-travel catch up.
I hung up
the phone not quite sure what, or how, this had happened. I was speechless.
Instinctively
I reached for my diary. Apart from my computer my little diary is the most
important item I possess for it has everything in it that I do, need to do, or
are expected to do. It is my mobile
To-Do i-diary. November.
November is the beginning of the busiest time of any year for me. There is such a lot of commitments to do in
November, personal and coaching wise.
There are events, health matters, hospital visits, family matters,
invitations, work, coaching and financial commitments. I had a friend in Australia suggesting I go
visit her. Another friend was travelling
to the South Island and seriously suggested I join her for part of her two week
camper van holiday. Both of which I
would dearly love to do.
And not
only all that – but I have two cats of my own! I would have to get someone
to cat sit for while I go cat sitting.
Oh
dear. This was the worst ever time to be
taking a theoretical sojourn to the beach resort of Whangamata. How did this happen? How?
By
coincidence Shelley was visiting my house later that day and I asked her,
“Shelley, do you remember anything about my offering to look after our friends
cats while they fly to Australia to spread their mother’s ashes?”
Instantly I
could see by Shelley’s quizzical look that she had no idea what I was talking
about. Then slowly, very slowly there
was that look of memory recall on her face.
“Yes,” she nodded, “Somewhere during that very winey evening there was some
mention of spreading mother’s ashes and someone going to look after the cats. But …
that was back in April … and I
would have thought that would have happened months ago.”
And then,
as one does when one realises they have avoided any sense of responsible commitment
themselves, a rather sardonic grin began to be created on Shelley’s face, “And
you agreed to cat sit for them!”
And that is
where I hold Shelley at fault for the predicament I am now in.
As a
caring, sensitive friend, who had taken the sole responsibility of being my
companion for those couple of April days, her loyalty and care-giving role
meant she had the responsibility, totally, on the protection on the
grief-sticken one. It was her role to
defend the grievee of any bad decision making that may be made in a time of
emotional instability. To deflect any
difficulties that may be tossed in the grievee’s way – to beat them off before
they became an issue, a problem. To at
all times be the protective soul for which she had happily put her hand up
for.
So, I blame
Shelley.
Tongue out
of cheek – I blame myself – for my own inability to say, “No.”
I have had
to cancel appointments, cancel any possible trip to Melbourne, to the South Island. Have cancelled two dinner invitations, miss
two friends important birthday celebrations, withdrawn from a swim event I had
entered and paid for, will probably return home and find my newly laid
vegetable garden parched and dead from lack of watering; and most of all,
organised a cat sitter for my own two cats.
So here I
sit, in this little retreat in Whangamata.
Cat sitting Rattie and Molly. Two
moggies who hate me. Who won’t come near
me. Who hiss and run when I try to
approach and make friends with them. Who
will only come and eat their food once I have left the property or gone to bed
at night.
But their
parents are texting from the Gold Coast thankful that they have had the
opportunity to go and fulfill Mother’s wishes, solely due to my looking after
their precious fluffies. Mother is
spread, dispersed, scattered.
Her ashes
will probably eventually wash up back here, in the waves on the Whangamata
beach.
Oh, NO!
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