When I went away for my week's holiday at the beach, I asked a homeless single mum with three children if she would house-sit for me.  I have to tell you, the house was immaculate when I returned, and they had obviously respected my request to keep my own room off limits (personal papers, etc) and everything was in apple-pie order.  In addition, they left after I came home because they were not comfortable staying in what was now my territory once I was back.  (Kids to their father temporarily, the mother to the refuge while she continued to apply for rental houses.)

I had a bad conscience about continuing with the house-sitting plan after Don had expressed deep opposition.  Well, I need to tell you that it was all resolved before I went away.  I had a long talk with Don and told him about the lass and her studies and the financial blow that had led to her predicament, and I also said that I was wanting her to come to the nursing home so that he could meet her and her children, because I knew that if he met them personally he would be quite happy about the arrangement.  She couldn't do that, but Don listened to everything and in the end it came down to trust -- he said he would trust me and trust my judgement and if I thought it would be OK then to just go ahead.  And when I came back he wanted to hear all about how it had gone, but with interest, not suspicion.

So it comes down to trust, but it also reminds me how vulnerable and disempowered a disabled person really is.  Because, I could spin the facts however I wanted, I could have left out bits that didn't fit in with how I wanted it to sound, I could very well have never mentioned the house-sitting arrangement at all and gone off for a week leaving him completely in the dark.  Could have been completely manipulative but with the best of intentions.  And he would never have known.

I wonder if the hardest thing of all for a person like Don -- all his life an activist, a doer, and could always be relied upon to make a decision -- is being so disempowered, so left out of the real decision-making.  Caregiver Patrick made the comment on my blog that "thinking" for somebody else is one of the hardest things about being a carer, and I am beginning to realise that this is true.

        

I spent five days at Ulladulla.  Some other family members were holidaying there, and every morning we would all gather on the beach for swims, sun-baking and reading, helping the children make sandcastles.  When I was young we burned to a crisp, but now everyone knows to "slip, slop, slap" (slip on a shirt, slop on some sunscreen, slap on a hat), and here is Gavin in his favourite hat:



Not everything went according to plan.  My car died just as I was setting out, packed to the gunwhales; I had farewelled Don at the nursing home, dealt with his stress and anxiety at my driving so far alone, then decided to check out a funny noise the car was making since I was setting out on such a long journey (700 km, or 400 miles, from my place to Ulladulla, via Canberra where I picked up some family members).  Lucky I did so, as it turns out a wheel bearing has gone and it is not drivable until fixed.  And, of course, being January and under-staffed with everyone off to the beach, unable to fix for a couple of weeks.  So I hired a car, and transferred everything out of the now-defunct subaru, and decided not to go back to the nursing home to tell Don all about it because it would only worry him more.  And set off. 

Of course, it is all going to cost an arm and a leg, what with the holiday cottage and the car hire, and who knows how much it will take to fix, and meantime I am on shanks pony so hopefully getting quite fit.  But hey, do I look worried?  It's just money. 

        

I mentioned that I was going away on a beach holiday.  Well, I now have a house-sitter.  Or rather, I have a dilemma.

I have offered my house to a homeless person, a single mum with three children, and the "housesitter" thing is a way of giving them some dignity rather than charity.  Short story is, the family who are sort of neighbours have been evicted so their flat can be rented out to staff at the convenience store up the road.  They haven't been able to find a place, and I am going on holidays and leaving a three bedrpom house empty.  So I said they are welcome to stay here and can feed my cat and house-sit for me.

My dilemma is, that after I told Don that I had offered the house, he went very quiet and didn't say a lot, but today he said. "'I'm not happy about what you've done. I don't think we should be offering our home to these people.  I want you to put them off."

I told him that I didn't think they were going to come anyway.  They seemed very suspicious about my offer.  So I told him that.  But today, late in the afternoon, they turned up at my door, and she is at the women's refuge but they would only take her for three days, and she asked if she could possibly take me up on the offer.  I showed her the house and the beds, and her kids were very sweet and asked if they would be allowed to play on my piano, and the little boy asked if he would be allowed to play with the dog, but I told him that the dog will be cared for by friends while I'm away.

