Strange Times: A Personal Reflection

These are surely strange revulsive times.

If there ever were before, there are no safe assumptions to make now. Because the assumed solid ground of shared meaning has become a squelching phenomenological quicksand.

The change manifests in scenes otherwise fundamental to family life: I cannot sit easily in a room with some erstwhile loved ones – without knowing that there has been a shift that dislocates. For either there is contrived avoidance of any mention of the European Union or of the refugee crisis or of the tanking of the pound or of a certain court case, or there is fighting and screaming and a visceral incomprehension and hating.

They are patently, obviously, and with self-proclaimed certainty, the same as they have ever been. It’s just that their xenophobia and racism and fear of the other and innate wall-building nationalism have been given a visibility, a vehicle and a mainstream voice.  And I am really seeing them now.

We have not had this conversation before. I say to myself that’s because the need had never arisen.

But I know – and I am willing myself to be honest here, though it doesn’t reflect well on me – that it’s because I didn’t want to examine the racism of family or friends. Or the reactionary and parochial insularity. I didn’t want to be repelled by my own kin. These kind folk. People who would sacrifice their lives for their family. But who are filled with an ugly unthinking suspicion; who blithely buy into the Brexit myths and are filled with a race-fear big as a murderous and bloody stain. Where is the congruence there? Can I love the man yet hate the sin?

So, yes, I feel as though I am living in a revulsive time.

A time, apparently, for the smashing of shibboleths.

A tearing of the veil. And with it, the revelation that the veil was made by the Emperor’s new weavers anyway.

I thought I’d understood the rules. I’ve worked hard to comprehend this worldview I’ve inhabited for so long. But it turns out I’ve been viewing the world through a kaleidoscope – and it has just been twisted.

I suppose, if you consider the past 30 years, there’s a certain inevitability about where we are now as a country.

It is closely aligned to the curse of being an island nation (and however disunited we may be, we share this much: that we inhabit an island) that our default outlook is that of the most superior of islander nations. It’s the island mentality that jet-propelled the overwhelming sense of superior nationhood that created the Empire. We islanders feel no real sense of connection to mainlanders and therefore no real sense of obligation to get along. But we do feel different – different better. We are not team-players. Though we will always be happy to lead. 

So we see WWs I and II as our victories. Victories against those folk over there. We’ve been fed a jingoistic tabloid diet of comprehensive British superiority. Superiority to cheese-eating surrender monkeys and the fascist hun and to petty regulations and rules made by unelected civil servants. Our writers (though only those solely English writers) are vastly superior to the legions of those who (otherwise lauded) write in languages that are not English. Our constitution (entirely unwritten and a shambolic mess) is held up as a global beacon of democratic light. Our Monarchy is preferred to those dodgy foreign alternatives of Republic and Presidency. Our utterly risible voting system praised for its delivery of ‘strong government’. Our power and might – as evidenced by our superior military is paraded abroad on foreign soil and in arms sales. And witness our extraordinary (all the more so because it is innate) sense of decency that means we don’t need a Bill of Rights – in fact, any human rights at all. We still refer to Nelson and Trafalgar, for fuck sake!

The devolution-design that was delivered following pressure from member nations prepared the ground for increasing tension within ‘the Kingdom’. There was the short-sighted arrogance that rejected a Federal structure and preferred devolved ‘administrations’ (dismissed derogatively as Toon Cooncils) – with Westminister perceived by the English as their Parliament but with UK-wide bolt-ons. This ensured there would be grumblings when Northern Irish or Welsh or Scottish MPs voted on matters that were (at least in direct effect if not in financial impact) English matters. And when the centre doled out the cash.

