Some Coaching Advice

Had an incident this morning that has made me sit down and type this rather than do all the backlog of promised training programmes that folk are waiting for.

Went for a run (if one could call it running) in the Domain in Central Auckland this morning.  The Domain is a favoured training ground of mine because of the nostalgia it has, plus the environs it offers.  The environs being the delicious bush tracks at the side of the Domain which are always invigorating, even to the most aged and broken down of us.

The minute I enter under the branches of the bushes and trees I feel the heaviness of my running thud lift and whatever state I am in the bush has me believe that I am once again a good contender for the Olympic Games.  Sadly that is not borne out by the struggles I am in once I exit the bush tracks and come back to reality.

It was mid-morning when I went and ran, meaning there were very few runners or walkers in the bush tracks, indeed I never saw anyone at all, initially, which had me enjoy that feeling the entire place was mine alone.

Until I turned a bend and saw on the path ahead of me a dog staring into the bush.  The dog was on a walking lead and that led into where he was looking.  As I got closer to the dog I saw that on the end of the lead there was a lady sitting on the ground among the foliage in an obvious state of dishevelment and distress.  Her face was a little ashen and there were signs of some tears.  Naturally I stopped and asked if she was all right.  Stupid question, under the circumstances.  It was clear she wasn’t.

She informed me she had tripped and in an attempt to stop herself falling had ended up stumbling headlong, into the bush.  I got there just as she had righted herself into a sitting position and was looking at her hands and legs for any obvious signs of blood or injury.

After squatting next to her while she checked herself she informed me she and her dog walk the tracks regularly and this was the first time she had ever tripped.

She had clearly given herself quite a fright as she was mildly tearful and reprimanding herself for being  silly to have tripped so easily.  She would have been in her early forties and judging by her overall persona and attire, from a well-heeled household. Not that that is relevant to any part of this story.

                          

As I helped her to her feet she winced as she felt pain in her ankle.  She resat down while we checked the ankle to see if there was anything visible, injury-wise.  It had mildly swollen on the outside but apart from that she was able to bend it backwards and forwards with only a little discomfort, but it hurt considerably more when she tried to rotate it.  We both came to the conclusion she had probably strained and sprained a few tendons and ligaments and when she stood again she was able to tentatively put a little weight on it. 

On her insistence she began to semi-hobble along the pathway back from where she had originally walked whilst trying to persuade me she was fine and would be able to get herself home.  I could not leave her, it was clear her over confidence in her ability to walk from where ever she came was not going to prove helpful to her ankle.

I noticed she was not carrying any purse, bag or cell phone so I asked if she had someone who could drive to the Domain to pick her up, or, could I drive her to her home.  After a short discussion she borrowed my phone and telephoned her husband, explained about her tumble and asked if he would come to the Domain to collect her.

Which he did.  While waiting for him we sat together on the grass at the top of the bush he arrived.  In the few minutes it took for him to arrive we discussed the fact that she goes dog walking without any mobile phone, or more importantly, any identification with her; only her dog with his registration tag.

Verna went into ‘coach’ mode and spoke to her about the importance of always having some form of identification on her body, no matter where or for how long she went. 

I then went on to tell her the story of a bike ride that I and my friend, Gillian K, had early one January Sunday morning in 2008.

We left Mt Albert around 6 a.m. in the morning heading toward the Auckland waterfront with our final destination being Clevedon via the Auckland eastern suburbs.

We were enjoying a glorious morning cycling without any cars, fellow cyclists or even pedestrians around.  It was early and most people were still in bed, enjoying their holiday break.  We wound our way around the Eastern Suburbs and Riddell Road area and were climbing up one of the very residential stretches of Riddell Road when we looked up ahead and noticed something lying on the road, at the top of the hill.  As we got closer we could see that it was a bike with its rider still clicked into his pedals in a state of unconsciousness, yet twitching a little and making some gurgling noises. 

