I so miss that man

Despite doing my best to move forward with my life, I cannot help but have daily moments to remind me of how much I miss that man.

I am not morbid.  I am looking to the future with optimism.  But I still cannot help but miss that enormous void my life has now.

It was at a delightful venue this evening when a wave of loss flooded over me.  

It was such a pleasant evening too, as many in the past weeks have been.  The weather has been kind to us and tonight the weather helped set the scene for the first Christmas event of the season for me.

Tony and I have been loyal supporters of the local Historical Society ever since it first inaugurated itself some years ago.  I love history, particularly New Zealand and local history, and when an associate of ours advertised in the local community asking whether there would be any local Mt Albert residents interested in forming a historical society based on the community of Mt Albert we put our hands up, sent  our monies forward and thus became two of the thirty or so first members of the Mt Albert Historical Society.

It has always been based in the historic Alberton House which is the oldest, grand home on the slopes of Mt Albert.  Each year the society has grown and each year it has had numerous events of which Tony and I would sometime attend.  When they began their first Christmas evening in Alberton House, we were there to enjoy local musicians play and sing along with the Christmas carols whilst supping wine and nibbling at Christmas mince pies.

The last time we went to one of these was four years ago, or was it three?  No matter – it was a warm and sunny evening and standing on the verandah surrounding the old homestead, looking out over the hundred year old trees was the ultimate in early summer pleasantness.  We were lucky that year as one of the local Mt Albert families, the Harrops, who are known for being a family of musical renown, played the pianos, clarinet and sang for the group of attendees.  It was delightful as Cathy Harrop is a well know local opera singer so we had an evening of local entertainment, with locally made Christmas nibbles among happy locals who cared about their Mt Albert community.

A few weeks ago I was sent notification of this year’s Christmas event and determined that I would attend and contacted a friend who I knew would thoroughly enjoy the mere two hour event.

So Fiona and I wandered along to Alberton House this evening, were greeted by some local man who is the chairman of the historical society, purchased a couple of raffle tickets, were handed glasses of non-alcoholic punch – our choice, there was ample wine – and sat back to enjoy the early entertainment of the evening.  This was a local man who neither of us knew but who we quickly picked up has been given a knighthood by a government at some time, as folk addressed him as Sir Harold, or was it Sir Harry?  Can’t remember. 

Sir Whoever then introduced us to a women who has lived in Mt Albert for some years who, along with her husband and family, are accomplished violinists.  Therefore we were to be entertained by the lady violinist who would alternate entertaining us with her classical violin between Sir Whoever singing us songs in his aging baritone voice.  He was accompanied on the piano by his cousin who is also a local resident.

So we sat back, with punch to sip and listened to violins, baritones and pianos. We even had a few jolly good chuckles, as we do, at our own expense. Fiona had deduced that she would have been the youngest in the room, and she's seen a few decades herself.  So that bemused us, along with a number of other private jokes between us. We were relaxed, taking in the atmosphere.

Could do much worse on a beautiful Friday summer early evening.  It was near perfect for both Fiona and I, for both of us were exhausted from busy days and sitting and relaxing like this made the soul feel good.  That is, until later in the proceedings when it was time for Christmas carols.

Now laugh as you will at the mere mention of Christmas carols.  But where ever you are, if Christmas carol singing is on the agenda you will find very few people who don’t actually begin to enjoy humming or singing along with the much loved and nostalgic carols.  We did.  Until it got to Silent Night.  And that’s when it happened.

It is as though a pot of boiling lard is tipped through the insides of the body.  It travels from the top of the skull, down through the body, when it hits the heart it adds a leaded weight to it and then pours down and out through the toes.  It’s called emotion.  Unexpected, hot flowing emotion. 

It was my soul, missing that man.

But it’s OK.  Remember, it’s tears of love.  I leaked a few tears of love.  And the tears have got softer.

Come a couple of carols later I roused my attention back and was blasting forth with We Wish You A Merry Christmas.

  

Hearts, knees and boomp-si-bollocking

Signed up and paid for my entry to the 2014 Rotorua Marathon this evening. Had to enter tonight while I remembered as after 30 November the entry fee increases by $20.  The entry fee is already $109.00, which was one of the reasons I have held off entering any earlier.

Had been dithering over entering ever since flogging myself around the course earlier this year in a somewhat shattered state.  Due to our home situation the past few years had seen me totally under prepared and under trained for a marathon event which has meant that instead of suffering for a mere 4 hours or less, I would have to suffer for 5 hours or more.  That is a long time of suffering; despite the fact my brain has become used to telling the body that it was born to suffer, it doesn't make the suffering any more tolerable.