Cameron and Osborne’s ideological pursuit of economic austerity – designed to undermine the welfare state and to prepare the ground for privatisation of those public services so far held to be sacrosanct (NHS) – heightened social tensions and increased the sense of (largely white and predominantly working class) indigenous grievance. This grievance was fanned by the anti-EU authoritarian right-wingers from UKIP (UK Independence Party) – who followed the usual authoritarian right wing model of ‘blame it on the immigrant’ whilst at the same time capitalising on the power vacuum created by the meltdown of the centre (Liberal Democrats) and left (Labour).

As UKIP began to pose an increasingly credible (but primarily very English) electoral threat – directly threatening the Conservatives in their Southern English heartlands – the formerly maverick and formerly sidelined fringe nutters amongst the Tories seized their opportunity and began to foment trouble.

Anomalous and incongruent (in the context of ‘strong government’ and first past the post UK) Coalition government had stretched the thin skin of British democracy to its limits. Believing they could not hold their party together or win a General Election without pacifying their rabid right wing, Cameron et al decided they would put party over country by pledging to hold a Referendum on EU membership.

Cue the massed reactionary forces of the far right British press. Cue the populist calls to ‘take your country back’. The mawkish ‘queen and country’ sentimentality. The backward-looking invocation of Empire and Greatness.

And then cue the attacks. Attacks on immigrants and those perceived to be immigrants. Attacks on folk heard speaking another language. Attacks that resulted in deaths. Cue the islamophobia and the linking of EU-exit to an increased ability to protect ourselves against islamist terrorists – terrorists who were seen on every street. Cue the denigration of anyone daring to question or challenge the received right wing orthodoxy that the EU was the evil empire or that foreigners were the problem. Denouncements range from cries of ‘Traitor’ to ‘Enemies of the People’ and are then followed up by threats of violence and then of real death (think Jo Cox MP; think Arkadiusz Jóźwik).

Yesterday we reached a fresh new nadir with the death threats against those who had dared to take their cause to Court and against those judges who had found in the plaintiffs’ favour. And yet the heinous attacks on the legitimate judgement of our independent Judiciary have found tacit support in both formal governmental silence – and off the record succour and support.

There is nothing good will come of where we are. Some principled folk still exist – but begin to deselect themselves and soon their voices will be lost. I may not agree with the position he took during the EU Referendum but Steven Phillips – a Brexiter by virtue of his belief that the EU undermined ‘Parliamentary sovereignty’ – resigned yesterday because he no longer wanted to be associated with what ‘Tory’ was rapidly coming to signify. The rest are just too power hungry and status driven to rock that boat – and they will keep their mouths shut while their formerly extremist (and in the cases of some, formerly discredited and allegedly corrupt) sidelined colleagues become the new mainstream political norm.

Labour, having disintegrated as a credible and effective political force in the aftermath of internal disruption and external media propaganda and the LibDems having borne the blame for perceived Coalition failures both remain completely neutered as a political force. If they don’t completely split, it’ll be a decade at least before Labour become electable again – and the LibDems are an irrelevance.

No comfort can be derived from the current Labour Party and their embrace of Brexit. I suspect their MPs will ultimately (regardless of latest flip-flopping from Corbyn regarding voting down Art 50) be whipped into voting with the government – for fear of pissing off even further the folk they previously took for granted as their core vote. Anyone who was working class could have told them that there was a rich and fertile seam of xenophobia that could be mined amongst their own class – but there’s so many layers of failure on Labour’s side, not least that they have made too many assumptions and latterly wouldn’t know a working class voter supposing they’d to identify themselves.

And then there’s the global patterns to be discerned.

Hungary; Turkey; Poland; the US… dominoes falling to the hard authoritarian right.

Erdogan is a dictator. Brutally suppressing dissent. Then we have Victor ‘migrants are poison’ Orban fomenting EU divisions with his far right anti-abortionist hardline conservative Polish pal Kaczynski and the Czech Republic’s Sobotka (egged on by the hassle his former ‘socialist’ (aye right) President pal Zeman has caused him domestically.

