One foot and then another
There is sand in my toes and my hair is tangled around my face, hanging free, dripping salt water everywhere.
It feels like a kick in the guts, like someone walking over my grave, a shiver, a shudder. I am surrounded by ghosts of might-have-beens and if-things-had-been-different. They tug at my clothes and my hair, flitting out of sight when I look too closely.
***
You were meant to be here, helping with this.
You weren’t meant to die.
Everything is falling apart and you weren’t meant to be dead for this.
Do you hear me? You weren’t meant to die and leave us to deal with this alone.
***
One foot in front
and then the other.
Repeat, ad infinitum.
It won’t get easier, but it might get different.
I’m overwhelmed and unprepared for this.
Even though it’s been coming
for months
for years.
***
Things fly up and smack me in the face. I didn’t think of that. Why didn’t I ever notice that before?
The world falls down around my feet and I’m walking, crushing everything and I don’t want to be.
***
It’s cold outside, a veritable wasteland of winter. The rains come and everything turns green overnight, a stark change from the deathly yellow we saw last week. I want to sit in the sun and breathe in the smell of summer. I want to watch my children splash in water, to drip peach juice down my chin, to baby a garden through the hot weather.
I want warmth and growth and the smell of hot grass and sweat.
I want to lay on the grass and sob, to have the sun dry my tears as they leak from my eyes.
Instead, it’s cold and icy. The wind cuts through me like a knife, leaving me jagged.
And we are stuck inside again.
Am Ow-Side!
I didn’t want to go outside when my son stood wailing at the baby gate, crying for ‘ow-side!’ I wanted to stay inside and hibernate, curling up with my book and a hot drink. I didn’t want to have to do anything, just be alone inside my head.
Instead, I took him outside to join his sister in running around the paddocks.
And the look on his face was worth it as I opened the front door and he, newly clad in bright blue gumboots, clomped out to join his father.
It was worth it when we grabbed some wheat and fed the chooks and ducks, together.
It was worth it, to hear him calling duck-duck-duck-duck as he tried to chase them a little.
It was worth it.
He spent the first 10 minutes we were outside happily exclaiming ‘am ow-side! am ow-side!’
He chased a duck and paddled in the water. He stomped through a mud puddle and ran around the tyre arena. He helped to check for eggs and chased his sister.
And finally, he asked to be picked up and we came inside, to eat lunch and nap.
It was worth braving the cold and bitter wind. It was worth not getting to write what I was going to write. It was worth not curling up with a book.
It was worth all that, just to see his face light up as he called ‘Am ow-side!’ to me every few steps through the grass.
Seems I’m not the only one who hates the indoor isolation of winter.
And we’ll be going ow-side more often.
More than a mother
My son stands up and starts to walk.
But he’s the baby I think. Who gave him permission to grow up?
He stands, laughing and clapping and walks the length of the room to get to me. I scoop him up and spin him in a circle, before he bites my shoulder and gets put down with a thunk.
He laughs again and stands, walking towards the other side of the house.
Wow. That time flew.
I swear, I only gave birth to him a moment ago. Not that long, surely?
***
They are screaming and I am stressed. Grabbing my camera, I escape the noise. Heading outside, I leave them to their father and disappear to reclaim my sanity from the other side of a macro lens.
I find bugs and flowers and then I return, wind chilled and flushed red – but happier. Always happier.
I adore my children with every ounce of my soul, but I scream to be more than a mother.
I want to be a photographer, a writer, an author, a blogger.
But my children are young and they’ll only be this small for a short amount of time.
I put aside my own wants and needs and make time for them, to roll around on the floor and nibble toes and elbows.
However, for 20 minutes a day, when I am in front of my computer immersed in words, or outside taking photos,
I am more than a mother.
And that makes me happy.
Now
Sighing, I flop on the couch and wiggle until I’m on my stomach. Arms outstretched I hide my head and eyes.
