Mysteries of the Heart

I've got a good mother and her voice
is what keeps me here...

-Jann Arden

I never got to know Rita. By the time I arrived on the scene here in Australia, poor Rita's mind had already been swallowed up by this horrid disease we call Alzheimer's. She was still able to sit in a wheelchair in 2013. Her devoted husband, John still took her on outings, went to the home every day to feed her lunch and sit with her, always hopeful she would return, that the disease would halt, possibly reverse, that he would have the old love of his life back. For a time he would even put a little lipstick on for her - an effort to preserve some sense of normal. Eventually, the inevitable deterioration of this once vibrant lady, the family touchstone, the sharp mind of Rita Joy Shields took hold. Her ability to communicate ended.

Where did she go? Where do all the victims of this mind ravaging illness go? As anyone who has ever lived through this slow and painful journey with a family member knows, there is a dark mystery that hovers around the unanswered questions. The stricken offer few clues. Where once there was connection and knowing winks and glances, there is a vacant stare and one-sided conversation. Alive but not living. It is a most difficult and heart wrenching thing to witness. I am pretty sure it is what really killed her husband in 2017. The hopelessness and his own broken heart surely making his life unbearable, the cancer finding a way in with his defences down.

How, we all wondered, did her mind fail her so, yet her body kept going. With each passing year, she lay, silent, unmoving and completely under the care of nurses who fed her, bathed her, turned her, watched over her. For years her heart kept beating, strong in her frail chest. How did her heart go on? Why did her heart go on? What was it that Rita still needed to go on for? 

I have a theory. One of her greatest gifts to the world were her two sons. She turned out a couple of pretty special kids, grown men now -  men who grew into kind, caring, loving fathers and partners themselves. Men who are respectful of women, generous and decent human beings. Men that make a mother proud. In addition to this, she won the hearts of their offspring. She continued her nurturing role with seven grandchildren and five great grandchildren. Nanna or Nan as they fondly called her was loved and adored by every one of them. She was a giver until she could give no more.

She just may have saved her biggest gift for last however. Two weeks ago today, my darling man, her eldest son, suffered a heart attack as Rita lay quiet and still alive in her bed. Thanks to the swift medical attention here in Maryborough, then Hervey Bay, then Brisbane, Steve's heart was repaired and we are beyond grateful to have been given a second chance. After five days in a Brisbane hospital, we came home to rest and reflect before a second round of repair will take place December 13th. That same afternoon, we got word that Rita was failing fast. Rest would wait. We went to see her for what would be the last time. I worried that Steve's still healing heart would not be able to withstand the heartbreak of seeing his poor mum like this but it did. We had known this day was coming for a long time and her passing was really a blessing in many ways. She would finally be with Pop again and in a much better place. He whispered in her ear and kissed her cheek and we knew this time she was leaving this world. By morning, Rita was gone. 

I cannot help but marvel at the timing of her departure. Did she somehow sense her son's health crisis? Did she linger this long to do one final task? Is the bond between mother and child beyond all illness, existing in the unconscious, ever present despite what we can actually see? These are the mysteries we cannot prove but perhaps we don't need proof. Did Rita give what was left of her still strong, beating heart to her eldest son? I believe she did and I am forever grateful she was the mother she was - the giving kind. Loving to the very end.

So, I  cannot thank you enough Rita for this most generous gift. 

We plan to take especially good care of it.

Entering the Golden Years 101

Ash...the transition begins.

Sixty. Fuck. How is this possible? No need to remind me by saying things like, "well it beats the alternative". I say those things to myself constantly to bolster my own enthusiasm for life. It's all good I tell myself. You are still alive, can still remember most shit, can still hit a tennis ball with some oomph and even get it on when the mood strikes. So, I should be content. Am I right? 

 I am content but it comes and goes in waves. And those waves get higher and harder and frothier everyday. I have lost count of the spider veins on my legs. I have begun the transition to grey hair with the help of my colourist (go ash...it will blend with the silver). My eyebrows are becoming as sparse as up days in the stock market. I am developing a penchant for eating my main meal of the day at noon. Those senior early bird specials ain't early enough for me it seems. And my bathroom scale must be broken, cause there is no way I weigh what it keeps telling me and lately I find it hard to give a shit anyway. 

I read books about the meaning of life (in case I have missed something), birds and longevity diets, skipping from one to the other like a mad woman unable to focus on any of them for more than a chapter before I fall asleep - usually before 9 pm. I never make it through the night without a trip to the loo and sometimes I just stay up and do some banking or mindless social media surfing (FB and Insta, as hip as it gets) until I am tired again. This broken sleep pattern then makes me unable to make it through the afternoon without a nice little power nap for about an hour - my nana nap. 

I am officially a senior according to some. When I get back to Canada this spring, I will be able to get a discount at Shopper's Drug Mart.  Ain't that something to look forward to?! I am less interested in fashion trends until I hang out with my fashion forward friends (young and old) and when I try to incorporate any of them into my wardrobe, I am an instant "fashion don't"! (Anyone want a pair of "worn only once" floral print tights or a pair of oversized triangular "brush" earrings?). I didn't think so. I like reliable cars even though I still wonder what it would be like to drive around in a vintage Karmann Ghia convertible that I have had a secret longing for ever since Ken Olin's character, Michael Steadman drove one on that series Thirtysomething a few years back. If you don't remember that show, you are too young to relate to this blog and if you do, dare I remind  you that the series ended 27 years ago. Truth. WTF!?