My dilemma is that Don is still my husband he has said that he wants me to put "these people" off.

"These people" ??

Anyone who knows Don knows, that he would have been the first person to offer "these people" a bed.  And I tell you, after untold years of marriage and parish needs, I cannot count the number of times I made sandwiches for 'these people" or put up a stretcher in the hall for someone down on their luck.  Or had to go and fetch my wallet to provide cash. Or made up beds in the spare room.

My dilemma is that I know Don would be the first person to help "these people", and he would have taken that young mum under his wing and started kidding around with the little boy and chatted comfortably with the little girls.  And yet, he is helpless, in a nursing home bed, and he can't see " these people" face to face, and he thinks I am doing the wrong thing, and I am going ahead anyhow.  I am ignoring his expressed wish.  I would like to bring the family to meet him because I know he would immediately want to give them our house (...our car, our funds, whatever, I do know this of old)  but too late, I'm leaving on the day after tomorrow and they are busy tomorrow so we cannot have that contact.

But, tell me.what is the worst that can happen?  And how can someoone who calls themself a Christian, go away and leave a three-bedroom house vacant, when a family that is down on its luck, doesn't have a place to lay their head.  (Yes, I know I am naive....)

I'll let you know how it goes.

One of the hardest things nowadays is making decisions on my own.  Harder still, I now realise, is making a decision that is different from the one Don makes.  And because he is powerless and I am not, I do the thing that I decided.

How moral is that?

        

You have no idea how it warms my heart to get comments from readers, and I have a sort of wondering amazement that people say they have actually missed it when I don't do an entry for a couple of weeks.  Sometimes I do question the purpose of my blog.   Some friends have suggested it is "therapy" for me, but I like to think it is more than that.  Sometimes I wonder if I am not just doing a glorified sort of Facebook entry.  Or a personal diary of my life but putting it out there in public.

But basically, I hope that by conveying what is going on in my life, and some of the issues I am struggling with in my own life journey, I am able to connect with other people and discuss things that resonate with them too.   And find common ground with others who are carers, or have had to put someone in a nursing home, or have had contact with multiple sclerosis in other ways -- or, simply, those who have imagination or compassion and can identify with some of the issues, as I share my life online.

So thank you, Lesley and Ruth, for your good wishes about Christmas, and Harriet for sharing that you also care for someone with MS (and, you "missed" my blog!!!) , and another Harriet for helping me fix a crooked picture and that it wasn't really about ham it was about Muslims, and Daphne for your lovely remark that you were moved by the story.  And Elizabeth who knows what it is like to have MS and sit in a wheelchair while people talk over your head, and Cranky for advice about a wheelchair vehicle.  And everyone else who adds something to my blog, I wish I knew you all.

I am going away -- yes, again!! seems I am never home, as Don has never tired of telling me in all the years of our marriage -- a week away at the beach with family.  So I might get to an internet cafe but I doubt it.

Of course, Don can't come.  This is one time when I don't have a pang at doing something he is missing out on, because he was never all that keen on beach holidays.  It was more my thing than his, plus it was a great family thing.  But for Don --- the sand! and his fair skin always burned! (while I tanned at the drop of a hat)!  and all the packing and all the unpacking! and a quick dip is all very well, but a whole afternoon in the surf???

I'll be gone less than a week, and he says he will be fine.

        

Frankly, I didn't know it was compulsory to have ham at Christmas.  When I was young, we had roast chicken (which Dad killed and dressed) with all the trimmings, and then plum pudding with money inside.  Ham was never even considered.  Of course, nowadays we usually have ham, among other things.  But since we had invited a Muslim family for Christmas Day, it seemed reasonable to forego the ham.  We still didn't exactly starve on the day, with turkey, cold leg of lamb, lots of salads, and then some special desserts.

But when I casually mentioned that we would be having a Muslim family for the day, and laughingly added, "So - ham's out!" I got some surprisingly strong reactions.  "You should have the ham!" people scolded.  "They don't have to eat the ham, they can eat something else!  This is our country, these are our traditions, and we are not forcing them, but they need to realise how we do things."

