Fears

  I have been taking stock of my fears lately and, if not totally irradicating them, certainly hiding them in the dark depths of the monsters' closet.
  Children inherit the fears of the mother. I know I inherited some of my mother's.    Her fear of heights was never a problem for my skydiving self until I got engaged.  Weird, but as soon as that ring was on my finger, my sense of responsibility kicked in and I became pathologically afraid of anything that goes up, plummeting down.  Her fear of losing control...definitely with me to a degree. Her hypochondria...a well set stain on my genes until last year.
  My fear of flying - gone, my fear of heights - gone, my fear of dying - been there, done that, my fear of my son dying - been there, done that and if he wants to do it again, he will in his own time.  Don't misunderstand, I would be devastated. I adore him to the core of his being. To fear or not to fear a death can't diminish the sadness of it, but it also can't save you in the end.  I feared his dying for the first 3 months of his life and it stopped me from bonding with him.  If fear can do this to mother and child, what does it do to every aspect of our lives?

After 12 minutes of death, he moved his arm.  He decided to live for now and maybe that's all any of us can do.

yesterday

  If you don't know how lucky you are, then think about it.  It was all around me yesterday, drinking, laughing, crying and feeding me sausage rolls. It's made all the difference to my frame of my mind, not to mention my complexion.

Drinks with the devil.

  Strangest dream last night. My husband and I were at a bar...and wait...that wasn't the strange part.
I bumped in to a girl I know called P.  She told us about a better, more exclusive bar that you can only enter if you pray to the devil and find his money.  Clearly we did just that (my Catholic mother would be horrified).
 Suddenly, we're on a dark street where I find a small pile of what looks like black carbon paper fillagreed in gold. I pick it up and it crunches and partially crumbles in my hand.
  Ahead, we see an old house in the process of renovation - scaffolded and such.  We discover a bar concealed inside the scaffolding. The music was rich, sexy, experimental melodies.  The patrons all looked like the types I used to know - social climbers dressed in well arranged combinations of exclusive labels and op-shop chic.
  We had a drink with the devil, who had beautiful, youthful, blue eyes in an aging, beaten up face and spoke a little softer than Tom Waits.  He's only of average height by the way.
  The devil was witty, charming and friendly in an aloof kind of way.  I almost felt like he was slightly intimidated.  He counselled my husband and I on our relationship.  Everything he said made sense and it almost seemed like he cared.  Then he told me "You have to be careful pretty girl, I can see scars inside you, particularly around your lungs."  In a matter of fact way, as if I'd expected him to say something like that, I replied;  "Lung cancer right?"  He nodded with pseudo-sympathy.  Then I laughed and said "Is that the best you can do?"  My husband put his arm around me and said "What a wanker". I woke soon after.
  So, Tuesday night drinks with the devil...I wonder where I'll go tonight.

The anniversary of birth and death.

 Today is my son's first birthday and the anniversary of his death and mine. 
We have been to hospital to have his hips x-rayed.  An appropriate place to be today I suppose
- our old haunt. 
Unconciously, til now, I'm wearing the shirt I wore a year ago, minus the arch where a belly would have been til 8.44pm tonight.
 Memories tearing shreds off me right now.  Next year, I hope they will have faded, but unlikely wonder-soaped away like the sweat stains on said shirt.  Speaking of...laundry!  I am well behind on pooh-cloth bleaching.

 

My son

put death in its place.

In his heart

He lifted his tiny head

Raised his tiny arm

And said

Later

When I've lived.

When I've learned to say the word.

When I've mastered it.

Cake and trolleys

  When the baby's asleep, there's quiet, but very little peace because you always have to be one step ahead. I should be thinking of what I will feed him when he wakes and preparing syringes for his nasal gastric tube, should he decide not to eat anything. Instead, I'm planning a cake he won't get to enjoy, for a first birthday he may be too uncomfortable to celebrate.
  Husband is using his small window of emotional and physical semi-freedom to brave the most depressing, lower socio-economic shopping centre in the city. He'll calculate the value of each meat pack and fresh vegetable, while obese families of 6 fill their carts with cans of coke, chips, alcohol and cigarettes.  I used to feel sorry for them, now their ability to degrade the healthy bodies they were born with just pisses me off. They don't know the luxury they were born in to...she says as she sips coffee and smokes cigarettes.

Tidy house, tidy mind.

  If one more therapist or husband tells me I'm crazy, I'll show them crazy.
I mean, among the things people need to get them through the day, is a tidy house really such an unreasonable expectation?  I could be waking up to whiskey or worse, but all I require is some semblance of order and a little domestic dignity. 
  God save me from people who think filth and chaos is sane!

The best of 3 nightmares.

  I have a choice to make for my son.  Do I:
a) Have a nasal gastric tube inserted - a non-surgical procedure that will feed him food, drugs, fluid, but destroy his enjoyment of eating.
b) Go ahead with a gastrostomy next Monday - surgical under general anaesthetic.  It allows feeding, fluid and drugs while he practices eating by mouth and should put the focus on enjoying food rather than making sure he's getting the nutrition he needs.  The downside being the wound can get infected and leak, plus, he's one year old and risking another death.
c) Do nothing and hope he starts eating and stops losing weight.

Wouldn't it be nice if we didn't love our children?