Blackness.
It surrounds me.
A black fog that engulfs me,
Seeps into my lungs and chokes me.
Blackness.
It is all I see.
The joy of life drained away
until all that is left is shades of grey.
Blackness.
Fills my ears like tar.
Smothers the sounds
I hear my heartbeat like a drum, counting down to my release.
Blackness.
Takes away my voice.
Changes my vocabulary.
Twists my meaning.
Blackness.
It’s all I have
It’s all I know
and blindfolded by blackness I can’t find my way out.
Jazz singer Eska Mtungwazi (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
On Monday I went to see the fabulous Eska Mtungwazi perform her latest work English Skies at the South Bank. I went to school with her and even then she was a musical force, able to play any instrument she picked up without a single lesson. When I discovered a few years ago that she was writing and performing her own music ( we had written a few songs together at school 
) I was ecstatic to find that this amazing gift was being shared with the world. On Monday I also felt a little inspired so here is my Haiku for the lovely Eska…
‘English Skies’ Songstress
your music and lyrics join
to lift my soul high
Yesterday I became unintentionally entangled in a Facebook argument. To summarise the argument which raged all day long a friend went for a blood test. When he arrived before 7am (they opened at 8am), because he had to get to work asap, he was already something like 9th in the queue. All of the people before him were very elderly, and one could therefore assume retired. He questioned why they had gone so early in the day, when they had all day to do so delaying others, with jobs to get to, in the process.
I’m not going to relate all of the responses, but they were the usual mix of puerile jokes and serious comments. That was until someone posted that we should all be ashamed of ourselves for talking about the elderly in derogatory terms as we will be old one day too.
My response earlier that day had been that perhaps these old folk had some type of dementia, the (valid) reasons why it could be dementia, but agreeing that it was annoying to be delayed in this way. Should I be ashamed by that?
I went back to Facebook and explained that, on a daily basis, I care for a 79 year old man with dementia. I greatly respect this man, but his age and illness do not mean that he can not be irritating or inconsiderate and I may not find him annoying.
Apparently I should know better because I am a carer!
Why? By caring for someone do I have to discount my emotions and opinions? Aren’t I allowed to feel a negative emotion at any time? Does becoming a carer transform me magically into Mother Theresa? I don’t think so.
Did the person I care for become perfect when he became ill? As he grew older did he suddenly become considerate of all those around him? By being elderly does he acquire rights and courtesies that should not be extended to the rest of the population? I (and his other relatives) don’t think so.
I was subjected to the ‘they fought for this country‘ reasoning. I am grateful to those who did fight during the Second World War alongside many of my relatives, some of who lost their lives, but unless they were over 90 years old that is now unlikely. As I relayed earlier I was told ‘You’ll be old too one day‘. Hopefully that’s true, but will that be an excuse for me to inconvenience others. No! Another response: ‘You represent all that’s wrong with this country today!’ I expect politeness and consideration of others?! Is that wrong?
I felt singled out and attacked as a respondent because I admitted that I look after someone who is elderly and infirm but I can find him annoying from time to time. Does this affect the way that I look after him? No it doesn’t. He needs to be looked after, and yes, sometimes his illness makes him say or do crass things but, equally, sometimes it is all him. I have a right to feel annoyed. I don’t have the right to mistreat him as a result of that emotion, but I can feel it.
If I had posted that my children had done something stupid which had inconvenienced others, but there may have been a reason for their actions, and yes I could understand others annoyance at them, no-one would have batted an eyelid. In fact I suspect I would have been praised for being such a fair-minded person. So what is it about being a carer, or dealing with the elderly, that means that you must discard negative feelings?
I was sitting in my car on New Years Day listening to the radio. As I listened I started to think about how music evokes memories and emotions, how listening to a particular piece can set you up for the day or bring you down. I thought about the songs that get stuck in your head and the ones you wake up singing. I thought about new musical discoveries and old favourites.
I’ve always loved music. From my earliest days I can remember hearing music in the house. My father playing Pink Floyd albums loud enough to drown out other sounds. My mother listening to, the then new, Capital Radio as she did the housework. Watching Top of the Pops on a Thursday night ( and I remember the first time I saw it in colour!) If I hear the right song I’m right back in the moment.
My listening habits have altered over the years. I’m aware of how the ear-splitting sounds I loved in my teens at full volume can now alter my heart rate and mood. I’ve always had a wide-ranging taste, but now I listen to Classical music to help me relax and trusted favourites. I still love musical discoveries but rather than listening to an album featuring a great track over and over, I’ll just re listen to the track I love.
I’ve often thought about keeping some kind of journal or diary, but that commitment to writing down your experiences seemed to onerous. So, as I sat in the car, I thought I can keep a record of the song that captures the day for me. Some days there’ll be more than one and I’ll have to whittle them done to one choice. Some days may not have any (I also appreciate silence). But my year will have many, many musical moments.