I said mildly, "No, we don't have to have ham.  There's plenty of other stuff we can have instead, it's not that important."  But it was terribly important to some people and they would go on and on, insisting that I provide ham and that nobody would be forced to eat anything they didn't want.

I think if I was in another country and visiting a family who regularly ate, say, rat or dog, I would think it a courtesy if they served something else for the time that I was there.

Needless to say, I did get a small ham as well, which we hoed into on Boxing Day and thereafter.

Don is not as mentally sharp as he used to be (an understatement) and I don't know if that is a normal effect of MS and have not the courage to inquire.  But on Christmas Day we asked him to say grace, and he did so with a great deal of sensitivity.  He gave thanks for the day and the food, and for family and for new friends.  And he hesitated briefly before finishing "In the name of God, Amen."  He normally ends, "In Jesus' name", but clearly he wanted this to be a totally inclusive giving of thanks, a prayer that could be shared by everyone there. 

This is Don about to say grace, but how come my picture is so lop-sided? 

        

Christmas was far better than I had expected.  I was determined not to sit about being miserable and thinking, "Our second Christmas without Ross" -- but then our son in New Zealand was not able to get home for Christmas after all, and so we would be missing two of our three sons, and it was all going to be a bit of an effort.

But then our other son asked if they could invite some neighbours from Sydney.  A Pakistani family, a single mother with two children who often played with our Gavin.  A Muslim family for whom Christmas meant a day off work with everybody else celebrating while they tried to fill in a day.  A family who are trying hard to fit in to Australia and who were delighted at the invitation to "an Aussie Christmas".

So I got enthused again after all, and dusted off the decorations and actually bought some new ones -- I actually put up a tree! -- and planned a special menu, and went shopping, and it was all quite a lot of fun.  I had five-year-old Gavin with me so we made a manger scene too - my attempt to bring some balance to the "Santa and bling" philosophy of Christmas.

The Pakistan family had a wonderful time, and it was a happy day for us all.




And I was thrilled to get some really nice gifts too!

        

Perhaps we made a mistake in not buying a wheelchair van while we had the chance.

My cousin died last year of motor neurone disease, and after his death I was offered first option to purchase the van they had, which had a ramp and all the fittings to take a wheelchair.  I did take it on a month's trial but then decided against the purchase.  My cousins had to have their own transport, as they lived in the Queensland outback where wheelchair taxis can only be dreamed about.  Plus, they lived miles out of town.

I was in two minds about it on account of the economics.  It costs in excess of $20,000 to get such a special vehicle, and I thought that is an enormous number of taxi rides before you get anywhere near that figure. (Plus we are subsidised by the government for half the fare, up to a maximum of $30.)  But the deciding factor was not cost, but Don's welfare.  The one and only time we attempted a longish trip was a disaster.  We drove to Sydney for lunch with friends last year, and Don not only called out continually that he was terribly uncomfortable and wanted to stop, but by the time we arrived he was in a state of total collapse and was admitted to hospital, where they kept him for a week, the first three days in intensive care.  Sitting bolt upright in the wheelchair for such a long trip was something his body could not cope with.  It was not a particularly long trip, a matter of 1 1/2 hours, it's about 120 km or 70 miles.  So we thought, if we are just going to be confined to local trips we may as well stick to taxis.

But now I am not so sure.  We have a better wheelchair, one that reclines and also supports his head.  And on a good day he seems better able to cope with going out, has less fatigue.  Having our own transport would free us up to go places and do different things that we can't sensibly use taxis for, eg go for a drive for an afternoon's outing.

I did have a cursory look on ebay and on a disability site, and wheelchair vans are out there, still available.  Our Subaru Outback will need to be replaced some time - at present it is coming up 10 years old, has 280,000 km on the clock and never a thing wrong with it, how's that for a recommendation?! - but maybe we'll look at a vehicle for Don rather than a regular vehicle.

I seem to be always writing about transport; the last entry was about wheelchairs and airlines.  Because the issue of transport and mobility is absolutely paramount for anyone with a disability.

 

        

Kurt Fearnley is an Olympic paralympian.  He is a double amputee (no legs) and has done amazing things such as "walk" the Kokoda Trail in New Guinea by dragging himself along the track with his arms and elbows.