We knew immediately that there before us was a cyclist in the midst of a heart attack and to our credit we began to get into our own mode of emergency procedure, be it amateur as it was.  By chance a car drove passed, saw what was happening and the driver stopped and ran over to us stating he was an off duty policemen and asked what had happened. 

We quickly explained we had merely come across this fellow cyclist only moments before and were calling the emergency services.  We were pleased he was there as he immediately took charge and once we had removed the bike that was intertwined with this man our off duty policeman began CPR while Gillian remained on her cell phone to the emergency ambulance department.

While he was pumping on the man’s chest and Gillian was on the phone I began to look for any identification of who this poor man was.  We removed his helmet, nothing inside that with any name or ID.  We checked over his bike, a brand new and expensive one, but there was nothing on his bike that gave us any indication of who he was.  We reached into his back cycle pockets and pulled out his up market cell phone.  Fortunately there was no lock on it so we could check his contacts on the phone as that would help identify who he was.  But there were no contacts listed in his phone. 

However there were two logged previous call numbers, but with no name.

Within a short period of time the ambulance arrived and the medics performed some further CPR for a short period, but sadly, the man had passed away.

The sadness was, no one there knew who he was, nor could find any identification.  We could see he was middle-aged, clearly had a reasonable income as his bike, clothing and mobile phone indicated this person was a professional, well heeled man and one who kept himself fit by cycling.  Yet we had no idea who he actually was, where he lived or anything to help us identify anything about him.

The policemen who had stopped informed us he was a detective (or sergeant, or man of reasonably high rank) at the Avondale Police Station who happened to be driving past with his wife to the local park to walk their dogs.  

The medics loaded the man into their ambulance and left to take him to where ever he had to go. We were left, a couple of loose and superfluous cyclists not quite comprehending all that had happened at 7.30 a.m. on this lovely, fine January morning.  

It would be fair to say there was a feeling of deep ‘gut wrenching’ emotion with us.  For numerous reasons. But mostly because we had just witnessed another fellow human going from being happily cycling and enjoying the morning as much as we were, to a lone body to be taken to the morgue with no one knowing who on earth he was.

It was a heavy and sad day for Gillian and I.   Life gives us experiences all the time, this time it was one we wished we did not have.

The policeman took our details and said he would be in touch with us as soon as they had identified the man and informed his family.

All we could do was keep cycling.  We had people waiting for us in Clevedon. We hardly spoke for the next 50 or so kilometres out to Clevedon.  We were mourning a John Doe. All we could think about was the probability that somewhere in Auckland there would be a wife, a child or a friend waiting for this man to cycle up the driveway after his morning excursion and for their lives to continue on as normal.  It was heart breaking.

So, this morning in the Domain, while the dog walking lady and I were waiting for her husband, I related this story in the hope that she would realise how easily she too may have been another statistic.  One knock of the head on a rock as she tumbled could very well have ended in the same result as our cycling man. 

At this point her husband arrived and they kindly thanked me for helping and waiting and I waved them goodbye and continued on with my own run;  with my own identification bracelet on.

It had me pondering that as a coach it is my responsibility to ensure anyone I am overseeing should also be spoken to about the importance of always having some form of identification on them.

Here we had a lady, merely walking a dog, yet she could well have been another statistic. 

Bear this in mind folks.  Whether you are yet another mad athlete, or a mere jogger, or a walker, a swimmer, a cyclist, a mountain biker, a trail runner and even a dog walker – always carry identification with you. And identification with contact details to your next-of-kin.  Ensure your own safety for your family’s sake.

After that cycling incident I found a US supplier of the perfect identity bracelet and encouraged athletes and friends to know of its value; so now I see many of my friends and associates wearing their ID bracelets when swimming, or biking, or running, or walking.  

I even had a bracelet made for Tony in his latter years, in case he became lost (which was beginning to be a frequent occurrence) and that gave him and myself assurance that should it be required his name, identity and my name and contact details were on the bracelet.