Still, when reflecting over the past 4 or 5 years of doing the annual event each one of those years has been memorable for me for one reason or another. Because until this year, Tony was my support person - and up until 2012 he would be supporting me by riding his mountain bike out on the course with the plan of being around to give me moral support and any drinks or nutrition my body may be calling out for somewhere around the 25 kilometre mark.  But inevitably, each year, he would totally forget about me, his darling wife being out there waiting for his support - he would assume I had done the marathon enough times that I didn't need any help or assistance and would therefore be somewhere on the bike, anywhere but near me, chatting to old friends he's come across on the sideline or cheering on others he knows who are doing the event. 

The number of times he got a bollocking for not being where he was supposed to be was too many to count.  It never seemed to bother him - he'd do exactly the same the next year.

In 2012 though he was unable to cycle out on the course as he had recently had yet another brain operation.  But sons, Danny, Glenn and Pete drove us both down earlier in the morning in time for me to get to the start line, and they looked after Tony and drove around the course to support.  That was the first year in many that I actually had a support team who knew what they were doing and actually supported me.  And I can picture Tony there with his head scarf and smiling and being a very happy chap having almost everyone that mattered to him with him for the whole day.  We have lovely photos to remember that day by.

Then there was this year, in May; Tony had passed away 7 weeks earlier and although I drove down early in the morning, flogged myself around the course, then drove home the same day - the day proved to be just as memorable due to the fact that I had a whole team of supporters who volunteered to drive me down and support - and true to form, they too buggered off to lunch in Rotorua at the time when I was somewhere around the top end of the lake desperately seeking their welcoming faces.

So, true to form, when they did eventually turn up somewhere in the latter part of the day (about the time I was on the verge of hitting the wall due to lack of sustenance - and I will add that I had already stolen some other poor sods banana that their little wife had been standing on the side line holding for whenever hubbie came past) , they too got one hell of a bollocking for not being where they were supposed to be.  They may have had their bellies full, but I gave them all that more a belly full when I saw them.

I can still picture it - Peter with his tail between his legs wondering what the hell had just hit him.


                                     


Quite frankly, I did it for effect - I mean, they rather expect me to do something spectacular somewhere throughout the day and as it certainly wasn't going to be a spectacular running time what better than a jolly good Verna bollocking.  I had to stay true to form.  And it gave me a sense or normalcy.  Why break a great tradition?  

Then, this next year, in May 2014, Rotorua celebrates the 50th running of the Rotorua 42 kilometre marathon.  And I have pondered seriously as to how I am going to get around yet again.

Nothing to do with emotions or still grieving for Tony but all to do with medical hiccups I have been plagued with over the past years.

Knees Up

Three years ago I was up a ladder doing a chore that Tony could no longer do when I jumped off the ladder and landed very badly on the ground.  So badly that I twisted my knee underneath my body and heard a crack and felt something go terribly wrong.  I soon realised I had not broken my leg but knew I had done some major damage to my knee.  I had difficulty standing up.

Over the next couple of months my physiotherapist sent me to a surgeon who recommended operating and assured me that she would repair the damage so that I could return to my much missed Yoga & Pilates and return to jogging and cycling and doing all the things that matter to me.

Many months later it became very obvious that the surgery was ineffective and my knee was in more disrepair post-op than pre-op.  At that point she (the surgeon) sent me off for an MRI scan - from which she determined that there was more damage than she had been aware of and that sorry, it was just plain bad luck she wasn't aware of that before the operation, otherwise she could have fixed in.

And of course, the MRI report also determined that at 60 years of age there had to be some arthritis damage which would then mean ACC would not cover the cost of another operation.  As the surgeon said, "You'll just have to face the fact you won't be able to do any of those things you used to do - except biking." 

I was not a happy lady.  Had the surgeon arranged the MRI before the operation, as is usual practise, I would not be in this predicament.  What makes it worse is that there is no previous history of arthritis, I had never had any and nor is there any in any other joint in my body.  The reports see the age of the patient and inevitably presume arthritis has to be there.  It helps get ACC to worm out of covering any future costs.

So, I now have a knee that swells up terribly whenever I do any load bearing exercise.  I can no longer complete a full Yoga or Pilates class due to my knee's inability to bend without dreadful pain - and if I know I am to be using it for any length of time I must take extra strong anti-inflammatory tablets to cover the pain.

Broken Heart

And then there is the heart problem.  Which has decided to fully engage in being a pain in the.... heart.

Seems I was borne with a heart defect - every now and then it goes into fibrillation.  That is, it races, very fast.  So fast any ECG machine needle is working overtime to keep up.  This defect was discovered well over 20 years ago.  I used to almost pass out when racing in events but always presumed everyone almost passed out.  Only they didn't, so the heart experts told me when it was discovered.

I was lucky - I never passed out and I was eventually taken into hospital to undergo a procedure to fix the problem.