He hit the headlines in Australia last week because Jetstar Airline "forced" him to check in his wheelchair as luggage, and they then provided him with an airport wheelchair plus an assistant to escort him onto the plane.  Kurt normally wheels himself rather than be pushed, but he wasn't able to do this in the wheelchair they provided.  He was so outraged at the idea of being pushed that he refused to use the wheelchair, and instead, dragged himself to the boarding gate and onto the plane.  Headlines screamed "Airline forces paralympian to crawl" and "Disabled deprived of wheelchair", and talkback radio seethed with outrage.  Kurt gave interviews saying that he had been totally humiliated by the airline and that it was akin to "having his legs tied together, his pants pulled down, and paraded publicly".

Jetstar apologised and said that they are reviewing their procedures for disabled people.

Well excuse me, Jetstar, but I don't think you have anything to apologise for.  The airline carries about 450 disabled people every week, and in my experience they bend over backwards to accommodate and assist them.  Of course you have to check in your own wheelchair!  Normal wheelchairs don't fit into the narrow aisles of aircraft.  And appointing a staff member to oversee and escort the person is a big gesture fo a budget airline - or any airline for that matter.  Kurt wasn't forced to crawl, that was his choice.

But I myself am outraged on behalf of all disabled people, by his claim that he was publicly humiliated by the airline. Kurt, believe me, you can sit in a wheelchair and be pushed by someone, and yet still retain your dignity and your self-respect.  We have worked hard to change attitudes and create a world where people with disabilities are accepted and respected.  There is no disgrace in what the airline was offering.  I think Kurt has actually done disabled people a disservice.

I wrote a letter to the paper about it, as follows:

"I am bewildered by the outcry over Kurt Fearnley being "forced" to check in his own wheelchair as baggage. There is nothing new about that; a regular wheelchair simply cannot fit into the aisle, and common practice is for airlines to provide their own compact, narrow wheelchair for the duration of the journey. Whenever I have travelled with my husband, who has multiple sclerosis, that has been the norm, and we have also been allocated a staff member to push the wheelchair from the check-in counter to boarding.  I understand Kurt was affronted at the idea of being pushed, and so he crawled instead.  That was his choice, but I hope his protests were not implying that there is no dignity or self-respect for a person in a wheelchair being pushed by someone else."

Of course, they didn't print it.  Politics exploded in Australia this week, and nobody wants to read, talk, or think about anything else.

        

Our son and his family moved to Canberra a week ago.  This of course means big change in our life as well.  I was in the habit of driving to Sydney every Thursday afternoon and picking up grandson Gavin from pre-school by 3 pm and then minding him until the weekend.  On Saturdays the family would either come for the weekend, or else we would go to Sydney by train.

Canberra is five hours away, whereas Sydney is not much over an hour. So there is no more weekly childminding, no fortnightly visits from the family, no more quick dashes to Sydney due to one sick child and two working parents.  And of course less cooking, more free time.  And more time to spend with Don, because Gavin and I would always visit Grandad but usually only for fleeting visits of less than an hour, because there is not a lot for a 5-year-old to do in a nursing home, even when we went equipped with books and drawing materials.

With less happening in the week, I think I need to plan my time better.  It's all too easy to drift along from day to day and never do anything - walk the dog, visit Don, catch up with a few chores, occasionally go to the supermarket.   You may notice, with all this extra "free time", I haven't written a blog entry for weeks.  And my house seems to have degenerated into a shambles.

I'd better write out a list.

        

Occasionally in the past I have registered my objection to an email that has been broadcast to me (usually religious emails promoting what I call "prosperity religion", which I regard as totally at odds with the gospel).

But now I myself have received objections to an email that I sent off to numerous people.  The original email came from Don's school reunion contacts, and it made me smile, so  I forwarded it on. Here it is:

--------------------------------------
SCHOOL -- 1959 vs. 2009
Scenario :  Jack goes rabbit shooting before school,  pulls into school parking lot with rifle in gun rack.
1959 - Vice Principal comes over, looks at Jack's rifle,  goes to his car and gets his rifle & chats with Jack about guns.
2009 - School goes into lock down, Star Force called, Jack hauled off to jail and never sees his ute or gun again.. Counsellors called in for traumatized students and teachers. 

