Some days suck

Some days suck, some days suck even more. Today was one of the latter days.

I hated him then, I hate him even more now. I've forgiven him, I just haven't stopped hating him. I wish he wasn't part of my head, but unfortunately he is.

He still has no name.

Now I have to try and sleep, yeah right, what a joke.

How many black dots are there?

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine........

First-year students at Med School were receiving their first Anatomy class with a real dead human body. They all gathered around the surgery table with the body covered with a white sheet. The professor started the class by telling them: "In medicine, it Is necessary to have 2 important qualities as a doctor. The first is That you not be disgusted by anything involving the human body." For an example, the Professor pulled back the sheet, stuck his finger in the butt of the corpse, withdrew it and stuck his finger in his mouth." Go ahead and do the same thing," he told his students. The students freaked out, hesitated for several minutes, but eventually took turns sticking a finger in the butt of the dead body and sucking on it. When everyone had finished, the Professor looked at them and told them, "The second most important quality is observation. I stuck in my Middle finger and sucked on my Index finger. Now learn to pay attention."

Mmm Insanity!

Australian Women

Duties of Wives

Three men were sitting together bragging about how they had given their new wives duties.

Terry had married a woman from America , and bragged that he had told his wife she was going to do all the dishes and housework. He said that it took a couple days but on the third day he came home to a clean house and the dishes were all washed and put away.

Jimmie had married a woman from England. He bragged that he had given his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes, and the cooking. He told them that the first day he didn't see any results, but the next day it was better. By the third day, his house was clean, the dishes were done, and he had a huge dinner on the table.

The third man had married an Australian girl. He boasted that he told her that her duties were to keep the house cleaned, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything, but by the third day most of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye. Enough to fix himself a bite to eat, load the dishwasher, and call a landscaper.

Gotta love a good Aussie sheila!!

Want a Free Holiday?

Asleep on your feet

The Lion King

If you haven't been, make the effort to go, today!

Last weekend, mum, dad and I spent packing up Nan's house. It was another traumatic thing I've had to do. Putting posessions of someone you love in a box, is not my ideal way to spend a weekend. We have decided for now to just put everything in storage. It's too early to 'deal' with things long term. While packing, mum remembered that Nan had told her before she died that she had bought us tickets for christmas Lion King. Nan told mum so that if they were planning going anywhere not to plan anything for that night. Dad and I knew nothing about it until mum mentioned it.

We had no idea where the tickets might be. Nan's house is/was very organised, it always was. Everything had a place and there was a place for everything. It's clear where dad and then I got this structure from. Dad is a neat freak and so am I. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it drives others crazy. I think mum just learnt very early on to accept this was how her life was going to be. I know nothing else *shrug*. It seems mum was the only one who would have had to adapt. As usual, I've gone off track.

Nan has a way of dealing with bills. When the bill arrived, she would put it back in it's envelope and write the day it was due on the front of the envelope. She then had a vertical metal rack that she would place them in, in date order of when due. (I'm looking across at my own bill system right now. Heh, wonder who I learnt that from).

We checked where she keeps bills, nope not there. We checked the drawer where she kept writing paper and envelopes, nope not there. It became a little like a treasure hunt. We continued on packing the house up and we agreed that if we couldn't find them, so be it. In Nan's room there was a shoebox that had 'special things' written on the lid. I'd seen the box before, but never seen 'inside' it. Dad opened the box and on top there was an envelope from Ticketek with Nan's address typed on the front. In Nan's handwriting it just said 'For my family'. There were four tickets. Clearly Nan was coming with us. There was a whole lot of other things in the box too, but we'd found what we were looking for and still felt it a bit intrusive to search any further. Another day. The box now lives at mum and dads. It didn't go to storage.

We agreed that we would go to see the show. It was clearly what Nan had intended for us. None of us wanted to go. Anyone we told all agreed. 'If she bought them for you, she wanted you all to have a good time'. The only decision to make was, what to do with the other ticket. Again, the 3 of us spoke about it. We decided we wouldn't do anything with it. It felt wrong to give it to someone else to use and someone else may not have felt comfortable knowing the circumstances it was bought for.