I skip the long and boring details but the end result is that over a period of 20 years I have undergone the procedure 5 times and each time the heart surgeons have not quite fixed the problem.  The last procedure was done 2 years ago.  They thought they got it at that time, but alas, they did not.

The effect it has on me is that when I exercise and the heart has to work a little harder to pump the oxygen around my body, it goes bonkers - it beats anywhere between 200 to 280 times a minutes - and most of the time no sports heart rate monitor can pick these beats up - indeed, if one manually takes the pulse it is only going at 30 to 40 beats a minute.

What this means is that no oxygen is being pumped anywhere into my body.  If you can imagine what it feels like to be totally depleted of oxygen, that is how I feel most days if I try running, particularly up any mild slope let alone a real hill.  Even walking up the stairs in my home from the laundry causes the heart rate to go haywire; by the time I get to the top of the stairs I am exhausted.  So I venture downstairs as little as possible, or return back upstairs by going outside the house, walking around to the side of it via only 3 steps and coming in the back door - thus eliminating the breathlessness.

Putting the broken heart and bung knee together   ...

and you get one hopelessly handicapped individual.

Getting bumped

The story gets longer - but will shorten it.  Early last year the heart surgeons at Auckland Hospital informed me they had developed a new procedure which they considered would finally fix the problem and were very keen to go ahead and perform it on me.  Sadly, at the time Tony was not a healthy chap himself and my care giving at this stage was literally 24 hrs, 7 days.  There was no way I would contemplate going into hospital for an overnight procedure and leave Tony.  

The surgeons were understanding and earlier this year within a few short weeks of Tony passing away they were in contact and began arranging for me to have the procedure.

Long and short of it is - eventually went into Auckland Hospital Cardiac Care ward on Friday 13th September.  As directed I arrived at the hospital at 7.30 in the morning and finally at 2.30 pm was wheeled into the theatre to be prepped for the procedure. 

Was all prepped for the operation, literally on the operation table, connected up to ECG machines and various other surgical machines, the anesthetist had inserted his two leads to knock me out - 6 nursing staff were in the theatre busying themselves, the 2 anesthetists, the 2 surgeons plus a junior registrar were all set to go when the surgeons were called aside by someone who had come into theatre.

They came back to me full of apologies, but said they could not go ahead with the procedure - which could take anywhere between 2 to 6 hours - because it was Friday afternoon and the "...lab staff are not prepared to work late tonight if the procedure was still under way at 5 pm" - their knock off time.

I am deadly honest with this. 

So after all forms of apologies, foot shuffling and clear anger and/or frustration by some of the staff, I literally got myself off the operating table and walked out of the theatre to the day ward.  It was most bizarre situation. It was a 'pinch me this cannot be happening' occurrence.  

But it was and it did.

There were attempts at reassuring promises that I would be called back at the earliest opportunity to have this procedure finally done.  

The earliest I got called back was 3 weeks later.  On a Friday again, but they had assured me my procedure would be done first, before anyone else.  Get in there at 7 am.  Waiting in the waiting area to be sent to the day ward when my cell phone goes.  It is the nurse who oversees these procedures, ringing me to tell me not to come in as they could not do my procedure on this day because overnight they had gained 3 priority patients who had to be put ahead of me and my mere procedure.  I was bumped off the list.  Told to go home.

So I got booked for a third date - two days before that the same nurse rings to tell me not to come in as yet again they have urgent patients who have bumped me off the list.  Then finally, only last week they rang to say I would not have my procedure now until 2014 as the cardiac surgeon has gone on holiday and will not be back doing these heart procedures until the new year.

Knee'd heart

Thus, an unnecessarily bunged knee, bunged worse due to surgical incompetence.  A bunged heart due to being born and a lot of other people bumping me off.  Not a lot going for me at the moment.

Not all is lost

I do manage to swim without heart or knee problems.  I can cycle reasonably OK if I manage my knee and the stress some cycling can put it under.  I cannot run without pain or later consequences - but I can still sorta run and worry about the joint pain and stiffness the next day.

Which saw me swimming, biking and walk/jogging a triathlon this past Sunday.  Not planned as was entered as a team.  I was to swim & bike and Young Jason was to do the run - until he became very ill with influenza.

So I fronted at the event and thought, "What the hell, he paid for the entry fee already, was going to do two thirds of it, may as well try the last third and the worst that can happen is I will pull out." 

I know my heart well enough now that I can monitor when it plays up - when it's about to flip into fibrillation I stop and walk.  When it settles, I slowly jog again.

Back to the marathon

So tonight I have entered the 2014 Rotorua Marathon.  Paid the enormous entry fee.  Figured that I've done the marathon for 33 years in a row now - why change a bad habit?  I've done it on a bad heart for each of those 33 years - it just so happens that it is playing up more in the 33rd year than it did for the first 20.  