Scenario:  Johnny and Mark get into a fistfight after school.

1959 - Crowd gathers. Mark wins.  Johnny and Mark shake hands and end up buddies.
2009 - Police called, arrests Johnny and Mark.   Charge them with assault, both expelled even though Johnny started it. Both children go to anger management programs for 3 months. School board hold meeting to impliment bullying prevention programs

Scenario:  Robbie won't sit still in class, disrupts other students.
1959 - Robbie sent to office and given 6 of the best by the Principal.  Returns to class, sits still and does not disrupt class again. 
2009 - Robbie given huge doses of Ritalin. Becomes a zombie. Tested for ADD. Robbie's parents get fortnightly disability payments nd School gets extra funding from state because Robbie has a disability.

Scenario :   Billy breaks a window in his neighbor's car and his Dad gives him a whipping with his belt.
1959 - Billy is more careful next time, grows up normal, goes to college, and becomes a successful businessman. 
2009 - Billy's dad is arrested for child abuse. Billy removed to foster care and joins a gang. State psychologist tells Billy's sister that she remembers being abused herself and their dad goes to prison. 
                                       
Scenario :   Mark gets a headache and takes some aspirin to school.
1959 - Mark gets glass of water from Principal to take aspirin with.
2009 - Police called, Mark expelled from school for drug violations. Car searched for drugs and weapons.   

Scenario :   Pedro fails high school English.
1959 - Pedro goes to summer school, passes English and goes to college.
2009 - Pedro's cause is taken up by state. Newspaper articles appear nationally explaining that teaching English as a requirement for graduation is racist.   AFRE files class action lawsuit against state school system and Pedro's English teacher. English banned from core curriculum.  Pedro given diploma anyway but ends up mowing lawns for a living because he cannot speak English.  

Scenario :  Johnny takes apart leftover firecrackers from 4th of July, puts them in a model airplane paint bottle, blows up a bullant nest. 
1959 - Ants die.
2009- Star Force, Federal Police & Anti-terrorism Squad called.    Johnny charged with  domestic terrorism, Feds investigate parents, siblings removed from home, computers confiscated.  Johnny's Dad goes on a terror watch list and is never allowed to fly again.

Scenario :   Johnny falls while running during recess and scrapes his knee. He is found crying by his teacher, Mary.  Mary hugs him to comfort him. 
1959 - In a short time, Johnny feels better and goes on playing.
2009 - Mary is accused of being a sexual predator and loses her job. She faces 3 years in Prison.  Johnny undergoes 5 years of therapy. 

---------------------------------------

OK, everbody, settle down please!  I do know that sexual harassment is a serious issue and it's better to overdo preventive measures than allow the possibility; I do know that bullying and violence are endemic and should never be treated lightly; I do know that parental abuse is common and the school cannot turn a blind eye; and I realise how important remedial programmes are for problem students.  And no, I don't think that even in those laid-back days, any teacher would really be so nonchalant about a student turning up with a gun!

But hey, lighten up, everybody.  Didn't you give a wry smile and admit to a grain of truth there somewhere?  As a TAFE teacher, we were no longer allowed to give an aspirin to a girl with period pain; and as a Kids Club leader, I and the other leaders became very wary of cuddling a little kid who was crying.  So the email was not completely off the mark.

I was going to end this by saying that if there was a way to Unsend an email, I would do so.  But now I have talked myself into thinking I prefer dialogue and a bit of robust debate.  Thanks, everybody.        

        

I bought myself a glamorous-looking red laptop:



I hear you ask, Why?  And I do ask myself whether it was just indulgence on my part, and have to admit that paying an extra $27 for the red instead of black was indeed sheer indulgence, but what the heck.

But the reason I bought it was that I got this brilliant idea that I could take it to the nursing home, share with Don those cute emails that people are always sending, type stuff with him assisting (eg replies to letters), and also if he is starting to doze off a bit can sit there and do my own thing.  Because when he gets dozy he is still disappointed if I go too soon.