We had a bowl of soup before we went and agreed we'd eat after.

The show was simply brillant. The colour, the sound, the atmosphere was amazing. We had fantastic seats. We had 4 seats from the aisle in row K. During the perfomance the characters just appear magically from the aisles, so you are extremely close to them while they run down the aisles to the stage. The first time it happened was breathtaking. The last time it happened was equally as breathtaking. It only took me about 30 seconds and I believed the characters were real. I didn't look at them and think yeah right it's just a person with a costume on, I believed they were Scar, Mufasa and Rafiki and I believed I was on the African plains. I was part of the adventure.

Who wouldn't believe that was Simba?

I found myself singing (I hope not loudly) along to Hakuna Matata and Circle of Life.

and yes I had tears, for more than one reason when, Can You Feel The Love Tonight? was sung.

Thank you Nan for such a beautiful gift. It was hard to sit through it without you there physically, but I had the feeling through the whole performance you were there somehow.

Spiderman, spiderman, does whatever a spi....cat can?

I don't think the cat is happy......

but I could be wrong

Numbness, food and funerals

Let’s try this again. It’s now 4am, I have slept for a little while, but my head has gone into overdrive for lots of reasons. No matter how hard you convince yourself if you just close your eyes and pretend you’re a New Zealand sheep farmer, (well they have lots of sheep to count) you still can’t sleep. Perhaps it was the fact my mind wandered and I thought that some New Zealand sheep farmers do more than count the sheep and that was enough to never make me sleep again, but I digress…… I'm writing this in Word now and will post it when I get a chance. Not taking any more chances......

The only way I can describe the feeling in the days after nan’s death and before the funeral is numbness. Total numbness. I’ve had this feeling before. I didn’t think I’d have it again quite so soon. You function because you know you have to, you go through the motions of life, but you often wonder what on earth you did to occupy the day. Perhaps your thoughts just consume you and time passes without you realising it. I guess I’m lucky to have the ‘luxury’ of not ‘having’ to do anything. I don’t have to run a major corporation in the midst of grief. No one depends on anything I do. I work at a great place where my boss can get by without me. He is a family orientated man and he simply just says when I need to get away, just go, we’ll manage, take as long as you need. I’m very lucky, I know that. Things seem to go in slow motion. Things that normally take you a couple of minutes to do, seem to take half an hour. Things that take you half an hour to do, seem to take a few hours. There is no sense of urgency. No matter how quickly or slowly you do something, the thought is always there, nan isn’t coming back. People come and go constantly. You ‘feel’ you need to put on a brave face for them, because you have a feeling, which is fairly accurate, they don’t know what to say. ‘Most’ people who come, bring food, why?? It starts to drive me crazy. I’m not being ungrateful here, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but why do people feel the need to bring food? When they come to visit in normal circumstances, they don’t bring food. What is it about death that makes people think we need food? Yes, I understand they think it’s something less we have to worry about. One thing in the day we don’t have to think about, what we should eat for dinner. Ok, ok, I understand all that. But why bring enough food for 6-8 people when there are only 3 of us? Everyone who knows us know there is only mum, dad and I. There is the dog, but I don’t think they think about that when they bring the food. My dad is an only child, I’m an only child. There won’t be hoards of family coming to stay. If you’re one of those people who feel the need to bring food, thank you so much for your generosity and care in preparing that food. My main concern is wastage and the hard work and effort that someone has gone to in preparing beautiful food. I think about what we could do with a now steadily building freezer of lovely pasta dishes. My dad works in an environment where he sees people in need. He knows there are people out there who go without food, just so they can feed their children. He knows people who have to come to him and ask him for referrals to charity organisations, just so the kids can have something to eat. Why don’t some of the people bringing food to us, make food for these families in real need? I know it gets tricky, zork is a rural community. It’s not a small country town though. Some people would have no idea who the families in need would be and that’s the way it should be. But town talk would also make it known who some of the families in need would be. I guess people who need help the most don’t have shingles hanging on the front gate that says ‘Family in Need Within’.