And then we have Trump – the ‘weaselheaded fucknugget’; ‘witless fucking cocksplatt’; ‘touped fucktrumpet’; ‘tiny-fingered, cheeto-faced, ferret-wearing shitgibbon’; ‘bloviating fleshbag’ …(ah jeez we Scots have a glorious way with words).

Trump.

What to say.

Maybe only this: that he is reprehensible but that the people managing his campaign and providing support and endorsing this monster – they are even worse. And that I think the man will win.

I am frightened.

I am afraid that no good can come of any of this. That whilst power for power’s sake is the sole motivation for the sickening lot of politicians who strut the national and global stage then the shift will be ever more to the political right. And that whilst our media here in the UK is a conduit for hardline English nationalism and for racism and xenophobia and hate speech, then we are being propelled fast towards the breakdown in democracy itself.

So whilst May and her current bloviating Brexiter Ministers and her tabloid paymasters fan the flames of xenophobia and hate they create a monster that is likely to overwhelm and destroy even them.

We cannot turn the other cheek. We cannot simply hide behind our own front doors. To do nothing is a choice. It is not a good choice. To do nothing is to collude – it is to be guilty ‘art and part’.

And part of that fight back must be the naming of the enemy – identification and then analysis of what must be repelled.

Part of that fightback is the calm challenge of the dearest of family and friends – the refusal to accept ugly, lazy thinking and repetition of tabloid propaganda – the facing up of the ‘enemy’ in the eyes of the people you love.

Reaching a Perfect Equilibrium…

(a post in which I demonstrate it is perfectly possible to talk yourself out of being a miserable cow)

It’s tattie howking time. Time when most of Scotland’s weans worked the fields, getting the tattie harvest in.

Now just the school October week (or fortnight if you’re further ‘up North’).

Raging PMT time for me. Not good.

We are all (R and the two school age-ers) ‘at home’. Mostly irritating and hating on one another. Rattling about, getting in one another’s way. R and I duplicating tasks – aka ‘unpicking the other’s work’. Small differences magnified by boredom. He folds the towels ‘untidily’. I am caught re-folding. He pointedly empties the (well) out of date food from the fridge. I pointedly ignore the implied: look at the waste! again! We argue about where we might go for a couple of overnights. And end with ‘we can go day trips’ – knowing that it’s highly likely, given this weekend’s form, that we’ll reach the week’s end having done nothing except squabble and sigh and just feel weighed down by inertia.

I fucking hate the way in which, over the years, we’ve acquiesced to this pattern of being-together-ness.

But then, I fucking hate the way that if I don’t make plans and book everything then nothing would ever actually happen.

And then, of course, I fucking hate the way I am just expected to absorb the sighs of this is the place you booked? Oh. Right… And the way that if someone else did organise things I’d feel crotchety and nit-picky and do the rolling eyes thing… (I’ve done it. I know. And I am a miserable cow for doing it. I know.)

I am conditioned in this precise way: I am a bit of a control freak but one who is destined never to enjoy the fruits of her control-freakery because I too often waste time trying to second guess and mind read – ultimately filling silences with my imaginings: he/she/they hate/s what I’ve organised. he/she/they are pissed off. he/she /they…  Getting knotted up. Latterly just swallowing down rage, anger, any emotion in fact – because I am also conditioned not to do confrontation on behalf of myself. On behalf of others? Oh yes. I can make money out of doing that. Nae bother there.

Mind you…

Sometimes, just sometimes – and I admit this because to omit it would be to allow the PMT-ness of this week to turn me into a big bit of a miserabilist fibber – sometimes, I also manage to reach a perfect state of equilibrium…

Like when I watch the kitten go mad at the 5th floor window, trying to reach the bats.

Or walk to Cora Linn. In fact, just walk. Anywhere in this Valley.

And – despite the squabbling and shit – when I’m with the people I love…

So.