Trouble is, I don't know enough about computers.  I thought with the wireless card that I could just access the internet wherever, but that's not the case.  So, I can work offline but that is less than I had hoped.

Also, this computer has games on it, still intact.  I had to delete the games from my regular computer because I found they were taking over my life and time.  I might have to do the same with the laptop, but for the moment am enjoying a week of unadultered game-playing, and my spider solitaire statistics are impressive!

        

Compassionate Friends is a support group of people who have lost a child.  I was asked to write something for their next newsletter, and this is what I sent this week:

Christmas looms.  Our second Christmas without Ross, and I am burdened by the whole idea of it all.  Ross died at the age of 38 in May last year, of a cerebral aneurism.  Last year I just wanted Christmas to go away completely, and in a way we made that happen.  Our other two sons spent Christmas with the family of their partners – one in New Zealand, one in America – and we shouted them their tickets back, ostensibly as a Christmas gift, but in reality we just wanted to get rid of the whole thing.

 

I’d prefer never to have a family Christmas again, just go to the nursing home where my husband is a resident (multiple sclerosis) and spend it there as we did last year – completely different from every Christmas of the past, and among acquaintances or near strangers.  But Ross’s brothers deserve better, they are entitled to have as happy a Christmas as we can make it.  And they are grieving too, and need to mourn their brother as we all celebrate Christmas together.

 

So I guess we will arrange gifts, and “the feast”, and perhaps I will try to decorate the house a little although that is a big ask.  Listening to the Christmas carols is the worst; “Silent Night” breaks me up every time.  It’s music and songs above all, that bring back memories of times past.

 

Someone in Compassionate Friends said they always set a place at the table on Christmas day for the missing person, and put a gift under the tree for them also (give it away to charity later?).  Perhaps we’ll do that.

        

Last weekend my family - sister and brothers -  all came to Morisset for a family get-together. 

Don spent all of Saturday at home, right through until 8.30 pm.  Then home again for the barbecue on Sunday.  (I think we are single-handedly keeping the wheelchair taxi solvent, these days.)  As a rule, when Don comes home for lunch I know that he will be ready to go back after a couple of hours so that he can go to bed -- although I've noticed lately he is staying  awake and alert for longer.   So I thought those two days would have laid him low for a week, but both days he enjoyed every minute, and on Monday he was bright as a button and wanting to know when I've booked the taxi for him to come home again.

That Low Dose Naltrexone (LDN) treatment we have got him on may be experimental, and yes I do know all about the warnings of "no clinical trials" etc -- but not only is Don vastly improved in his mind and spirit (and maybe strength as well but that's another story), but the fatigue is not nearly as bad.  Fatigue, the great demon that plagues all MS sufferers regardless of the type or degree of their disability.  According to Professor Pollard of the MS Clinic at RPAH, it is the one common feature and the thing that every MS sufferer complains about.  Fatigue saps the quality of life enormously, because  it stops the person from doing so much, even when they have the capability.

Having Don home and able to participate in what is going on, and actually staying awake, is marvellous.
 

        

It all started when my brother and sister (plus spouses) came to help me move all my stuff out of storage from Muswellbrook, last January.  Hard work, a searing 40 degrees (104 Fahrenheit), a journey home that became an ordeal when the tyre on the trailer blew out -- but it was great working together, and being together, and spending a long evening together recovering from the ordeals of the day.  Just talking, catching up.

Plus, we had got sick of only seeing each other at funerals.

So we got together in March, and now it is October I have had all the siblings for the weekend at my place.  I have four brothers and one sister, so it was a good crowd.  It was a lovely weekend. 

Allan barbecued the flathead that he brought from his latest fishing expedition:



Bruce read the paper to Don as they sat on the deck:



And the ostensible reason for picking October was that my brother had a birthday, so of course we had a cake - with candles.

        

Don's mother, Alma Dufty, has been laid to rest.  She is buried in Griffith, NSW, the town she loved, and where she spent almost all of her 97 years.  Whoever would have guessed that two of her four children would be unable to get to her funeral?  My Don in the nursing home with multiple sclerosis at the age of 69, and another son, 64, too sick to attend. 