When I went overseas in 2014 I had spare plate made with my UK emergency contact details.

A simple, easy and inexpensive assurance. 

www.RoadID.com.

                                              

Get yourselves one, or two.  Give them as gifts.  

I'm Hands Solo Baldrick

Verna Cook-Jackson

Earlier in the week I was reminded of a classic Blackadder quote:  ‘Leave me alone Baldrick, if I wanted to talk to a vegetable I would have bought one at the market.’

                       

I’m presently staying at a time share resort where there are large chalets each housing five units all built above one another on a steep hillside tucked in the back of busy little Paihia.  It is busy holiday season and there are a lot of people staying here.

It is lovely.  I haven’t been to this place to stay for many years.  When my boys were small we purchased the time share option so that we had a favoured place to return to every summer without the burden of holiday home ownership, extra and constant maintenance, rates, insurances and concerns.  Time share was the perfect option and over the years it worked out to be exactly that.  Indeed, we calculated that after two years of holidays we had already received value for monies initially paid out.

But this article is not about time shares.  It’s about my coming up here this year, the first for many years, and utilising the week of ownership I have.  It is my experiment to fathom out whether to retain the time share or flick it off as a bad option for someone in my situation.

My situation being a solo person with no fixed income who needs to plan ahead for a solo future with still not fixed income; except for the future prospect of becoming …..  a pensioner…. heaven forbid.

So it is I arrived here last Friday to be met at reception by one of the management team and some boofhead who happened to be floating around their office area and thought he was making the guests feel welcome on their arrival.

I am very quick at picking up on personalities and in normal circumstances would have retorted to his silly welcoming comments with some form of put down, but this day I was in a good mood and decided to play along with his silly comments, such as, “And where is Mr Cook-Jackson today?”  To which I retorted, “Well, today I think Mr Cook-Jackson may well be catching up with family in Heaven.”

Management team lady stood there staring, trying to fathom whether she heard what she heard while Boofhead, in his weak endeavour to continue a repartee responded, with a querulous face, “Ha, ha.  No really, is Mr Cook-Jackson joining you for the week?”

Boofhead was truly a boofhead.

It was that this point I recalled the Baldrick-vegetable quote and so wanted to pull it out of my repertoire.                                     

Instead I asked who he was and what business was it of his to be asking such personal questions.  Why?  He was a salesman of course, and hanging around check in all day Fridays in the hope of catching potential clients to make sales appointments with them to sell them more products. And he was Australian.  That made sense.  Isn’t ‘boofhead’ an original Australian word?

The ending to this little part of the story is both he and the receptionist seems to be surprised that a single person would be checking into a time share resort for a week.  Clearly time shares are couple or family orientated but I would not have though it all that unusual for single people to own and utilise one a time share.  Seems I am wrong.

For the next day I came across my neighbouring time share owner in the stairwell and we began chatting.  She now owns hers via her own father’s departure to the same place that Tony now resides, lucky her as her father owned the first three weeks of every year.  She’s inherited a good long holiday every year.

We chatted and I mentioned I was here on my own, to which she instantly replied, “Oh, but you can’t spend the whole week in there on your own.”

Why not, says I.  “Oh, you must come to dinner tomorrow night, I insist you are not to stay in and have dinner on your own.  We’re eating with those up in Unit 7 and you must come and join us.”

So I did.  And it seems even those in Unit 7 were curiously interested that I would have a week’s holiday here on my own. 

I began to question:  What’s the big deal?  I’ve got no one to holiday with so why wouldn’t I go on my own?  And my solo friends holiday on their own, so what’s the big deal?

Seems that to some it is a strange phenomena. 

The next evening management of time share held a Happy Hour for owners to enjoy a drink and some nibbles, an opportunity they said, to meet fellow time share owners. 