It will settle sometime.  It usually does.  I go through periods like now when it throws tantrums all day for weeks or months.  Then eventually it settles back to being almost normal, for a while.  

But the major, major problem is - who is going to be my support team at the marathon?  - cause whoever it is they know that sometime during the marathon day they are going to get the biggest bollocking they will have ever had in their adult life?!

Oh, what the heck, let's see who the brave and bold ones are.  I shall keep the blog posted.  



                        

Was it worth it?

Someone asked me yesterday, "Well, was it worth it?  Did they notice all the good work you did?" 

Yes, it was worth it - of course it was.  All the digging, pulling and filth I put myself through, by my own choice, the other day in the garden at Whangamata.  And the feelings I put upon myself of feeling as though I had been committed to a detention centre for the mere few days I was there - that was all selfish and wasted emotion.  It was well worth it.

I left the property before they arrived back from their Australian sojourn, with some apprehension as to if they would feel annoyed, insulted and just plain angry at the work I had done.  We chose to meet half way - I was traveling up to Auckland, they were return to Whangamata from Auckland so we met at a cafe half way.  I decided not to mention any of the twit incidents, any of the trips back to the city, nor the house cleaning or garden jobs I did in a perhaps misguided way of helping.  So was enormously relieved to receive this text from them once they had arrived home:

"Wow, the place feels like the cleaning and gardening fairies have run riot!  Unbelievably nice to come home to.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  Can't tell you how much we loved knowing you were minding our family and space. Cats are slowing forgiving us. So nice to be home and to come home to it like this.  Slothed in chair now.  Ta very much dear dear friend. xxxxx"

It was worth it.  

People matter.  That's why I didn't say "no".  And probably never will.

Thought that to myself again yesterday afternoon when I was sitting at the bedside of a dear, dear old friend who has just been put into a rest home as her son felt he could no longer look after her. I reminded myself that I came to see her because she matters.  I did not want to go visit, at all.  It is always a strain visiting her, she is deaf so one has to yell to be heard; she cannot see all that well and she is semi-bed bound. These places remind me so much of the last few months of Tony's life.  I still cannot enter a hospital or the like without a few moments to take myself from public site and wipe away and blot out the tears and sadness.  When she asked last week if I would visit I wanted to say "no".  I didn't and said I would.  I went.  She looked so very sad when I walked in yesterday but her face lit up when she saw it was me and was so very grateful, I had been her only visitor in 4 days. As I left yesterday she asked if I would come again, without hesitation I said I would.  After all, it's not about me, it's about her.

The few hours out of my afternoon to visit yesterday was worth it.

People matter.  I'll no doubt never say "no".


                           
                                     

Musings from Whangamata

Yes, there is a funny side to every story.  And I seem to be laughing at myself a lot lately.

After berating myself for the last blog being a big moan about having to spend time in my friend’s house at Whangamata, I decided yesterday that I instead of moaning and sulking I should do something positive about the next couple of days.

So I did.  And this morning have emerged from the bed and can barely walk with the muscle soreness reminding me of what a stupid person I can be.

Then I laughed out loud at myself.

I am a twit.  The last week is a perfect example of twit-life.

Twit incidence 1:

For the first 5 days of my being down in this Coromandel resort town I spent almost 3 of them either driving back to Auckland or back to Whangamata.

That was another comical situation.

My friend’s asked I travel down last Tuesday to spend time with them and give me the opportunity to learn the ins and outs of my temporary, full time role. I had some problems with that so confess to telling a slight white non-truth so that I could travel down the following day, on the Wednesday.  It wasn’t really a non-truth, there was truth to it – but I really did not want to go down Tuesday.  Besides, they were not driving up to Auckland Airport until Thursday morning for their mid-day flight so figured that being there Wednesday would give me ample time to ‘learn the ropes’ of cat minding.  I do own 2 cats and have had a cat all my life, so figured it wouldn’t take too much to learn the host cat idiosyncrasies.

Problem was , from my personal perspective – I had paid an entry fee for a swim race on the Thursday night and as I would already be forfeiting another race fee for a swim I would miss out on due to being away, I decided I wanted travel back to Auckland for the Thursday evening 2 kilometre swim.  Plus, most of my coaching crew were participating and I do like to be there to watch, see and fathom how they all are doing.

So travelled down Wednesday, imbibed with them Wednesday night – was relieved to find they were leaving town to head to the airport at 7.30 the next morning – somewhat cautious to learn their flight wasn’t till early afternoon, not midday – and was shown and taught all the routines and rituals of cat sitting and garden watering.

Now, these friends are totally in love with their cats.  The cats are mere moggies and no doubt give their owners much to love them for.  Cuddles, leg rubs, purrs, dead birds and clumps of molting fur all over the house.  Their owners’ concerns about leaving their loved pussies for an 8 day period were, literally, OTT – but can’t be cynical or knock it as even I know how much one comes to love a pet and these two have little family left which makes being helicopter pussy owners all the more emotionally important to them.