Because, it was always going to be the grandest affair in the world, and has been a topic of conversation and strict instructions for twenty-five years. Alma loved arranging her funeral.  I was to do a Bible reading; we were constantly told her favourite hymns that she wanted; there was to be an empty plate on top of the coffin because this was the only time in her life she would not have to "bring a plate" (ie cook); friend Dawn was to sing; -- and strictly no eulogy.  Her closest friends argued and said, "Alma, you won't be there, and we are going to have a eulogy, so get used to it!" 

And the sons or grandsons who were in or out of favour at the time were to be pall-bearers, or not, as the case may be.  Our Ross, who was her unashamed favourite, used to give her cheek and then say, "Well Grandma, I suppose I'm off the pall-bearers list now, am I?"  To which she would reply acidly, "Yes! You're out!"  Incidentally, we never told her of Ross's death last year.

Griffith is 700 km away (450 miles) and it simply was not possible for Don to get there.  But he was gutted.  It wasn't just that he couldn't attend the funeral; it was that he couldn't attend THE funeral.  So long discussed, so long planned.

But, miraculously, everything turned out well!

I flew to Griffith to represent our family, and yes we did have her favourite hymns and Dawn sang and I read the Bible, and there was even that quirky touch of an empty dinner plate on top of the coffin as it was lowered into the grave.  The issue of pall-bearers didn't arise because it was decided to have a graveside service first, and then go to the church for a memorial service.  Then lunch in the church hall.

But for my family, the real funeral took place elsewhere.  Because Don could not get to Griffith, we held a memorial service in the church at Toronto.  The church where Don had been minister for nearly 10 years, and had been home to all our family, including Ross. 

We thought it would be just a small service with just the family, maybe a few good friends who came along to support us.  But there was a crowd, and people even travelled from elsewhere to be there.  We had a fine eulogy from the minister, a grandson sharing his memories, wonderful music, a funeral homily by a someone who knew her well, the readings and hymns that she would have wanted and were so appropriate.  It did not have the feel of a lesser event, second best.  It was the real thing, a real funeral for Grandma, Alma, Mum.

Vale, Alma Dufty, mother-in-law.  You were a remarkable woman.  Rest in peace.

        

One of my previous blog entries attracted the comment that Don looks too young to be in the nursing home, and should not be there.  That is absolutely right, and I could not agree more.  It is so distressing to see him in the nursing home, appalling in fact, in a way that it would not be if he was twenty years older.  He is 69.

I thought about that comment a lot over the past week, and it made me determined to look for ways to at least let Don come home for an overnight stay if at all possible - thought if my son is home for the weekend and we hire one of those lifter things that they use, we could possibly manage it.  I also thought it could turn out to be something for an ordeal for Don as well for us, and that it might only happen the one time, but still worth while having a go, and would show our commitment to trying our best for him.

But the other part of the reader's comment - that he needs to be among people his own age - is equally important, and is one of my frustrations with his situation.  One example:  Ever since Don went into Bayside a year ago, staff have been noting with concern how his feet overlap the bed, and remarking with amazement what a tall man he is.  After the first few times, I started to contradict this.  "Isn't he tall!"  they would say.  Now, I answer, "No, he's not particularly tall, he's six foot, and if he's in a crowd of men his own age he's about average.  Lots of men are taller."

But that's the point - "his own age".  The men in the nursing home are maybe twenty years older, a generation of men shorter, smaller.  Aged care facilities have not caught up with the realisation that they will have to get longer beds because in a few years they are going to get taller residents as the norm. 

Meanwhile, they are getting a bed extension made for Don.

Too young?  Definitely.  But -- what's the alternative?

        

It finally happened. My mother-in-law, Alma Dufty, at the great age of 97, has died.  We have been summoned to the supposed death bed many times over the past 20 years, but this time there was no warning and no summons.  Quietly, in her sleep at 3 am (? but how do they know that?) she "passed away".