I’m home alone on Sunday afternoon. My parents have gone to nans to organise a couple of things. The doorbell rings. I can see as I’m walking to the door a lady I know, a family friend of sorts, is standing there with yet another casserole dish. That’s another question, where do all these casserole dishes come from? Perhaps it’s a conspiracy by casserole dish manufacturers. They hear of another death and think yes! that’s another casserole dish being used. It’s also another dilemma. When someone gives you a casserole dish full of food, and you tell them it won’t able to be eaten straight away, are they sure they’d like to leave it with us and when they say, yes of course, you then ask would they like us to transfer it to a dish of our own (not that we have as many as filled casserole dishes that are accumulating in the freezer) or can we return it at a later date? Everyone takes the latter option. So that means that family go without using that dish until we return it. Let’s hope there are no more deaths soon where they need another casserole dish to give to another family. I know I’m trivialising this, but while you have plenty of time on your hands, while you’re in slow motion, you think the strangest things, don’t you? I hope I’m not the only person who thinks like this.

I open the door and invite the lady inside. She declines and uses the phrase I’ve heard many times over the past few days ‘No, no, I don’t want to intrude, I just brought something for you to have. So you don’t have to worry about getting anything ready for dinner’. What should I say? Can I use my grief as an excuse for perhaps offending someone right now? I run with that option. Thinking quickly on my feet, the conversation went something like this.

Me: Thank you so much for your offer of food, we have been inundated by friends, it is getting embarrassing. We don’t think we will ever be able to get through so much food.

Lady with casserole in hand: It’s ok, it’s the least we can do. Your mum and dad are great people, they would do the same. (note to mum and dad: if you ever read this, please please don’t do the same).

Me: Because we have been offered so much food, would you be offended if I offered your food to a family in real need?

Lady with casserole in hand, who has now taken a step backwards: Oh

Me: Sorry if that’s not the right thing to ask, I’m just trying to think of a logical option.

-------silence------------

---------------------more silence----------------

----------awkward feet shuffling--------

Lady with casserole with tight grip on casserole: I hadn’t thought of that before. I can see your point though

Me in my head: Was that an agreement?
Me verbally: Would it be ok?

Lady with casserole with not so tight grip: Yes, that would be a nice thing to do. Would you tell the people where it came from?

Me wondering if now is the right time to reach out and take the casserole before she changes her mind: That’s totally your decision

Lady who is now offering the casserole dish: No, I don’t think I would want anyone to know. I wouldn’t want them to think I thought of them as a charity case.

Me totally confused in my head thinking does that mean mum, dad and I are charity cases: that’s cool.

Lady who is now casseroleless: You’re a really caring girl.

Me now holding casserole, shuffling feet embarrassed: heh, thanks.

Casseroleless lady now retreating slowly from the door: Tell mum and dad I’m thinking of them and will catch up with them soon

Me: I will and thank you again for your really kind offer. I’m sure it will be appreciated.

I shut the door. I want to stand and bang my head on the door, but instead I do the right thing and take the casserole that is now firmly in my hands and put it in the fridge. I try not to analyse the whole event too much. But I know I will. I know it will bug me for days to come. (ok the ‘days’ is now a month later, but hey, I’m human).

Mum and dad arrive home and are a little shocked at what I tell them. Mum tells me I can’t do that. Dad tells mum, but she already did. We all smile. I arrange to take the casserole to a family I know would really appreciate it, this close to christmas when money is a serious issue. The woman is very embarrassed, but also very grateful. I tell her that it would mean a lot to dad if he knew the food was being appreciated. I also ensure her no one else needs to know. I leave there feeling a little lighter in spirit. I know we could just give the food to people, but I also know that it wouldn’t be morally the right thing to do and could get rather tricky if person A didn’t know person B was receiving gesture from person A. Person B mentions to person A in passing that they had a lovely casserole given to them by person C and person A works out that was the casserole that was meant for person C, not person B.

