Second Helpings

Battling Blues

I suspect I might be about to write the most morbid entry ever posted in Blogville, but will make no apologies. I have been struggling to write anything of late and maybe a bit of offloading might release the clogged up brain cell. I doubt it however as there is much more going on than I shall disclose in this entry and the last brain cell is probably about to expire anyway.

I accept I’ve reached a stage in life where I will attend more funerals than weddings or christenings. The older we get the more we come into contact with death, yet its power to shock doesn’t seem to lessen.

I’ve been there when friends and family have suffered the loss of parents and of course lived through the ultimate heartbreak of losing my own mother. But in the last month I’ve bought three sympathy cards to commiserate with those who have lost a sibling. The sands of time are shifting it seems.

I’m pretty sure everyone has phases when all we hear is bad news. I’m pretty certain we all contemplate our own mortality as we age and witness more deaths. Having a lot less time in front than behind is a frightening thought, yet there is no escaping the fact we are all shuffling towards the front of the queue.

We’re all aware there is no certain promise of another day whatever our age. The three funerals held this month have all been people in their sixties. The saddest was one of my parent’s neighbours. When my Mum and Dad moved into their last house almost twenty years ago, they were lucky enough to make good friends of the folk next door, Tom, Jean and her brother Mick.

Sadly Tom died of cancer in his fifties in 2007. Jean and Mick continued to be a big help to my parents. My Mum was the next to pass in 2008. Jean would often pop round to see my Dad for a chat; though I’m not sure he ever appreciated that. Slowly, it became apparent Jean was to become another victim of dementia and last year had to take up residence in a care home. Later it was discovered she too had cancer so her death at 68 this month was in many ways a release, though grossly unfair.

As many of you know my Dad is now in a care home after an horrendous house fire at his home in February this year. That leaves Mick the only one left living in one of the houses and as we will soon have to put my father’s house on the market it’s sad to face the end of yet another era. But such is the way of things unfortunately.

It fazes me and seems unjust when others are losing their brothers and sisters that my hubby and I are still caring for parents. Although lifestyle may enter into the equation of who stays and who leaves, it seems only a small part of the mystery in my humble opinion. Hubby’s Mum turned 97 last week and manages amazingly well in her own home, although obviously she requires a lot of help.

I could deduce her continued determination and enthusiasm for life are what keep her going. She always has a mission to get to the Post Office, look around for last minute supermarket bargains and compare the price of carrots. But my Dad cancels out that theory. At 91 he seems to have no interest in anything. He spends most of his time in bed, rarely gets dressed and never leaves his room. Nothing can persuade him to sit outside in the glorious sunshine of late or interact with any residents at the home. It appears he’s given up, but still has no serious health problems as far as we know.

I battle with many emotions including resentment, depression and fear. Resentment that at my age I still have limited choices and little freedom. Depression due to the longevity of traumas and problems I’ve endured for many years now. Fear of the unknown and the constant feeling there’s not enough time left for enjoying life and the things I wanted to do.

My son turned thirty yesterday, which of course is an occasion to celebrate. I remember his birth as if it was only yesterday. Not only the pain and joy, but the nurses, doctors, family visits, cards, gifts and conversations. I can even recall the book I was reading in hospital. Where do thirty years go? Tempus Fugit indeed. Of course, he has his own family now and the children are treasures, but the unusual circumstances of his marriage and ongoing problems mean we can never truly relax about their future.

Having grandchildren is yet another reminder of the swift passage of time and our own transient hold on life. I’m aware lately of slowing down, not being able to tackle things with the same energy and a heavy cloud of dark thoughts accompany me most days and even more so at night. I’m ashamed at my lack of activity and lost motivation, my inability to shake off anxieties over things I have little control. My Que Sera attitude seems to be on vacation.

I’ve had several invitations to visit the doctor for an annual check up now I’ve reached a certain age. Hubby is constantly at the surgery for one reason or another, still undergoing tests for his mystery illness and seems quite willing to swallow, spray, inject or absorb anything as regards his health. I am of the opposite persuasion.

I have put off this visit as I do not wish to know my chances of having a heart attack, a stroke, contracting diabetes, dementia or having my wrist slapped about my bad habits and weight. Ostrich syndrome has no cure, but having witnessed so much of old age I’m not quite sure I want to go there. Contra wise I’m not sure I want anyone to be purchasing a sympathy card for my family quite yet. Catch 22.

But maybe I’ll have to relent and take up the appointment. I have no wish to enter the arena of taking one pill to counteract the effects of another as my hubby does, but I guess the alternative isn’t too attractive either. So, if you’ll excuse my maudlin state of mind and pessimism for the moment I’ll do my best to persuade the doctor to inject a heavy dose of joie de vivre and ask if there’s any hope for that last remaining brain cell.