Because it has made me smile thinking of them and because I was suddenly happy thinking of the walks we’ve done this last month or so and because the cats are chasing one another like mad things and making me laugh (right this minute, out loud) here are a few of my favourite photos…

 

Clockwise from top left:

1) Me, Megan and a photobombing Ana in Hannover (July 2016)

2) The smiling felled tree trunk on the Clyde Walkway (Sept 2016)

3) Cora Linn – taken from the high viewing platform on the Clyde Walkway (Sept 2016)

4) Evan and Ana – my walking companions, same day as 3)

5) Megan – from Clyde Walkway looking onto New Lanark (our house is on the Row on the far top left)

6) Milo the kitten

7) Robert, Megan and Ana in Braunschweig July 2016

8) The path into our village – Mum and Dad stay under the bell tower (building on the left of the photo) (Sept 2016)

9) The giant Evan with Mum – walking back from Lanark Loch – Tinto Hill in the back ground. Sept 2016

10) Megan and Ana – New Lanark (August 2016)

 

 

 

 

The last 1st year award ceremony – at least for the foreseeable future.

I am falling to bits.

My left ear drum is perforated. And by the feel of it my right one is no far behind.

My ankle’s also playing up. Surprising me every unpredictable now-and-again by just buckling – like it was remotely controlled by malevolent clowns.

The cobbles directly outside the front door did for it back in January. (Well, a combo of the cobbles and the Cos platform/flatforms that I love but which have been a ‘challenge’ to wear..). And now the min 10000 steps per day fund-raiser have sealed the deal. I am hobbling.

Add to that this overwhelming peri-menopausal fatigue that just wipes me out – but which refuses to allow me to actually sleep – and I am one sad sorry mess.

I’m off work today – ostensibly to attend Ana’s school prize-giving – but I think I’d have been off anyway.

Prize-givings don’t much help fatigue. Droning Headteacher presenters spouting cliched worthy-tudes; score upon score of wee ‘good’ wains trotting up to shake-handedly receive their award or certificate or trophy – all re-establishing that deadly somnambulant rhythm of school. Or what I associate with school.

The only thing that kept me awake was the ever so slightly out of tune and out of synch school band – and the ‘Young Singer of the Year’ (ditto).

It’s aye the same. I remember from my time and from all the older kids. Though I’ve managed to avoid attending the vast majority of school shows and award ceremonies and end of terms brouhahas.

I wonder if I should have made more effort. I wonder. But not for long.

I think Jamie best captured all my hypocrisy and the mess of internal contradictions and mental contortions when   – on discovering that he’d won some subject prizes for 4th year (he’s 16 – there are formal qualifications involved) and not actually told us until it was all over – he exclaimed ‘It’s all shit anyway. Why’d ye need a prize for jist doing yer work?’

He then had a right go at me for signing up to actually graduate in person. How much’s that gonnae cost? A right waste ae money that’ll be. Whit dye need a ‘gown’ fur? Do ye no believe them that ye’ve passed? Yer jist an elitist, you. Ye ur.

I wittered about ‘celebration’ and about how the meal I’d organised for everyone was to say thanks to them for putting up with my deadline panics and crabbitness… He just looked at me – like I was daft. A look that said: don’t act it, you actually believe in all this academic pat-on-the-back stuff and you like swanning aboot in a ridiculous gownie cos it makes you feel better than everyone else – just tell the truth Mother.

He scares me, that one.

His so-often jaundiced-sounding vision is really a lithic scalpel cutting through all our bullshit.

He is way brighter than any of us in this house. And that doesn’t much happen to me – that I find someone way brighter than me – someone who can (and has) beaten me in an argument, with his first bloody sentence – someone whose verbal dexterity and mental acuity can thoroughly and absolutely blast me out the park. Ana and Evan frequently end their arguments with him with either violence or the loudest screamingest I hate him!!! Mind you, sometimes so do I…

Anyway, back to Ana.