I had hummed and hawed about attending this for the two days preceding as confess to knowing these are boring occasions with only those who seek out free drinks and free food attending, but then I reprimanded myself and determined that I need to be less judgmental and go along and enjoy meet some new people – whilst having a free drink and nibble!

I went. I was the only solo person there.  The others were all couples and families.  Be many of them very odd ones indeed. 

Lucky me, I was handed a wine by Boofhead, who by this time had clearly decided not to continue repartee with me as his guard was well and truly up with conversation curtailed to “Hope you are enjoying your stay.”   Was waiting for him to add on… “by yourself”.   He didn’t.

I spent the next hour introducing myself to some of the other owners and did not bother to mention I was staying on my own, until the very last stages when the conversation turned to the quality of the local restaurants and one of the chaps asked where I would be dining tonight, to which I replied that I would be cooking my own dinner.  To which he responded, light-heartedly, “Is your husband up in the unit cooking it for you?”

Now, I did so want to make a statement that they do not do home delivery takeaways in Heaven, but under these circumstances I did have the kind sense to know it was an innocent, time filling question in the first place so bit my sarcastic tongue and told him and those in the conversation that my husband had died some time ago and I was here in Paihia on my own.

I did not expect the universal responses from others in the group.  “You are on your own?” said one in an manner that suggested surprise.  “Yes,” said I, to which others seemed to tut-tut both in sympathy for my loss and in surprise at my independence of holidaying solo.

What is so weird about my being on solo holiday on my own?  .

Do all single people have such interrogation when travelling on their own?  Or is the fact that I am now a 37 plus something individual that instigates the surprise?

So, my days continued and yesterday I went for my second long bush walk over the Cape Brett peninsula to the beautiful and remote harbour of Whangamumu.  I set off early, driving from here to the start of the walk and began the actual walking just after 9 a.m.  Just me.  Me and nature.  Until I came across a DOC ranger who was working on clearing the grassy track for walkers like me.  We chatted briefly and he asked enquiringly if I was on my own.  “Yes,” I replied, “and know I am completely safe on this track.” He agreed and off I went.

When I did eventually get to Whangamumu Harbour there were four more DOC workers clearing tracks and after sitting for a while a conversation between the head man and myself evolved to my reasoning for walking to this place.  He had asked what bought me here, on my own, to be tramping solo.  I laughed out loud, and told him that I had never had so many people so interested in the fact that I do things on my own than in the past few days.

I have some growing empathy for my friends who are single and have been for some time, especially those who have shown signs of being worried about it.  If I have had so many examples of ‘single-ism-phobia’ in my little world in these past few days what must have some of my friends have gone through over the years? They must feel bombarded with quizzical comments, questions and remarks about being solo? 

It goes to figure why so many have managed to make bad decisions in forming relationships. There must be a sense of relief within them when they settle in with someone else, knowing they will no longer stand out as 'single' or 'solo'. Until then they must feel ostracised and particularly vulnerable to reactions such as that which I have had.

The reality is, I’ve enjoyed so many of the many adventures and experiences I have had and created over the past three years.  Admittedly I have done things I would never have done if Tony were still around and I have done most of them in my journey to recover from the loss, but…. it has actually been quite a fun journey.  Yes, it has been hard and forced at times but, it ain’t all bad when you are able to make your own decisions to make things happen.

We have all heard it said:  There are at least three types of people in this world. Those who make things happen; those who let things happen to them; and those who wonder what has happened!

I’ve been the latter two in my previous lives but now that I am grown up and full of experiences and common sense I have made the decision to be in that first group.  Those who make things happen.  It’s fun.  And it’s rewarding.

If I waited and didn’t motivate myself to get up and be doing and experiencing what a dull and sad life it would be.

I told my newly made DOC ranger friend, “My life is like a romantic comedy, except there is no romance and it’s just me laughing at my own jokes.”

I made him laugh out loud.  I’ve made yet another friend.

Who Gives A Fudge At Christmas?

I do.