Once again, if you are a person A , thank you so much. I hope I haven’t sounded ungrateful.

I just wish there was an easy solution.

There are certain things that you are really grateful that someone takes full control of. Organising the funeral is one of them. The couple from the funeral home come on the Monday to organise everything. It felt a little like we were embarking on having a new kitchen built. They came with samples of timber, samples and colours of cloth, pictures of handles and fancy things. I sat there a lot of the time thinking, does it really matter. Will someone stand there and judge us on what kind of coffin we choose? Will anyone care if the handles are silver or gold, have fancy bits or not? I know any funeral I’ve been to, not that I’ve been to many, I wouldn’t have had a clue if the coffin was green, pink or blue, I only go to show my respect, not to come away and think wow, they put him or her in that kind of coffin? Perhaps other people look at things in a different manner to me. I just wanted to say, just choose anything, Nan really wouldn’t mind, but dad makes the choices. We then decide what kind of service we are going to have. None of us are religious. None of us even contemplate a church service. It would seem hypocritical to suddenly want to go to a church when it’s not something we ever did. We decide on a graveside service. The man from the funeral home asks if we would like someone to say anything at the service. A voice I know to be my own suddenly speaks. ‘I would like to say something at the service’. I search in my head and think, did I just say that out loud. By the looks on the 4 other people sitting in the room, I realise that yes I did. The man asks if we want anyone else to speak. Dad says no, just me speaking would be enough. I think, well done girl, that was a clever thing to do. Mum must know the inner turmoil suddenly going on inside my head and just smiles and says, ‘you will be fine’. I still haven’t worked out why people tell me I’m a strong person all the time. Times like this I’m on the total opposite end of feeling strong. We discuss what songs, if any, we want played. We agree that at the start of the service nan’s favourite song which was Danny Boy, should be played. At the end of the service, dad says he wants Wendy Matthew’s, The Day You Went Away played. He says he knows it doesn’t relate to nan’s situation, but he feels it would be a fitting end. We all agree.

The next day for me is consumed with me preparing something to say. I write and rewrite it until I’m happy that it expresses how I feel about nan. I ask a friend who means a great deal to me if they would read it through and give me an honest opinion on whether it’s ok. They read through it and make a couple of suggestions. I take them on board and I’m happy with the final version. I will reprint what I said at the end of this, for no other reason that I want people to understand what nan really meant to me.

The funeral time arrives. We are all upset, but we know there is nothing we can do about it. My time arrives, I’m scared shitless, but I also know it’s something I need to do. For myself and for nan. I read through what I had prepared, stopping a few times to cry, stopping a few times to focus and gain composure. I finish, people clap. I’m dumbstruck, why are they clapping? I felt like I was in a public speaking competition. This is not about me, it’s about nan! I try to work out what the hell happened. One of nan’s close friends comes up to me after the service, offer me a hug and tell me what I said was beautiful. I ask if they clapped? They say yes and I ask why. They tell me because what I said was exactly how nan was to all of them and they were showing appreciation for her not for how I said it. I thanked them for putting it in perspective for me.

The day after the funeral, it gets quiet. People don’t call around as much, the food has stopped arriving. Perhaps people think we can all cope again now.


It’s just gone 5.40am. I might try shutting my eyes for a few minutes, then start my day properly.


What my Nan means to me…………………..

While thinking about what to say today, I thought I’d look up the word grandmother in the dictionary and see what it said.

I looked in most dictionaries, and most of you who know our family, would know there are a few of them around the place.

The most recurring definition was:

Grandmother

The mother of one’s father or mother
A female ancestor

Yes, those definitions are accurate, but they didn’t mean enough and are very clinical.

So I thought I would then look up Nanna.

The Mesopotamian god of the full moon.