Memories of your children growing up are the stuff that families are made of. Your baby’s first word, their first steps, the way they fall asleep flat on their backs with arms above their heads all conjure up images that warm the heart and bring a smile to a parent’s face. But for some parents it’s not this simple.
With both of my pregnancies I suffered from Hyperemesis Gravidarum. The percentage of women who suffer from morning sickness has been quoted as anywhere between 70% and 90% but Hyperemisis is uncontrollable nausea and vomiting which persists all day for anywhere up to the full term of the pregnancy. This made for a miserable 9 months and second time around I was running around after a toddler who was only 22 months when his sibling was born as well as contending with the persistent sickness.
By the time my second child was born I was exhausted. She had been extremely active in the womb kicking for up to 8 hours at a time, and usually starting in the middle of the night. This was a foretaste of what was to come. She slept in fifteen minute bursts and for no more than 2 hours a day. She cried incessantly yet there was nothing physically wrong. My husband and I slept (we actually listened to her cry from another room) in shifts. It was tough.
So how does this relate to memories of your children? Well, maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. My husband and I shared the same pregnancies and childbirth. We have the same children yet our memories are so different. Why can’t I remember? Is it because I was so exhausted that it was just enough for my body to get through the day? Was asking my mind to remember moments as well that bridge too far? Did my pregnancy illness drive a divide between me and my children? After all, pregnancy and childbirth are designed to naturally encourage bonding between mother and child, yet being excessively ill throughout did not foster this. I am quite open in saying that I am still waiting for that great surge of motherly love that so many women claim to feel. I do love my children. I have fought for them and defended them but I am not blinded by love to their faults. They are not an extension of my being. I do not live through them. My husband remembers the first words. He remembers the silly things they did. He remembers playing games while bathing them, the tears and the tantrums. My children often ask questions that start “When I was little did I….?” and I can’t answer them. My memories of them as babies are so vague and mostly fuelled by the photographs we have. I remember my daughters first words were actually a baby-signed sentence (“Look, birds, sky!”) but I have no recollection of the actual first spoken word by either her, or my son. I don’t remember their first steps although I know that they both started to walk at 10 months. I don’t remember the times they would crawl on our laps and put chubby arms around us.
As we reach the new academic year I hear daily the stories of Mothers and children torn asunder by the education system. Tales are told of how brave the children were on the first day of school, of mothers sobbing into tissues and of the pride at seeing your child in their uniform on their first day. I feel cheated by these stories. By being told them over and over by so many people I feel that I am being deprived of the full parenting experience. I feel that somehow I am less of a mother for not having these life changing moments. In reality its as if I have tucked the memories away in a jar full of smoke. The smoke moves and swirls around offering tantalising glimpses, but never fully revealing the picture. I remember the bumps and bruises, illnesses and crying, but not the joy and pride or landmark occasions. I absolutely cannot remember the details that make up the whole.
Does the fact that I do not have these memories make us less of a family? I think not, although you would need to ask them too. My husband remembers their past but I live in their present. To me they will never be younger than they are. I will not hold them back to keep up the pretence that they are my babies. I live in their present. I enjoy their present. Although shared memories may be the stuff that families are made of, it’s the day to day things that bond a family together. Living the moment together, hearing and seeing the now. If this is what keeps families united then I am doing a fabulous jump of sticking my family together like superglue and I think the odd lapse of memory can be overlooked.
I’m just back from the pub. Very decadent you may think but it was an errand of mercy as my husband had forgotten to take his wallet to football (playing, not watching) and was unable to buy the obligatory post-game drink.
Most people would agree that men are really bad at sharing their feelings. They are intensely proud, defend their families and will not be ridiculed. They won’t discuss anything medical or emotional and money should never, ever be discussed.
Having saved Hubby from embarrassment by delivering his wallet I was invited to stay for a drink. I took them up on their offer but, as it was a nice day I went to sit in the garden to allow the ‘boys’ to have their celebratory drink. Nice men that they are, I was soon summoned back to join them.
At first there was a lot of banter mostly about the match but as the conversation settled the topics varied. There was talk about serious illness, unemployment, salaries (and who earns less than their spouse) and children. OK – I have to put my hand up and say that a few sarcastic asides from me to Hubby opened the floodgates, yet here was a group of men, in a pub, having the kinds of discussions usually attributed to women.
It was at this point that I realised that playing a team sport like football or rugby is more to men than just a game. Yes, it appeals to their Hunter/Gatherer instinct, the primeval urge to compete, but it is also an opportunity for comradery. It’s dressed up in humour, sarcasm and beer but this is definitely the male version of a support group and as a female I have a new-found respect for it.