But, that did mean it would probably not be a good idea to tell the travelling ones that their temporary, full-time cat sitter was actually going to be a bit of a part-timer as she intended to be hoofing it back to Auckland at her earliest possible chance.  Her concept was – cats fed – doors locked – Auckland here I come.

That was the plan.  Then maybe return that evening – or, as friends kept telling me – stay in Auckland overnight, go home in the morning, just leave a load of extra cat food out – they’ll survive a night without you.  After all, they’re just cats!

Imm… me thought, staying overnight would stretch my guilt too much; I would return after the swim!

But travelling up to Auckland was going to be a bit of a scheme working situation – as I did not want to fess up to the friends about leaving their moggies for the day I did not want them to learn I had done so by nonchalantly flying by them in my big bus somewhere along the Hauraki Plains or the Southern Motorway.  Therefore I would have to leave my departure to be as late as possible so as not to have them see me whiz past then their panicking and u-turning back to base camp, holiday and ash spreading deterred to a later date.

So I left at 1pm.  Cats would be alone for only 10 or so hours.  They could survive.

Back into Auckland with just enough time to call into home, check my own cats, check my emails and head to race start.

Among emails – a request – could I possible work (for $’s) the next day for a few hours.

Now $’s mean a great deal to me at this present time so any opportunity to earn some never is turned down for fear of not being asked again.  Of course I can, says I in my return email.  Happy to do.

Errr… that means staying in Auckland overnight, that means moggies will be home alone, for nearly 28 or 29 hours.  Or perhaps 30!  Oh dear.  Would they survive?  Had I left ample food?  What would happen if the house burnt down overnight?  What would I do?  Would moggies run away?  …..  ah… bull doze those thoughts out of the mind.  I knew there was far too much food left so it wouldn’t be a problem.

Thus, I swam, I went home, I rose next morning, I worked, I drove straight back to Whangamata.

House not burnt down. Cats not to be seen.  Food not touched.  Not one bit.

Panic. 

But as I do in such panic situations – I poured a wine and figured, “He aha!” Little I can do at this point in time.  Either cats have run away, which I will deal with tomorrow, or they are dead from starvation, which I will deal with tomorrow.

Left the moggie biscuits where they were and went to bed.  Rose in the morning, every biscuit was gone.  Either we have a Whangamata Cat Biscuit Burglar, or the cats have come in overnight and eaten the things. 

Later that day – the cats appeared – off at the far end of the garden, but they appeared.  So I knew they were alive, not run away and whether it was them who ate the biscuits overnight or not would be a mystery I did not have to concern myself about.

Twit Incident 2

Next day I decided I would go for a run around the lovely environs of this holiday resort.  Went to the vehicle to get my running shoes.  No shoes.  I had not packed them.  I had packed a full compliment of wet suit swim gear and accompaniments, a full compliment of cycle gear (plus 2 bikes), a whole set of gym gear, a full compliment of running gear – except the shoes.

Imm …  I really did want to go for an explore of this place I had to be at  .. and wanted to do all the walkways, paths and tracks I had been told about.  So I ran, or walked really, for 2 hours in an old pair of William’s never-been-worn-since-1993 running shoes I found in the garden.

I have a sore foot now – many days later.  What a twit.

Twit Incident 3

I drove back up to Auckland on Sunday so that I could do a 70+ kilometre ride with the cycle club.  Cycling on these main roads in and out of Whangamata did not inspire me – Tony and I had cycled around here a number of times some 15 to 20 years ago, but the traffic then was somewhat more docile than the traffic in and out of here nowadays.  It did not appeal.  However cycling back to Clevedon for my Sunday ride did.

Thus another tank of gas for my vehicle, which in twit terms meant that the $’s I had earned on the Friday had merely covered the cost of the diesel for my many journeys back and forth to Auckland.

There was a twit incident that followed the cycle ride – but that’s another story for the inner circle only.

Twit Incident 4

So Monday I figured I’d actually get to the local gym and do a workout.  I had noted they had Yoga classes too, but one had to prebook to be in this class.  When arriving at the gym at 6am Monday morning I enquired if there was a space for me in the 7am Yoga class and was pleased there was so booked, paid then continued into the gym for my own weights work out.  No problem there.  Most gyms have the weights and machines I require and this one was fairly well set up.  Heaved a few big ones for me, pushed a few leg presses, planked a few fronts, sides and back.  Time for a lovely gentle Yoga session.

The room, which was actually an old garage, was dark, very dark.  I knew it was not a hot Yoga session, but I didn’t figure it would be a darkness Yoga session.  And incense, the strong smell of incense.