I don’t think that’s the Nanna I know, unless she lived a clandestine life we didn’t know about.

Ok I figure it’s time for my favourite word for her, which was simply Nan.

A river of western Thailand flowing about 563km generally southward to join the Ping River and form the Chao Phraya.

Or Nan is also a variant of naan, which means:

A flat leavened bread of northwest India, made of white flour and baked in a tandoor.

As you might be starting to realise none of these summed up my Nan.

My only option was to write my own description.

How does one start to describe someone who has been there your whole life?

Do you start with the beginning or the end? Or do you just waffle on and hope at the end an accurate definition of someone you love becomes clear. I’ve chosen the latter.

Nan had the best bandaids. At home, we had plain boring brown bandaids. Practical, always practical, but boring. Nan always had special bandaids. She might have bought round ones or the funny shaped ones or coloured ones or cartoon character ones. I knew that if I had hurt myself and had a boring brown bandaid, the cut or graze would still hurt, but as soon as I got to Nan’s and got a special bandaid, with a special kiss to go with it, the wound would always feel so much better.

How can you describe a Nan hug? Soft, warm, gentle, and ever so loving. I remember sitting on her couch after a bath when I was little, if I was having a sleep over. Her and pop would be finishing up doing whatever it was that Nan and pops did and all I wanted was a special Nan hug on the couch. Nan always said, “Come here and let me hug you”. Some of my friends and I would call into Nans on the way home from school. We knew there would be cake. We knew there would be lemonade. I knew the deal though. To get that cake and lemonade there had to be a trade off. The trade off was a Nan hug. I think I went through a stage when I thought it was uncool to have a Nan hug, but my friends never said anything, so I soon got over thinking it was uncool and just enjoyed the Nan hug.

Nan’s food. Everyone knows about Nan’s food. She made two things that she was renowned for. Sausage rolls and apple pie. She always had sausage rolls in the freezer. I could ring her up and say, Nan I’m on my way over, can you put some sausage rolls on for when I get there? When I got there, she always had put on way too many, so we usually ended up going outside and feeding the leftovers to the birds. Her apple pie was the best apple pie. She tried to show me how to make it a few times. Mine never looked anything like hers. My pastry always ended up looking like something that would have probably sunk the titanic if it hadn’t hit the iceberg, and the apples usually looked like baby food, which I think even a starving baby would have puked back up. She kept encouraging me and telling me that one day I would get it right. Well Nan, one day I will get it right. I just don’t know which day that will be. But not all of Nan’s culinary adventures were a good thing. I remember telling her I didn’t like something and thought it was yuck. I got in trouble for telling Nan it was yuck and dad got in trouble for telling me I was wrong to say it was yuck. I told Nan her curried sausages were yuck. Dad said I shouldn’t have said it quite so bluntly. Nan’s comment to dad was, Nicholas, let the child speak her mind. I always giggled when I heard dad being called Nicholas. I soon learned he only got called that when he was in trouble. Dad then proceeded to ask Nan how come if he had said something was yuck, he would have been told to eat it regardless and to think of people not so well off as him. Nan just smiled at dad and said, granddaughters get special privileges. I think it was one of my first lessons in tact.

Nan and tact. More often than not, they didn’t go hand in hand. Nan usually spoke her mind, sometimes without thinking of the consequences. A few months ago, Nan and I were having a discussion and she said something that I felt was quite hurtful and wrong, so being her granddaughter and with my special privileges in mind, I told her. She was taken aback that I had thought she meant something bad by it. I left Nan’s that day on not such great terms. She rang me that night while I was still in zork and asked me to come and see her before I went home the next day. It was probably the only time I’d left Nan’s on bad terms. I didn’t sleep well, but still couldn’t get out of my mind what Nan had said. I saw her the next day, and I got a special Nan hug, she told me she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant anything bad by what she said, but she just hadn’t thought. She then looked at me and said I love you precious girl. She also said, I’ve made you sausage rolls to take home. I hope she knew I forgave her.