My husband Don is the eldest of four children, and to him it was unthinkable that he would not go to the funeral.  Problem is, that entails a day-long journey of 700 km or 10 hours travelling.  The family discussed these options:
    *Get him (somehow) into the Subaru and just drive.  (He would be in agony - it would be an ordeal)
    * Hire a wheelchair disability van from Sydney.  (Again, too long to sit in wheelchair, needs breaks and change of chair)
    *Fly (Have to get to Sydney, have to transfer from wheelchair to seat in plane, impossible)
The comment was made that this is all about just the journey, but when do we start to think about how to manage when we get there?  Don can't take his own weight at all, any more, and there would be the transfers all day long, the toilet problems, the sheer fatigue.

After a family conversation of nearly two hours, we reluctantly came to the conclusion that it cannot be done.

But it was going to break his heart.

Sudden blinding moment of inspiration!  We will hold our own memorial service right here.  Alma visited many times when Don was Minister at Toronto, and was known by the congregation, and in fact she thought Toronto and the entire parish were wonderful.  And Toronto is Don's home church, and we can get him there -- and they know us, and they knew her, and are happy to help.

So that is what we are doing.  I will go to Griffith to represent the family at the big funeral (and yes, I will fly!) but we are going to hold our own memorial service, with Don participating, at Toronto Uniting Church on Saturday.  It will most likely be extremely small, but it allows her oldest son to honour her as he has always wished to, and gives us a chance to mourn her passing and celebrate the life of a remarkable lady.

        

I was sitting with Don in the nursing home this morning, and he told me he is feeling depressed today.  "Any particular reason?" I asked.  "Or just feeling low."  He nodded, said he just felt a bit down. 

So we watched a bit of TV, and we went through the morning's mail, and then he suddenly said, "Do you know, I don't think I'm ever going to get out of here.  I think I'm going to be in this place until I die."

I didn't know what to say.  So I looked at him and said, "Not necessarily."  I couldn't say any more with sincerity.  So I added, "But, it's OK for the present, isn't it?  Just spending time here together, and coming home a couple of times a week to spend the day?"

"Oh yes", he agreed.  "It's all right for now."

Don't look ahead.

        

This morning the lake was as still as a mirror.  Occasionally a fish would jump, creating long ripples.  A pelican sailed lazily along, and when I took the dog for a walk we watched three ducks swimming.  It was so peaceful.

I remembered a little verse I've known for years, but no idea where it came from:

Four ducks on a pond,
A grass bank beyond;
A blue sky in spring,
White clouds on the wing.
What a little thing
To remember for years;
 --  To remember with tears ....


I

        

Looking after my little grandson Gavin a while back, I sat down with him at the piano and we sang some nursery songs that he likes.  His favourite is "A hunting we will go" because he makes up all sorts of creatures and rhymes -- "We'll catch a fish and put him in a dish, and then we'll let him go" becomes catch a man and put him in the pan - catch a mummy and put her in the tummy - catch a bee and put him in the sea - etc.

But I was very disheartened at how badly I was playing the piano, even for simple songs out of the nursery rhyme book.  Quite disgusted with letting myself get so rusty over the years, in fact.  It was only ever the occasional need to play for church that kept me playing at all.  I had even toyed with the idea of selling the piano when we moved house last year.

But my son inspired me when he mentioned that anybody can excel at anything, with practice.  And as usual, he came up with facts and figures, saying that 10,000 hours of practice will make you an expert in anything - whether drawing, or music, or playing tennis, or chess.

[Apropos of nothing, but I think I should be pretty good at spider solitaire, if 10,000 hours is the benchmark.  Not sure how many hours I did before I finally deleted it from my computer - yes, AND emptied my recycle bin because previously I kept "restoring" the game after a week - but it must have a great many.]

So, about eight weeks ago I started practising the piano.  Every day, twenty minutes.  I decided to work my way through the Third Grade book.  Result is, I am getting better, and enjoying it, and not only spend longer than twenty minutes but sometimes I do a second practice session in the same day.

If you are wondering why I haven't been doing my blog for the past two weeks, that is one of the reasons.  (Other reason is, writer's block, plus trying to think up something remotely interesting out of a very routine existence.)

Back to Mozart.  See you later.