I felt around the walls of the room for anything that resembled a Yoga mat and heard a voice arising from somewhere in the floor space in the darkness saying, “Mats are already on the floor.  Find one and quietly go into your own space.”

I would go into my own space, if I could see it!  And if there is one voice on the floor in her space, where were the others?  Would I trip over them? Filling their spaces?  I couldn’t see a thing, my eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness.  Stood for a few moments, squinting, squinting tightly and still could see little.  Daren’t move.  So slid to my hands and knees and with the drop in altitude the eyes began to finely adjust; crawled toward a corner where my crawling hands felt a Yoga mat.  Gently I ran my hands over the mat to see if there was a body already in their own space on this space.  There wasn’t. Phew.

I had my mat, now all I needed was to go into my space.  Lay myself out on my back, arms rested by side as one does in Yoga resting position, breathed a quiet breath and began to “go into my own space”.  Just then a noise, a humming noise ….   Uuummmmmmmmmmmmm ….   Eyes darted in the darkness.  Another uuuummmmmmmmmmmmmm.  Oh dear, this was going to be an Ummmmm Yoga class – oh no, I hate these classes – uummmmming is like singing to me, I just can’t find the right note.  In other uuummming classes I found the moment I tried to uuummmm my octave was so out of range of the others that the other ummies would half open a closed eye and stare.   This is such an unsettling things, lots of humans with one eye closed and the other half open, uuummming away while staring at you from their slitty, open eyes.  Thus every time I ever ended up in an uummmm class I would, as I do when singing, just mouth the uuummmm.   Actually, I have long since figured it was supposed to be a Hhhooouuummmm, rather than a mere uuummmm – but could never get the Hhhh oooo bit – so mouthed it.  Lip syncing they call it, don’t they?

At this point I was thinking how could I slide out of this room without interrupting everyone’s hhhooouuummms?, when a match was struck and a candle lit, another candle and a few more candles.  Ahhhh from me … light on the situation.  I turned and looked, there were only two others in the room.  Me, the other who had been in her own space when I had entered, and the instructor who was still hhhhoooouuuuummmming while lighting the candles.

Argh, methoughts.  There’s only one other in the class which makes my slipping out a bit awkward.

Oh well, I’m here now, may as well keep lip syncing and lie back, find my space and enjoy the relaxation, of which I know I don’t do enough of.  Big sigh, rested back, mouthed my hhoouumss and resigned myself to another funny experience.

And then it started.  The class.  It was one of those classes.  The ones with ropes, and cords, and blocks, and squares, and rings and all other forms of paraphernalia that one is sure had been purchased at the local garage sale at the local S&M outlet.

I was twisted, turned, pulled, stretched, knotted, lunged, reached, pelvic tilted, pelvic lifted, pelvic thrusted, pelvic dropped and then hhhhoooouuummmm some more. 

I breathed in deeply as the instructor instructed and lifted every rib, every lung cell until I thought I was going to pop like a balloon, held my breath until I was sure I had to explode, then gushed it all out in an instant when supposingly taking longer to let it out than in.  That’s all very well but some of us were going to die if we didn't.

At one stage I reached for my watch to press the light button to find out how much longer I had to endure this pain for.  The heart sank, it was only 7.30, I had 30 more minutes of this pain and hhhoouumming to endure.  I reached for the light on the watch ages later, it had only progressed 3 minutes.

An hour and a half later I emerged from the darkness, on all fours…  barely able to lift one arm in front of the other as I crawled to my gym bag and escape out the door.  My spine had been so twisted that I am sure I was permanently contorted to face forward while the body faced backward.  The perspiration had soaked through what little clothing I had and was leaving drip marks every time I moved one hand or knee forward. 

I crawled to the car.  The car limped with me in sympathy to our place of residence.  Came in, kicked the cats and flopped down on the couch, star fish like.  I woke 3 hours later.

Twit Incident No 5

Passed on the gym the next day.   Passed on a run too.  Foot still sore. 

Thought I’d be a good friend and tidy up the very, very, very, very overgrown and messy garden.  Well, not all of it – as there was far too much of it to do.  But one friend had wisely said, “Just tidy the bits they will first see when they arrive home.” That was a good idea, methought. 

Began reasonably early.  Pottered an hour or so.  Took a break to the local shops, for internet café and then a coffee stop.  Back home to the garden.

Rather enjoyable really.  Took a few breaks for phone calls, emails and fun messaging.  Returned to the gardening.

At 9 pm last night, I walked inside and stepped into the shower, clothes and all, including footwear.  I was covered from head to toe in dirt; and mosquito bites.