She was the lady who read to the kids at the school, made them little gifts. She always had her favourites and would often tell me about whom her current favourite was. Usually by the time she’d finished telling me, it would end up being the whole class. Because mum worked and couldn’t do things like Canteen duty at high school, Nan always did it instead. The days she was rostered on, I’d often go to the canteen just to see Nan. She always made a fuss and wanted to know what I wanted, her shout. Her shout usually ended up being expensive. Any of my friends who wanted to buy something were never allowed to pay. She would always say, “Don’t worry about paying, it’s my shout. Let an old lady have some indulgences” That was Nan. She was in her element knowing someone needed her help. Nan wasn’t a church goer, she didn’t even have a religion as far as I know. But she had friends who were involved in different churches. If anyone was called upon to offer assistance for anything, Nan would always volunteer, no matter which church group were looking for assistance. She visited people in hospital, just so they knew there was someone around who would have a chat and listen. There was Nan’s walking group as well. She started off a group of friends going walking a couple of days a week. Some would say they didn’t feel like going etc etc. I pity those people, they didn’t stand a chance. She would just say, oh bollocks, get off your butt and come with us. More often than not, I think they ended up going. She was very persuasive. She was involved in starting the Monday morning Oldies session at the pool too. I was home one Monday, and she told me to come along. I remember looking at her and saying, you have got to be kidding. I’m not going swimming with a bunch of old people. She scoffed, told me to grow up and to change my attitude. Of course, I ended up at the pool. I also ended up having a really good time. Another lesson in humility; courtesy of Nan.

There is one thing I want to thank Nan for that I never expressed in words while she was with us. I’d like to thank Nan for giving us my dad. The past few days haven’t been easy for him. I know he is who he is because of Nan and Pop and I am who I am because of him and mum. When Pop died, Nan told us that we weren’t to feel sorry for ourselves that Pop wouldn’t have liked that. I know if she wanted us to know anything right now it would be to get on with our lives and remember to enjoy it to its fullest while we’re here. One of her favourite sayings, which came home to roost on Thursday was, “You just don’t know when your number is up”.

I saw Nan last weekend a few times while I was home. I called in and saw her on Monday before I left. She was her usual self, happy. She’d been to her swim session and was organising the break up day and what she had planned for everyone. Hopefully, you will all continue with that next Monday and think of Nan while you have your break up party. We spoke about Christmas dinner. Nan always cooked the pork. We always had apple pie, even though it’s not traditional Christmas food. It was just the done thing. I checked Nan’s freezer the other day and I saw there was an apple pie there. I guess we will still get to have apple pie this Christmas. It’s funny though, I don’t remember Nan ever freezing apple pie. I asked dad if he remembered her freezing apple pie. He smiled and just said in his best Nan voice “It’s got to be fresh! You can’t have frozen apple pie!!” So Nan, why is there an apple pie in the freezer?

So as you can imagine, if we were basing the word Nan on my Nan, the dictionary needed to describe her would be a very large book indeed and I doubt I’d find a willing publisher.

So I will sum up what I think the definition should be:

Nan: An amazingly, wonderful lady, offering unconditional love.


I am privileged to have known that amazingly, wonderful lady who gave me unconditional love for 21 years.


PS. I know I don’t know when to stop writing. I know I write a lot. A close friend and I commonly refer to my writing as waffle. One day I might learn to paraphrase……

I need an option instead of crying.

I've just learnt one of the hardest lessons.

I've just spent an hour and half, searching inside for words to describe how we felt after nan's death. The following days. I've got them all out of my head, I've typed them all and just lost the lot. I could cry, I'm tempted to cry, but I've cried enough and I hate crying. I just have to do it all again. I don't think it will be today somehow.

The irony of it all, was I had pressed Ctrl A, to highlight all, it was all highlighted, I wanted to then copy and paste it to Word, just in case in the transfer it got lost, I would have the words in Word as a back up. I thought I was holding down Ctrl and pressed C, seems I wasn't holding down the Ctrl key and when I pressed C that's exactly what I got, a C on this page *sigh*

tiredness...