Already it seems an age ago.  Christmas Day, that is.  New Year has come and we are already into 2016.  Those heady days leading up to Christmas and the day itself seem quite some time ago.

But for me Christmas 2015 will always be remembered as a personal monumental victory.

Boxing Day this year saw TradeMe flooded with thousands of new items for sale that were the result of unwanted Christmas gifts.

Those socks that mother gave to her grown up son were not deemed desirable enough by the recipient which resulted in a buy-now price of $5 for the set of six. The buy-now price would have made son $5 richer and mother none-the wiser.  And when she asks son about them a few months down the track he can tell her he had to throw them out last week because he’d loved them so much that he literally wore them out.   She will feel good and he will not feel the least bit guilty about the lie.  He will never remember what he spent the $5 he got for them on, but he will know whatever it was was better than having to wear those unwanted socks.  He’ll buy his own socks when he deems it time to buy new socks and hope like heck that mother will, for one year in her life, buy him something useful next Christmas, for Christ’s sake.

Ungrateful nerd.

I checked out Trade Me yesterday and folk are getting good bargains in purchasing unwanted Christmas presents; there was even a dog kennel up for sale that was an unwanted Christmas present.

Who buys someone a dog kennel for Christmas? 

And if they did, how come it was unwanted?  One of many great Christmas mysteries.

Not for me though, putting gifts on Trade Me and profiting from the generosity of festive giving from others.  I do have an emotional conscience and could never do that.  Well, not the day after, maybe.

Mind you, one has to receive something that can be on sold before we could even go there.  This Christmas there seemed to be a distinctive theme in the form of gifts that I personally received.  Despite being a firm 'No Presents' person there seemed an abundance of receiving on my part this Christmas.

Most with a consumable theme. A theme that makes on selling not quite a viable option and besides, one has to not like the gift they receive before contemplating opening up the Trade Me website.  I confess, that overall, I quite like the gifts I received, be they gifts that do not fit in with the life I am want to lead.  Like health, fitness and wholesomeness.

At least, I think that’s the life I think I lead.  But when looking at the loot around my Christmas tree on the Sunday post Christmas I did stand back, look hard and ponder what messages I seem to be sending to those around me.

What and why is it that giving me something highly yummy, yet health-wise inappropriate, is the way to Verna’s heart?

Considering my 'no presents’ stance it seems the message has been totally ignored.  Or is it that folk consider giving consumable gifts is not really a gift but a gesture of giving that will be highly acceptable to one who says “no” to spending on material objects.

When at home post my Christmas morning and brunch, before flying out to Wellington to spend Christmas afternoon with my sister-whanau with Big Son – I momentarily pondered on the parcels and boxes I just placed next to others that were already under the Christmas tree. And thought, “Imm, the no presents policy isn’t working, but actually, this year I’m don't mind in the least.”

Even though I had not yet opened many of the gifts it was visibly obvious there was a definite theme in the giving.  I am a sentimental person and I do not like to quickly open gifts, I like to wait until I am relaxed and have the time to thoroughly revel in whatever it is in that lovingly wrapped parcel or basket and take in all the kindness that would have gone into the giver’s thoughts and festive giving intentions.

That’s a lovely way to ponder over and appreciate a gift, the giver and the giving.

One of the gifts under the tree had been opened, earlier that morning, at our post-Christmas-morning-swim-or-run-or walk.  It was a classic gift which was personally handed over by a warm, sweet one for whom I have a very fond affection.  The affection has nothing to do with her annual challenge of stirring up the best batch of Russian Fudge the world has to offer, not at all.  It so happens she’s become rather good at it, making Russian Fudge that is, and by good chance I have been the recipient of a box of Russian Fudge these past Christmas days.  Of which I have been doubly touched as there is a definite Tony-Verna connection to my receiving the fudge. Only, this year, instead of the box resembling the size of a small lunchbox, this box was bigger than the largest  ice cream container you can purchase. I excitedly lifted the lid. Not only did the box contain her lovingly homemade Russian Fudge but helping fill the large, festive container was some genuine Kiwi straight forward chocolate fudge that sends any adult instantly into childhood nostalgia.