Twenty seven years ago, I did not have food sensitivities, age spots. droopy eyelids, molars that keep cracking, breasts that required underwire, sensible panties, progressive lenses, a need for Poise Pads and NOBODY called me Ma'am! 

This is it. I am running out of steam to fight the inevitable. The beginning of the last third of my life has arrived and I can no longer deny it, nor do I plan to inject, slice and dice or starve myself to be thin. I will draw the line at that permed grandma hair and Hilary Clintonesque pant suits, but for the most part I am going to try to do this aging thing with a modicum of dignity and a hint of style (think Judi Dench in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel). 

So, bring it on. 

I may not like it but I can bloody take it.

Kitchen Memories

Have you ever wondered what to do with vintage kitchen utensils? You know what I mean - the things you remember your grandmother stirring, mixing or mashing with that bring back memories of your childhood. Sunday dinners and family holidays watching nan or grannie in the kitchen. 

We have recently had to sift through a kitchen and house full of such things as Mick's parent's house is now empty and unoccupied. There were cupboards and drawers full of old and worn bits and pieces that were laden with memories but well beyond their expiry date to be truly useful in a modern kitchen. I have always had a soft spot for such time worn utensils, so we decided to gather a collection of them and vowed to come up with an idea to repurpose some or all of them in some creative way. There was a complete set of wooden handled cooking ladles, forks and spatulas that apparently had been a wedding shower gift to his mother. I noted the fact that they had been "made in England", which likely contributed to their longevity. 

We both wondered how many pots of potatoes had been mashed with the masher as it was clearly the most used piece of all - the handle cracked from overuse and much of the paint worn away. It was clearly tied with the hand beater and slotted spoon. How many meals had Rita served to her family with these kitchen tools? How many times had they been tapped on the side of a pot, washed by hand, wiped dry with a cotton towel and put away until the next meal was prepared? Imagine the stories they could tell. So, we decided to create a tribute piece to honour the memories created by her and the tools she used to feed her family. 

A daily reminder to us and all who visit our kitchen of the history of food and family and love.

The Sweetest Honey

In case dear readers you did not get enough of my last blog about magic and mystery, allow me to regale you once again with yet another tale of intuition and the miracle of what happens if you just listen to that wee voice in your head that makes suggestions, nudges you, or simply hovers around like an annoying house fly that you absent-mindedly wave away while you are focused on your news feed or newspaper depending on which decade you were born. 

It is only possible to follow the lead of that voice if you are consciously aware it is there in the first place. Most people are not. The average person is so wrapped up in the minutiae of their life they are not paying attention at all. There is no opening for the voice to sneak through. All that constant chatter in their heads creates an impenetrable barrier for the intuition to flow. I know this because I used to be that person. It has been about a decade now that I have been working on turning off the monkey mind. And it has changed my life. Many of you reading this have witnessed my journey and seen where it has led me. I never would have imagined my life would have taken such a drastically different route. I owe much of it to tuning into my intuition. 

So, today, as I fumbled around at 5 am. getting dressed to go for a walk, I noticed some cash laying on my bedside table. Some money I had emptied out of my pocket before bed the night before, strewn about amongst my books and earrings, sort of grabbed my attention. I rarely bring anything besides my phone on my walks. There really isn't anywhere to spend money along the way unless we pop into the convenience store at the corner gas station to buy a newspaper. But that is a weekend thing. Not a Thursday morning thing. My little voice urged me to pick up the five dollar note. I fought with the voice. "Why do I need that 5 dollars?" Just take it said the voice. "Nah, I don't need to take it." I went and brushed my teeth. I started down the hallway to the back door. "Go back - get that 5 dollars." "Alright, alright," I grumbled as I went back into the bedroom and stuffed the fiver in my pocket. Even Mick said, "you don't need any money - I'm not getting a paper today." I almost relented again, but reminded my self that my intuition is not something to ignore. 

Off we went toward the residential streets versus the country road walk. "G'Day Kanga, G'Day Roos,", I sang out at the corner as we passed the usual mob in the sports field at the corner. We normally head straight ahead from there but today we ventured left after a couple of blocks for a change of scenery. About two thirds of the way up this particular street we came across an ordinary house with a small stand in front. "Honey for Sale" I could see from the curb that there were 2 containers of honey, one a little larger than the other. PERFECT! I needed some honey. I walked across the lawn and took a look. One was marked $4.20 and the other as you have probably already guessed was $5.00. I stuffed my fiver in the slot on the rusty honour box and turned on my heels and held up my prize. "See Mick!, what did I tell ya? I knew that five bucks was in my pocket for a reason!" 

As much as he likes to poo-poo my "messages from the universe", even he had difficulty scoffing at this one. This was clearly a premonition I reckon. I don't know why I even bother arguing with that voice. It never steers me wrong.

And that honey...man is it sweet!