This one's for you.....

One month on..........Part 2

We sat around with nan for a long time. Doctors came, doctors went, no one really 'did' anything. Nothing could be done. We were asked if we had considered donating nan's organs. As a family, we had discussed this many times, nan included. We are all of the opinion that our organs would be useless to us once we had died, and if in anyway they could help another person, then they should be used. It wasn't a choice really, it was something that had to be done. We advised someone, I don't remember who, that we were going to donate nan's organs, if they could be used. We were told that the counsellors from the transplant team would be along to talk to us, go over anything with us, outline the format of what would happen. All the 'formalities'. There's a few jobs I wouldn't like, I'm finding out a few of them all in the one night. My uncle is a trauma counsellor and has to help people in making decisions relating to organ donation. I'm glad it's his job and not mine. Doctors and nurses have my full admiration. Going to work, doing everything you possibly could, but at the end of the day going back home again with someone dying, is not my idea of job satisfaction. I know it's not like that every day and I know they do get job satisfaction from making someone in pain more comfortable, seeing people who are seriously unwell slowly become well again. Thank you for doing the job you do. How do you thank people who have done their best, knowing they couldn't do anything to change the situation? Another question unanswered.

The organ team had to travel up from Melbourne. I guess the logistics of all that happening takes some coordination and effort. While all that happens, we sit and wait. We could have gone home, but the three of us decided that we would stay with nan till the end. Maybe the end had already happened? I've never liked coffee, why would I have agreed to drink a coffee at 1am? I can almost taste it now. If anything, it perpetuated my hate of it. It's funny how people, who are mostly well educated, advise that you should try and get some rest. They know it's not even remotely possible, but they suggest it anyhow. It reminds me of another incident, one that still needs about 400 blogs to get it out of my head...another time. All of a sudden things become a little more 'hectic'. They probably aren't hectic at all, but from everything just being so quiet, so unrushed to suddenly have people moving in a much more controlled manner. There is now purpose, there is now an urgency that hasn't been there for a few hours. It signals the organ retrieval teams arrival. I've spoken to my friend a few times now. They were curious as to what was going on, how we were coping. I was able to ask questions that I probably wouldn't have asked a stranger. While you're at your lowest, the last thing you need is to feel like an idiot. That's an unfair assumption, but while you're low you think the weirdest things. Well I do anyhow. My mind was set a little more at ease. Again, even after knowing the answer, I still needed to hear it, nan would be in no pain. I asked one question, that I thought about for a while after. It was answered diplomatically, in a beautiful manner. It was also answered to spare me knowing the truth. It's ok though, it was what was needed at the time. They take nan. My dad is distraught, my mum tries to console him, but she too is grieving. I just stand there looking at the space the bed was. I want a hug, I want a nan hug. I want to be 5 again. I want to be in the comforting arms of my nan. I want her to brush the hair off my face and tell me everything is ok. Again, I hate tears. I feel weak when I cry. We go out of the room and we wait. We told the counsellors that we wanted to see nan after everything was complete. We are told we can. So we wait.

We wait, we wait and wait some more. We're offered more of that stuff that comes in a cup, that some people enjoy. I asked if there was any milo. The nurse who offered, look at me as if I'd asked her to fly to the moon on a solar powered egg beater. 'We have coffee or tea, the kitchen would be closed at this time of the morning'. Thank you for your offer, but I will pass, I think I will just get a soft drink from the vendor. Walking to the machine I then realise lunch was a long long time ago. I vaguely remember being offered a sandwich. I think mum offered it. Wonder where she got them from? I bought a can of coke and a mars bar. I felt like I was in some trashy american medical soapy. It's a strange feeling being in a place of activity, when you can't actually 'do' anything. I like watching people, but now I feel like I'm intruding. There aren't many other 'normal' people around. There are nurses, there is the ocassional doctor, but mostly it's just us waiting. I start to feel like we're a bit in the way. Start to feel like we're probably being spoken about. 'Why don't they just go home?' 'There's nothing they can do waiting' I never heard those words verbalised, no one even came close to suggesting them and they are probably totally inaccurate assumptions. Heh, it's 4am, what else is there to do? Why don't counsellors ever look tired? Why do they always try to find encouraging things to say? The counsellor tells us everything is over and nan will be back in a room shortly. I try not to think of the nan that comes back in the room will be a different nan to the one that left. Some of her will be missing. It's hard not to think like that though.