And nothing tastes sweeter than childhood nostalgia. 

It would seem my delight in receiving the Russian sugar treat was very apparent once the huge container was opened for a few days later I was presented with another fine two piece sample of the product by one of this year’s impish Ironman athletes who, later in the day, added a further couple of pieces delicately wrapped and as she handed it to me she had that look on the face that said “Enjoy, cause now I’ll have something on you when you next growl at me about something nutritional”  This Athlete-in-Training had already presented to me on Christmas morning a neatly wrapped box of treats, all covered in my favourite diary milk chocolate.  One million calories in one box.  Was this a challenge back to her coach?  A challenge of self-control with favoured forms of confectionery? 

It is post New Year now, so OK, I am now several grams heavier than I was on Christmas Day, perhaps even some kilograms heavier; but only due to the giving of friends whose love and thoughtfulness I greatly appreciate. I have loved every nibble, every sip.  Thank you.

It does make me wonder though, how would I feel should someone hand me a carrot and packet of dry rice crackers Christmas day?  Whilst it could be out of concern and caring for my health would I not take that as an insult to my friendship?  Immm…. Interesting thing to ponder. And certainly one I do not wish to be challenged with.  So no rice crackers and carrots next year please.

But wait, there’s more.  

Also sitting under the tree was another semi-giant receptacle and within that is a giant homemade, handmade Christmas Fruit Cake.  I would like to report that it sat there untouched for one to share with others at a post-Christmas get together; but no, within days of it appearing there was a large corner chunk massacred out with something resembling a chopping axe for want of anything that could cut through a cake so large.  Once done the large, corner slice was quickly devoured.  It was post eleven in the evening when this urge to slice the cake occurred and nowt was going to stop the sudden need to taste the product.  It was yum. Better than ever.  Better than all those other birthday and Christmas fruit cakes the maker has ever made this past decade or more.  It was yet another nostalgia trip down memory lane as the baker of such cakes initially began bringing them around to the home for my darling husband who always delighted in any cake or fuss made for or over him.  Fortunately for me, since Tony’s departure I have been the receiver of the annual Christmas Cake at Jesmond Terrace.  How lucky and glad I am to now be the receiver of the lovingly made gift.

However this same friend, when presenting me with the cake on Christmas Day, had earlier in the day handed me a small parcel that has since revealed to contain those almond nuts which are covered in rich, dark chocolate.

That box sits beside me now and there are only two of those chocolate coated nuts remaining.  Now where would the rest have gone? 

This same friend also has a reputation among our athletic lot for her adroitness at baking Christmas mince pies and shortbread. Of which I have also been the recipient of in proceeding days.  They sit in the cupboard opposite me, minus one or two. 

Her friend, and mine, added to that nutritional loot by presenting me with one particular Licorice Allsort when visiting her home for a post Christmas Christmas dinner.  On leaving her home that evening she added to the one Allsort with yet another.  Both have long since disappeared from my inventory. 

Opposite where I sit in my holiday chalet is the fridge which contains two bottles of wine, both given to me as Christmas gifts from friends or athletes (athletes are now also known as friends, as once they join the Verna team they become friends).  Arrived home from a busy day out before Christmas Day and sitting at the door was an unsigned gift basket.  There was no note or card to explain for whom the basket of goodies were intended, nor a note to say who it was from.  However the contents made it quite clear the basket was not for any of the other three who live in the premises as none of the three would imbibe in anything remotely like the goodies which the basket held.  A bottle of pinot, a bottle of sparkling feijoa wine, various up market munchies that may easily be disguised as healthy for athletes and would be most useful on a five hour bike ride when the body seeks sugar, sugar and sugar. Tucked in among the abundance of glorious treats was the big clue as to the origins of the deliverers of the basket, one well wrapped orange swim cap.  The cap, the colour and The Bros insignia let me instantly know where this glorious basket collection had come from.  The worrying factor was yet again this was a kind gift from athletes to their coach – yet the gifts for here were yet again down the theme of hedonism as opposed to health.  What is this message I am receiving?