That shower was glorious.  Took around 30 minutes to scrub all the filth off my body, my clothes and my shoes and then the shower.  Then got dinner.  Fell asleep on the couch, again.  Woke this morning.  Rolled over to get up …  ouch.  Tried to stand up.  Could not get the momentum.  My body resisted.  It would not rise to standing position.  Sort of rolled myself over the couch so that I could push my body up backwards to standing position.  Ouch.  Was standing.  Went to take a step.  Ooww.  Ouch.  Everything hurts.  Everything.  Not just my sore foot.  Everything. 

And that's where my story today started. I can barely walk this morning.

Seems the gardening was worse for me than the dark Yoga.  Or maybe both compounded.  And here I sit.  Immobile.  I have to get up.  I have 15 big bags of garden waste to load into my vehicle and take to the dump today.

And then I think.  What a twit.  I did the gardening because my friends have been semi-infirm for the past few years.  

He has a bad back.  She’s had breast cancer and a breast removal.  She’s had a couple of minor strokes.  He’s had gall stones and kidney infections. And ongoing other things.  Both have had emergency ambulance rides to Thames and Hamilton hospitals.  Therefore the lovely, old, rambling garden they once had has now become not lovely, but overgrown, messy and such a major fix it job that it would take an army and several dump bins to clear. But despite that they have done well and maintained small patches here and there among the morass of wandering dew, oxalis, paspalym  and twitch grasses.  Flowers are blooming and veges surviving. 

I realise I am a twit because they will come home tomorrow and either  

a) not notice a thing,   

b) notice and be terribly upset because they liked it the way it was,  

c) notice and be upset because I have embarrassed them about their inability to maintain it, 

or, optimistically maybe even  

d) notice and be happy

What a twit.  After all, what are my chances they will opt for d)?  One in four I guess.   I’ll let you know.


                                           

I must learn to say "No"

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!

    

Spudnik

Had a phone call from a friend a couple of months ago; she asked if I would like some seed potatoes as she had purchased some for her garden and realised she had too many, would I like the excess to put in my garden and grow to have for Christmas dinner?

Of course, without hesitation I said, “Yes please, that would be nice. Thank you.”

Consequently a small plastic bag of little, dirty, sprouting potatoes arrived at my front door a day or so later on the end of the arm of my friend.  A generous gift methought and accepted that plastic bag as one usually accepts a gifted chocolate box, with delight.

Only then did I think to myself, “Verna, you don’t have a vege garden.  Where or what are you going to do with these sprouting potatoes?”

“Immm…,” I thought back to myself.  “That’s a very good point.  I don’t actually have a garden really, let alone a vegetable garden.”

After friend left I stood at my kitchen bench looking out the window down at our very small back yard and viewed the clumps of flax-type plants arrayed in a sorta garden arrangement out there and laughed at myself.  What a clutz! Not only is there no real garden, but I live on the slopes of a volcano and the entire ground is made of volcanic rocks.  Even our neighbours bring in big rock braking machines when they want to dig anything up for house or garden additions.  How can I make a garden for these sprouting spuds?! 

When that phone call came the ideology of planting new potato seeds in a garden so they could be harvested for Christmas seemed such a lovely picture.  How delightful that would be.  Or so I thought at that moment, without thought.

Oh how Tony would be rolling his eyes and shaking his head at me over that. 

Imm… as Verna Cook-Jackson is so prone to do, I put the sprouting potatoes away in a cool, dark place and decided I would ponder on this conundrum at some later date.  Verna Cook-Jackson is an ace at procrastination – especially when situations appear to be in the too difficult, too hard to sort out category.  Thus a cool, dark storage place seemed the best place to put the conundrum items until some magic moment when I would think of how to solve the problem would occur. Or not.

Thus the problem was solved, until a couple of weeks later when the gifting friends happened to ask in mid-conversation, had I planted the potatoes yet?  Well, no, I hadn’t.  So I said exactly that.  “Well,” says she, “you’d better get them into the ground very soon or else you won’t have lovely, sweet, new potatoes for your Christmas dinner.”

“Yeah, I know that,” snarkily retorted the procrastinating one, in the hope the short retort would stop her enquiring further as to my yet unknown planting plans.

A week later I was about to see this friend again so I thought she’s bound to ask the question again, damn it, so it was time to stop the self-delaying tactics about what I was going to do with her well meaning gift of sprouting spuds for Christmas and actually do something about it.

So I went out to the backyard one Saturday and began to dig out some of the flax bushes.  I had by this time decided that those clumps of flaxy stuff would go and thus leave earth space for spuds. 

Well, one does not dig out a flax bush.  I can promise you, digging does not work.  One has to axe out a flax bush.  Dynamite would have been easier.  And quicker.   I thanked Tony for being such a DIY man that he had willed me a garage full of a wide variety of axes, saws, crowbars and machetes – all carefully stored over the years just for the day when his darling wife would have to seek them out and spend hours, and hours, and hours, and days, and days, and days, and hours, and hours and days and hours in hacking, chopping, mashing, axing the damned flax out.

