Voice from the past
From time to time I hear someone speak or they raise a subject with me that reminds me instantly of my old mum. She passed away 25 years ago, but every now and again her memory charges back to me like a rampaging bull or a wintery chill. Other things trigger her memory even more efficiently. The smell of nail polish remover evokes her memory instantly. Any discussion around hats has the same effect. My grandmother used to make my mum a new hat every week to wear to church.
My mother worked as a teacher’s aide at a school for people with learning difficulties. Conversations around art, learning styles, schools, and teachers also often evoke a memory. If you have had a parent pass away you probably have a similar list of evocative things.
The memory of my old mum is one of the reasons I set up “The Life Log Project”. No doubt everyone has had a conversation around the best way to die, or some way you don’t want to die. Well, my mum had a cerebral haemorrhage while she was in the doctor’s surgery. She effectively died right there and then, but was kept alive by machines for a few days.
The nature of her death meant that there was plenty of stuff that went unanswered. I still get sad about it. She loved her grandchildren with a real passion. The biggest smile on her face would arrive as her little grandchildren entered a room, or did something kooky. Every one of her grandchildren would have benefitted from her being around, and that’s a shame. They are all now grown ups.
She was also pretty good at issuing advice. That bit I really do miss.
If I had been able to record a Life Log with my mother I would have included some questions about advice for her children and grandchildren. That would have been a beautiful thing to listen to. One of the other things I miss, is simply hearing her lovely voice. My old mum spoke beautifully. She came from honest working class Newcastle, her dad was a plumber, but she spoke beautifully. I really miss just hearing her speak.
parenting
People under pressure
Hospitals bring out the best and the worst in people it seems. The ward I have been visiting recently is a prime example. It provides temporary respite for an elderly fat fussy gentleman without a single manner to his name. He has a regular female visitor, a neighbour or helper, perhaps a housekeeper or carer. The relationship is not one of great friendship, and definitely includes some financial component as they spend a bit of time each visit working out what is going to come out of “the account.”
Neither of them was blessed with the “whisper” gene either. This communication method is particularly useful in places like hospitals when you want to talk about financial movements or bowel movements or your genitals. Apparently though, it is not for everyone. He is rude to the nurses, the doctors and his regular visitor. In the two days he shared the ward with my son, I didn’t hear a single thank you or please.
I know more about him than I care to know, and yes that includes all the movements and the other details mentioned above. His every malady seems to be someone else’s fault, or problem. He hates the ward, the hospital, the staff and you won’t believe it but even the food is not up to scratch.
Well, guess what chubster? I have news for you, no-one wants to be there and it’s called hospital food for a reason. The doctors and nursing staff are battling to save your life. They are not turning up to work just to listen to you bitch and grizzle about things that they can’t change. (Bless those wonderful staff)
It was a great reminder to me that if you surround yourself with misery, you get miserable. My son is a terrific cheery young guy, facing a pretty tough medical challenge and being forced to listen to this egocentric fat fool is just bringing him down. And it is so important to be able to whisper.
Where is Mr T when I need him?
When presents are not enough
I was sitting at my local cafe enjoying my start to the morning while at the next door table a mum and her two young children were playing “gift giving”. The girls were 12 and 10 and it was the older girl’s birthday. As she unwrapped present after present, a pattern was forming. The watch wasn’t quite the right one, the Lego was more suited to someone a little younger, the clothes were not quite what she was looking for and the camera was, well, “what would I need a camera for?”
The cafe floor was strewn with paper as she unwrapped a dozen presents and broke her mother’s heart with every one. I know it is difficult to be a twelve-year-old girl. There was no sign of dad. Though somewhat conspicuously all but one of the presents was wrapped in the same paper, so I’m guessing he supplied that one.
All said and done, the present unveiling was not a stunning success. She was totally underwhelmed. I didn’t understand if she was spoiled rotten and wanted more, or she was hoping dad would appear inside one of the parcels, or she was just out of step with what was going on for some reason. The only real success was the pair of fluffy slippers that immediately went on her feet.
Mum had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to make the birthday presents special and the other daughter sat and watched the gift giving without a single grumble or jealous gripe which makes me think the birthday girl just expected something else perhaps. For whatever the reason, it was heart wrenching to watch the mother give it her very best shot and come up way short.
It was heart wrenching because today as the day my son comes out of hospital where he has been recovering from what was supposed to be a routine day surgery “home by lunchtime” procedure. Three days later, he will be coming home and I can’t wait. I will want to give him a big hug, but he will be both too big to do that with any real effect and still too sore to do with any real gusto.
I hope in years to come the birthday girl will come to realise that, as Mick Jagger has been telling us for years, we can’t always get what we want and that a parent’s love, may be all that you need.
5 Things I learned about parenting when my son got sick
I understand that each and every parenting experience is necessarily different, personal, private and unique in its own special way, there are themes that I see keep popping up in the parenting experience. A friend of mine is going through a similar challenge, though with very different roots. Her son was hit by a car while riding his scooter to work, resulting in some broken bones and weeks off work.
My own son is struggling with Lymphoma, similar result in the end as he will in all likelihood make a complete recovery but needs a few weeks off work as an invalid. Both young men spent a little time in hospital and are recuperating at home and then some medium to long term recovery plans. The two young men do not know each other which makes the comparison even more interesting from a spectators point of view. The parenting issues are still the same.
Lesson 1. There is a time to step forward, and a time to step back. I am not completely convinced I have learned the lesson well, but it is a constant challenge with adult children, and parents of my generation. We parents want to demonstrate our love in all the ways that our parents failed to do with us. We hug our children, we tell them that we love them, we are happy to have them around. However, we can’t protect them all the time, things will happen to them outside of our control and we have to learn to let them invite us in to assist.
Lesson 2. Though you never stop being a parent, your children can actually make decisions without you. I know, crazy isn’t it? My adult son, can actually look at the available information and make an adult decision without my input. When did that happen?
Lesson 3. Sometimes they want their partner, not their parent around. This one is a complete shocker. How can a young attractive girlfriend possibly give the sort of comfort that a father could? Hang on a minute, I think I see what’s happening here.
Lesson 4. It’s OK to cry about your children in public. Every person on the planet cuts you a bit of slack when it’s about your kids.
Lesson 5. There is a balancing act around discussing your children with others. Lets face it, listening about someone else’s children is boring. But then, if someone’s children get sick or injured that rule changes in an instant. Letting people know what is going on is actually really important in the scheme of things.
Parenting is such a wonderful art form. Constantly changing, perpetually imperfect. It has given me so many grey hairs and wrinkles as well as laugh lines and beautiful life changing experiences. My boys are amazing. They help me grow up. Watching them suffer is one of the toughest, perhaps the toughest part of being a parent.
thelifelogproject 