I am not complaining.  These are all treats and treats I would never buy myself due mostly to the pockets growing deeper as life necessitates so therefore I have received gleeful treats that would otherwise not be in my home. 

Nor shall I complain about the mellow Pinot Noir I supped over my supper last night that was hand delivered to me by an Ironman-in-training-lycra-clad cyclist pre our last four hour ride on Sunday and with which was a tin of genuine Walkers shortbread.  Clearly she had picked that Pinot and shortbread was yet another weakness of mine but was somewhat amused at yet another mischievous glint in the eye as it was handed to her coach.  I thoughtfully pack both gifts into the care before travelling the roads to Paihia to help me through these tortuous days of relaxation in the glorious Bay of Islands, as the rain continues to pour.  I shall think of her each sip, each bite, warmly.

I arrived here yesterday and purposely brought with me as many foods from the house as possible in the surety that spending dollars at the local supermarket would be extravagant – thereby the more I brought from home the more thrifty I would be.  So as I carefully placed the Pinot Noir next to the bottle of Syrah I looked at the Syrah and warmly grinned.  It was personally delivered as a gift and was specifically chosen as we had enjoyed imbibing in one a few months earlier and he remembered my purring hum as I had salivated at each sip.  How kind that was that he remembered, how kind that, like all the others, he took the time and genuinely gave as an acknowledgement of friendship.

It reminded me how rich I am with friends.

So into the cupboard the wine were placed, alongside the heart shaped luxury chocolates given to me by one Lisa-Anna-Georgina, alongside the scorched almonds, alongside the blocks of English Rhubarb & Orange & Geranium chocolates favourite bro-&-sister-in-law sent from the UK.  

I stood back and pondered on one of the seven deadly sins, the one of gluttony.  For the cupboard was the epitome of gluttony. 

However one of the other sins is to love thy neighbour and whilst none of the goods in the cupboard came from the neighbour, I’m sure Mose’s was referring to all those who live around us when he carved in the word ‘neighbour’ into his slab of rock.  And I love all those who filled my cupboard with their warmth of giving.

I returned to continue unpacking the car with the necessary groceries of life for this next week.  

Into the fridge with the Pinot Gris a Once Were Runner deemed I should enjoy over the break, alongside the aforementioned sparking Feijoa wine (in the hope favourite step-son-&-daughter-in-law could share with me, but alas the rain is hindering their northward progress) and the final layer of Russian & Chocolate Fudge (for I have relented and shared much of this treat) and decided that being a glutton on well considered gifts isn’t such a bad thing.

In to the bedroom when the carefully chosen and given body lotions and butters that loved ones purchased and the book which travelled the world for me to read. 

Throughout my unpacking I was thoughtful and retrospective over the power of giving. 

The joy the givers had when they knew I could never resist accepting their well chosen treats.

The fortune I have in the quality, quantity and affection of so many people around me.

The previous seven Christmas’s have not been ones to reflect on with such good sentiment.  Christmas in 2007 was the Christmas Tony was diagnosed with his brain tumour. I cannot reflect back to this time without an enormous well of incredible emotional turmoil arising from deep within. With his life expectancy being only twelve weeks it meant that Christmas that year was horrendous.  And each week following just as horrendous. 

Yet fifty-one weeks passed and Christmas arrived again and we had our Tony with us, in apparent full health, yet there was no doubt that within me Christmas was still tinged with huge sadness in the belief this could really be the last Christmas I share with him. 