She comes back. It's so quiet. There are no machines any more, nothing making her look like she is breathing. It's so quiet, it's painful. I want to scream, to make noise. I don't. A nurse comes in and says we can take as long as we like with nan. It crosses my mind we will have to leave her soon. I wonder what's going on in my mum and dad's heads. It's so quiet, we are hardly speaking. Mum motions to me that we should leave dad alone for a while. I don't want to leave him. He is sad, I want to comfort him. I want to be his little girl and I realise right now he is nan's little boy. He needs time alone with his mum. My mum is hurting too. The man she loves is hurting and she can't console him.

Maybe 10 minutes pass, maybe it was an hour, time got lost. Dad comes out and asks us to come back in. Mum and I go back in, we say our goodbyes to nan. We thank the nurses for the care they've shown. It's time to go. We're going home and leaving someone behind. Shouldn't she be coming with us? I don't want her to be alone.

She doesn't look angry anymore.

I love you nan.

One month on..........

One month ago today, I lost my nan. My dad lost his mum, my mum lost her mother in law. We didn’t lose her like you lose a wallet or car keys, we lost her for good.

She suffered a Cerebral Haemorrhage, it was sudden with no warning. I was at work, looking forward to a wonderful weekend. I got a call from my dad, who was crying, telling me I had to go home. Home, which I commonly call ‘zork’ is a couple of hours away. I rang the person I had plans with for the weekend and told them. I also told them I didn’t want to go, my dad was crying when he told me to come home. My dad never told me to do things, he always suggested or asked. Being told to do something gave me the knowledge that something was bad. When I told the person I was to spend the weekend with, whom is surrounded by these kind of situations constantly, and their reaction was go, go now, get off the phone. I knew what lay ahead.

So many times along the drive to zork, I wanted to turn around and go back to the comfort of home. Travelling to somewhere you don't want to go to, is never pleasant. Knowing when you get there you are going to be greeted by sad people, confused people, doesn't help.

I've seen my dad cry a lot of times. Crying was never frowned upon in our house. It was never thought to be only something girls do. Mind you, I seem to have perfected the art of crying. It's not something I'm proud of it, but that's a whole other blog and not meant for this one. What do you say or how do you react when you see one of the people who have influenced your life, crying? If someone has the answer, please let me know.

I arrived at the hospital at zork, to be greeted by my parents. The looks on their faces told me all I needed to know. Nan had suffered a stroke and doctor's had said she wouldn't recover. I went and saw her, hooked up to machines, looking asleep, looking like she was breathing, but there was something about her face that I didn't like. She looked almost angry. Nan never got angry. I wanted to touch her face and make the frowns go away, but I also didn't want to touch her. This wasn't my nan, this was someone who just looked like nan. Someone I knew would never be coming back, never open her eyes and say, how's my big little girl today? I remember sitting there crying. A doctor walked past, touched my shoulder and when I asked if she was in any pain, he just said, no, she's in no pain at all. I knew she wasn't, logic told me she wasn't, but I also needed to hear it from someone who knew for certain.

Today is the first day etc etc

Ok, well I've just established there is no comic sans font. Heh, I guess that's just pushed the boundaries. I 'always' type in comic sans. I'm writing this blog to help explore me, so I guess that was the first test. Seems I passed. I've written more than one sentence. Hopefully, I will find out more as I go along. Hopefully, this will become a safe haven for me, where I can get what's in my head out. There's a lot in my head :)