She wasn’t for telling us about the ceremony either. She doesn’t much like learning. And she absolutely despises reading (oh deepest painful sorrow of mine). She’d rather be making. But – despite her efforts – she’s reasonably academically smart. And, disaster of disasters – for someone who doesn’t want to be known as ‘brainy’ – she is also competitive. So, the discovery that Jamie only got 98% in Maths whilst she got 100% was likely the highlight of her year.

So why did I go when I’ve got this cob on about award ceremonies and the sausage factory madness of our educational over-emphasis upon the academic?

I decided to go because… well, because she is a wee star. Because I am really proud of her – not for the Maths thing or the Merit award – those are incidental to it all, to how I feel about her. She is uncomplaining happy good company on the rainiest of days. She is the child who has unflinchingly accompanied me on every 10km walk. Geeing me up when I am a bit slumped. The child who asks for little or nothing. But the one who absolutely shines when your gaze is upon her – when you are showing her just how much you love and are proud of her.

I don’t give a shit about certificates. And to tell the truth I worry about what their existence does to the kids who just miss out – or whose skills are people and social as opposed to books and learning but who never do get the recognition and praise they deserve.

But tonight I’ll have my own award to give her. One that tells her how fantastic and funny and caring and loving and generous and sporty and spikey she is – and how much we love the whole Ana-package.

 

But how would you know happiness if you’d never known misery?

It’s nearly enough to make me never want to go on holiday again – the spike in misery that signals return to work. A mean – if a didn’t stop working there’d just be this eternal, low level disgruntlement. Not this wee smiling holiday happiness that gets the big Glasgow kiss of reality.

A jist feel trauchled. Trammeled. Tuckered.

Germany was familiar enough to feel like ‘real life’. If I’m honest, the red brick was more English than my home. But there was a straightforwardness that felt honest and refreshing. Aside from my shame that I have no German – felt intensely when forced to ask in fucking English (not Scots – but that is a whole other ragin’ big rammie I’ve been having with my thrawn 4th wain – something that I need to write out at another time) if they could speak English (of course they could ffs – only us island English-speaking folk think bilingualism is a waste of our valuable time) – the interactions were genuine. Folk went out of their way to be kind and thoughtful. They were curious. They asked where we came from. They loved the accent. But then, M says it’s the accent that secured her the Tindr conquests – she was seen as exotic. And that makes me laugh so loud. Us! Exotic! No way!

Who would want to leave a city (Hannover) where the streets are clean and ordinary folk just use ordinary bikes as a means of transport (not a fucking specialist sport involving showing off and lycra and ludicrous arse-padding)? Where public transport actually takes you where you want to go – and does it easily, smoothly, without fuss, trusting you to have bought your ticket? Where the Rathaus looks like this  (and we walked to it most days we were there – and sat on the grass in front and ooohed and aaahed over baby ducks and soaked up the sun)? And the Sprengel simply exists? And the Maschsee – ahhhh, the Maschsee…in the sun and with the Festival in full throw and the long beautiful walk around its perimeter…

I drove to Hamburg – and was overwhelmed by its size and the beauty of it and the diversity of its people and the political marches and demonstrations and the canals! The canals! Who’d have thought a city could have so many waterways – without being called Venice. Plus the shopping and the city style (peculiarly mainly of the men) made Meg and me salivate. They had a Cos store. A huge beautiful Cos store. And it was sale time in the Cos store.

I drove to Lüneburg (exquisite) and Celle (compact and bijoux and pretty) and Goslar (ahhhh Goslar…nestled down in the Hartz mountains like a Nicolas Roeg set from a flashback scene in The Witches) and Braunschweig (with the pretty rebuilt ‘old town’) and Bückeburg with its castle and…

If this is the product of a mindful, very conscious repentance then that repentance has worked. It continues to work. For folk my age there is the ever present memory of a Nazi past. It’s in the names of the towns we visited and loved. It’s in the quiet, solemn unsentimental dignity of the Bergen-Belsen memorial. It’s in the occasional Rathaus architecture; the Nazi art of the fackelträger and it’s in the guilt (yes, guilt) that the clearly rebuilt cities trigger with memories of the (surely illegal) carpet firebombing aimed at obliterating German culture.