And then the proceeding and resultant problem – so much of the chopped and hacked out bits of flax and roots and only one small green garden bin.  An extra bin had to be ordered.

Days and days later there was one shattered, almost broken, dirty, sweaty widow standing in a patch of dirt about 3 foot by 3 foot – without a flax leaf anywhere.

So.  You think that’s it done then?  One then just plops a sprouting spud into the earth now exposed? 

Nope.

You see, as mentioned before, I live on the base of a volcanic cone.  I live on volcanic rock.  One drop of the spade into the soil to turn the soil over and ‘clunk’ metal on volcanic rock.  Clunk, clunk, clunk.  Wherever I drop the spade, clunk, clunk clunk.  Oh that’s right, that’s why we planted the flaxes there 17 years ago – cause they grow easily in volcanic rock.

Nothing for it but to dig up the rock.  Days and days and days and days and hours and hours and hours later there is a pile of volcanic rocks ranging in size from ping pong balls to giant meteorites piled high in the other 3 foot by 3 foot piece of back yard.

Thus the next problem - disposing of the great pile of rock.  What does one do with a pile of rock that cannot be nonchalantly placed in the weekly garbage collection?  Well, one gets up in the dark early in the morning and carries each rock, rock by rock, from the back yard down to the park at the end of the street and carefully places each rock on top of, or alongside the volcanic rocks already carefully placed there by the Auckland City Council landscape gardeners to enclose all those giant flax bushes they so nuturingly planted some years ago.  My volcanic rocks are barely discernible.  But the well worn pathway between my back yard and the council garden is trodden well, as are my hands, finger nails and back.

All this was finally achieved by the Sunday just gone.  To late for Christmas dinner new potatoes for the family, but in ample time for mid-to-late summer new spuds to accompany the BBQs.  So, after a tortuous 100km bike ride in the morning I arrived back home about lunchtime and thought, “Hurrah!  Today I finally get those sprouting spuds into the ‘garden’.”

After unloading the car of all the bike gear, clothing and paraphernalia one seems to have to endlessly unpack after any major training day – I picked up the garden tools, wheelbarrow and hose and reel and headed to my piece of finely dug over 3 foot by 3 foot ‘garden’.  All dumped down there ready to plant.

Now to go get the spuds.  Ah, yes, of course, I now need the spuds don’t I ? … to plant them.  OK, into the garage to get the spuds.  But… are they in the garage?  Of course they are.  But where in the garage?  “I don’t know,” I mumble to myself, “somewhere in a cool, dark place in here.” I look everywhere in the garage – in every dark, cool space – and there are scores of them in my garage.  But they are not there.  But they must be!  But they are not.

Where have they spuds gone?  !!  An hour later after searching the garage several times, methinks that maybe I didn’t put them in the garage.   “So be logical Verna, where would you have put them as you know you put them in a cool, dark place?” That’s me, thinking to myself.  Ah ha!  Under the house, maybe  …. or in the laundry, maybe.  An hour later, no sprouting spuds.

I have a well dug over 3 foot by 3 foot spud patch, but no spuds.  Cannot find them anywhere.  Had I thrown them out by mistake?  Had someone else moved them? Nicked them?  Couldn’t have, there is no one else here?  Have the cats eaten them?  Have I?  Naahhhh….

No spuds. 

Come 4 o’clock that afternoon I packed up the garden tools, the wheelbarrow, the hose and reel and came inside.  I had given up.

And then I thought.... Verna ....you don’t eat potatoes!  Since Tony died you have not brought one potato.  You eat kumara.  Not potatoes.  So what the hell was in your mind to say yes to those damned sprouting potatoes!??  

Then I got angry, like an angry potato – boiling mad.  I was a boiling hot potato!  A potato head!

This was a good time to have a chip on my shoulder!

All this and I don't even like potatoes.  And I had no potatoes!  And no flax.  And no rocks.  But a 3 foot by 3 foot patch of well dug up and over soil.

Guess I will just have to fess up to my friend about having lost her potatoes.

And I did.  The next day – when someone else within my friends hearing distance asked how my potatoes were going.  I looked at him as though he were nought but a small fry (love puns!) and fessed up that my sprouting potatoes had disappeared.  But quickly added (in the hope of diffusing any major disappointment on her part) that I did now have a nicely dug up piece of garden.

Friend took it relatively well actually.  Surprisingly well.  She even offered that come Christmas she would bring me over some of her own newly dug up new potatoes.  How sweet.  Particularly as she must have felt a teeny bit hurt by my lack of custodial parentage given to her lovingly gifted sprouting spuds.  

What a gem.

So I can let her know now ….. that the potatoes have been found!  In a cool, dark and safe place.  In my dressing table drawer.