Yet one year later we were blessed to have him with us to celebrate another year of life that no one, especially his neuro experts and surgeons would have expected him to see.  It was wonderful to have him still with us and still fit, healthy and hearty at Christmas 2009.  He had had many further brain surgery operations and undergone horrendous treatment during those years yet Christmas 2010 arrived and again we were blessed. 

Christmas 2011 was yet another unique celebration as despite even more major surgery and minor strokes he was as jolly, and healthy, and fitter than any other his age.   He was still doing Ironman events.  There were some noted changes but Tony was still enjoying life fully and still able to continue with the activities he so loved.  The long Ironman training days, our long bike rides, and swims and runs; enjoying our life, our holidays, our families – everything that living is became more and more personified and meaningful with each passing Christmas. 

Until 2012. The year from hell.  Christmas 2012.  We knew it was to be his very last Christmas. Yet he had dumbfounded all those who had given him no chance five Christmas’s earlier.  And he delighted in having special family around him at this celebration.  Family from around the world.  Despite all that he was going through I knew he was loving this particular Christmas, he had those he most loved all around.

March 2013 was the saddest year of the lives of many of those who were in Tony’s life.  Tony passed away. 

That next Christmas, the Christmas of 2013 was hell.  But for the large circle of sincere family and friends I could very possibly have not made that Christmas.  The months post Tony’s departure were unbearable.  I tried so very hard to face life without my special man but could see little joy in the future without him.  Anyone who knew us understood the unique bond we had and knew the void I faced without the whole purpose of my life with me.  If not for mine and Tony’s family, if not for the genuine, caring and watchful friends, and little Anthony, the options of the future seemed to matter little to me.  Underneath the surety, the jesting, the frivolity, the apparent strength was a deep, dense pit of grief and darkness that I did not want to step out of and contemplated going even further into.

I remember that Christmas without him very clearly.  I remember having to draw so very strongly in seemingly looking forward to festivities, family and regular rituals but loathing, hating every moment; hating to have to pretend to be bright, positive and festive.  Hating all the effort it took to make them feel I was handling life and my void without Tony.  Hating to pretend to be strong and hating to talk about any future, hating to assure them that I was fine.  Hating life.  All I was wishing and wanting was to be with my special man.  It was not the greatest of Christmas’s. 

Last Christmas, Christmas 2014 was certainly quite lighter.  I had spent some months during the year in the UK with family-in-law, family and friends and returned to New Zealand feeling I had climbed the hurdle of buried depression.  It was the people that did it.  Not myself.  The people there and the people here.  Being away had me realise all the more that other people are important in my life. Whether they want to be or not.

So Christmas 2014 was still tinged with great sadness without my Mr J, but there seemed to be an acceptance of the pain rather than fighting it.

This Christmas.  Was altogether the best Christmas since 2007.  It’s been a long time, but this Christmas I began to feel the joy once again.  No longer did I weep at the hymns of traditional Christmas.  No longer did I dread the energy it would take to enjoy it, for this time there was no need to dig for energy as the pleasures of the lead up to Christmas came naturally, without any pre-thought or prediction, it happened naturally.  Each time I heard a Christmas carol I felt the almost childlike joy of anticipation of the arrival of Christmas. 

The days before Christmas Day and Christmas Day itself was fun.  Everyone, everywhere seemed to be happy. Even with all the manic busyness of folk in those proceeding days there was an atmosphere of happiness.  Good people were doing good things and had good thoughts and good times.  I was lucky, there was happiness all around.  Especially on the 25^th for on that one day everyone was happy.  As was I.  

For the first time in years I was happy to honestly feel the Christmas spirit. 

Of course the added benefit was the joy of having lovely people around, some who proffered the chocolates, the fudges, the wines, but all of those who gifted time, laughter, happiness and a meaningfulness to just being.

Yes, I had to ride the ticking hands of time to get here.  And no, it could not have been done without others who mattered and those who cared.  

Gee.... Thanks  .... all of you .... whoever and where ever you are.... thank you.