Dresden is a city still suffering reconstruction. Gap sites advertise allied bombing raids – and Communist poverty and underinvestment. Leipzig looks more affluent – but is nowhere near as wealthy looking as Hamburg or Hannover.

In Leipzig we stayed at the Steigenberger  in a Junior Suite that was so luxurious we didn’t want to leave. In Dresden we were in the Bayerischer Hof. In between we were in a variety of airbnbs. Some feeling more familiar than others. So in Praha 4 (familiar) we had almost-Glaswegian corporation concrete – with burnt out Ford Ka parked outside. And in Hannover we had upper-middleclass Jugendstil.

We were wined and dined by M’s flatmate’s parents. We ate out every night – sampling every conceivable cuisine. We enjoyed (loved) the wheat beer. We walked everywhere – and couldn’t believe the Eilenreide – oh lucky lucky Hanoverians…

Yes. It was a good summer.

So why the fuck am I surprised to be feeling like I’ve one big fat dark holiday hangover? You’d need to be one masochistic nutjob to be wholly happy to be back here. With the immersion in the never-ending misery of folks’ problems and the legal solution seeking that accompanies it. And the litany of family funerals and new cancers.

Dad goes in on Thursday for his skin cancer op. He’ll be fine. I think. I hope. I don’t know. But he better be. Be fine.

Evan’s going to drive him – Dad wants ‘no fuss’.

I’m worried about Mum. Though she’ll be fine too. I know she will.

In the meantime I’ve identified the big hoose I want for my 50th next year – and I’ve sent the booking request for 3 nights in June. It sleeps 16. My whole beautiful mad infuriating family can come. They’ve all said they will be there. The kids and my Maw n Paw and my Bro and sister-in-law and their two wee ones. And a couple of the kids’ partners.

Best present ever – to have us all together: fighting and laughing and being really really noisy all together. I’m wishing my life away – but I really am looking forward to it.

 

It’s all over now

It’s been a while.

It has been a while.

In fact, it’s been the length of time it takes for me to stop choking on the bile of raging, hate-filled impotent fury.

I’m not doing a dissection job on the Brexshit (thanks Jess) outcome. No point.

Except to say that nothing will convince me that the result wasn’t – purely and simply -the first English nationalist troll-child – the first product, that is, to survive to term, the pairing of the British (please read ‘English’) trash xenophobic press and the results of too many years of Tory ‘austerity’. I can’t say the names of the Tory and UKIP and fucking Labour (what a fucking joke of a shitty political party they are) politicians who acted as midwives. They’ve made mendacity an art form.

This was an English result. Not Scottish. Not Northern Irish.

The force underpinning it is a very immature vision of English national identity – a nascent version of the type of ethnic nationalism folk around my age have been taught to fear as a consequence of Hitler. This was the primary reason I voted Yes in the Scottish Independence Referendum. I could see and taste and smell it back then.

It’s the nationalist disaster that happens when there isn’t a politician with any sense to see that if you start to create devolved Parliaments for some partners in a ‘Union’ then you are just incubating trouble for later. And it’s what happens when  unscrupulous (isn’t that just a totally superfluous adjective?)  politicians come along later and capitalise on the potential for tension between the partners in that Union.

Just reflect on how successful Cameron’s appeal to ‘the English’ was when he played on fears of a potential coalition between Miliband’s Labour and Sturgeon’s SNP. In fact, some believe it was fear of disproportionate Scottish influence that really jet-propelled the Labour failure (I don’t – Labour was just fucked as soon as it embraced the Tory narrative that austerity was necessary because of previous Labour financial mismanagement) and that secured Cameron his (slim) majority.

Anyway.

I am guaranteeing I have an escape route and applying for my Irish passport (I qualify as a consequence of my very much loved maternal Grandmother who was born in Keady pre-partition) – something that will likely be of bigger value to my kids.

Meg is certainly relieved as it means she can live and work in Germany avoiding any potential Brexit-created difficulties when she’s finished the degree here.

She’s now back from the Erasmus year – and all I want to say is that I would bow down and kiss the feet of whoever came up with the idea for the Erasmus scheme – no honour is too high.

Our ferry journey back was as expected: very cramped. And that was after I’d persuaded Megan to leave some of her stuff in Germany…

As for our 36 days in Germany/Czech Republic – ahhhh. I loved every single minute. Maybe not the 10 days I spent sweating out the first flu I have ever suffered from. But certainly every single other minute. Even the ones where I mixed up left and right instructions and R and I spent time shouting at one another in the car.

It’s all over now.

Back to work tomorrow.

 

 

 

Life and Death and Fear

My maw survived.

The necrotic stoma and the pelvic sepsis didn’t kill her after all. The catalogue of complications and ‘things that shouldn’t go wrong, going wrong’ defeated finally – by her will and the medics and just chance.

She’s walking and talking and crabbit that she’ll not be going to Germany with us.

Though the 24lb weight loss she can live with.

She’s back in her own house, champing at the bit that she isn’t up to car journeys or shopping or wee trips out; frustrated with the bag and fucked off she can’t eat without being sick – and nipping my father’s heid. Though he’s happy about that, given the alternative.

We have all survived.

A bit battered by it. By the fear of loss.

The witnessing of her pain transfiguring our relationship with life itself: we are all helpless in the face of death. Nowt truer than that truism.

All of us, simultaneously humbled – diminished and yet bigger than we were.

And I think: How can you be thankful – thankful to what/to whom for fuck sake – when you’ve been the idiot bystander witness to your loved one’s descent into some hellish battle with death?

But that’s what it feels like. Thankfulness. An appreciation of how fragile and beautiful it all is. A renewed understanding of how much and how deeply we love – and what that love means. How that love binds and nurtures. How it sustains. And how simply it can all be taken away.

And how, when you think it’s the worst you’ve lived through and you can witness no more, you realise you know fuck all. Absolutely fuck all nothing. Because it’s not the worst, so long as you can say ‘this is the worst’.

And in the middle of it – the worst of the ‘critical care’ bit of it – our beautiful wee E’s leukaemia kicked back at her and the intensive chemo.

I am ashamed.

Between E and my maw I have two real heroes. But I’m sitting here wanting to scream: It’s not fucking fair. Not fair. It’s not fucking fair – in between feeling scared and feeling pitiably sorry for me. Because I’m still scared. And I still want to cry and rock myself and cry more.

I don’t want to lose my maw or E.

And I haven’t. And I’m thankful.

But I’m still so fucking scared.

 

The Bastard: An Update

In the end, it was being with other people that helped.

Not that they knew.

Why should they? Why should I burden strangers with the knowledge.

I had worried about being so far away when Mum heard but now her treatment is decided. The colorectal cancer is in a place where the only solution is radical resectioning and the creation of a permanent stoma.

She hasn’t had a chance to ask more detailed questions. But will when she sees the Consultant on Tuesday.

There may be chemotherapy after the surgery. She knows that much. And we sat – after a relaxed and lovely lunch today – and thought about what else she needs to ask – about what she needs or wants to know.

My Mother is inspiring. The clear-sighted determination with which she approaches this. The calm insight.

I, on the other hand, have been a disgrace. A weltering bubbling mess of howling anger and pain and fear barely held back and threatening – at grossly insignificant and banal moments – to overwhelm.

I am become a small sobbing and frightened child again. Lost. Calling for a mother I fear is gone.

I need to get a grip.

My Mother – like her old Grandpa all those years ago – maybe as many as 100 years ago in fact – will survive. Will continue. Will endure.

She’s going nowhere. None of us are letting her go.