My brain works and I taste the words on my tongue, playing them through my mind. They fall from my mouth, whispered, like jewels and I swallow them back up again, not wanting to lose any.
‘What are you doing?’ says my partner. ‘Are you hiding?’
‘No. I’m brainstorming’ I mumble. My head pops up and I look at him, cupping my chin in my hands. ‘I’ve already had a shower today, so I can’t go and brainstorm there, can I.’
‘Oh. Okay’ he says and wanders off.
I had words, before. A whole post full of words, beautiful words, strong words. I just hadn’t written them down yet. I was busily running them through my mind as I picked up toys when a harmonica drilled it’s way into my ears and chased all the words away.
I can still hear it, that damned harmonica.
Innnnn ouuuuuut innnnnnn ouuuuuut and SQUEAL!
I bury my head back in my arms and try to return to my words, but the spell is broken. My son crawls over and pulls my hair and my daughter continues to suck on that dammed mouth organ.
Standing now, I head to my computer, hoping to salvage something. Anything.
It doesn’t work, not really.
Behind me my partner switches on the vacuum and watches me typing and ignoring the housework. His gaze makes my hands trip over the words and glaring at him, I snap the laptop shut. In reality, he probably wasn’t watching my words, but I can’t work anyhow.
I stand, allowing him to vacuum underneath my desk before he heads off in one direction and I sit back down to harness my wayward words, like small flighty creatures they dart off before I can get my hands on them.
In the background, the vacuum cleaner hums still and my daughter screeches my name, imploring me to ‘let her iiiiiiiiiiin’. My son giggles at her.
It’s hard to write here and now.
But I do it anyway.
Circles. Round and round in circles.
My hair falls out, great handfuls tangling themselves around my fingers as I run a brush through it. Stress I assume and hormones. Something, I’m not sure anymore. It’s no great loss.
My son hands me a handful of half chewed pasta. Wrapped around his fingers are more strands of my hair. All the vaccuming in the world never picks it all up.
I have a lot of hair.
Or should that read I had a lot of hair.
***
The hospital rings me while I am in the car. I strain to hear her voice over the top of the traffic sounds and my children, whining, contained in the backseat.
‘We’ve got the children’s genetic tests back.’
‘Okay, have you got the results?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you over the phone, you’ll need to come in and see us.’
‘Oh. Why is that? It was only meant to be looking for the gene that causes coeliacs, surely it’s just a yes or no answer.’
‘The test results are quite involved and complicated. You need to discuss them with Head of Paeds.’
‘Oh.’
I feel sick and cold all at once. It was only meant to be a genetic screen for Coeliacs. It’s not involved or complicated. Yes. Or. No.
‘You have an appointment in June don’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Well, ideally we’d like to see you sooner.’
‘Yes, that would be good.’
Sooner is never good news.
‘But, as you can imagine, we’re heavily booked. I’ll see what I can do for you.’
June is a life time away. I’d like to see them tomorrow, but that’s not possible. What else have they turned up, that she can’t give me the results over the phone, when I was told that I could ring to find out whether the children have a coeliacs gene or not.
‘Are you sure you can’t tell me if they screened positive for the Coeliacs gene? That’s all they were testing for.’
‘I’m very sorry. Like I said, the test results are rather involved and you need to see Dr. B about them.’
Dr B. The higher up of higher ups. The Paed we never see, whom our regular paed leaves the room to consult with occasionally. The one in charge of all the major decisions. Him.
‘Okay then.’
‘Okay, we’ll try and get you an appointment sooner.’
Inside I panic.
Outside, I rely all this information to my partner, who has listened to one side of the conversation while he drives.
We’re worried now, they were only meant to be checking for Coeliacs, nothing else. Nothing that would warrant an appointment with the higher ups.
***
I sit on this information for over a week without thinking about it, pushed down to the bottom of my mind, until it bursts free this morning, leaving me stressed and strung out.
My mind spins in circles.
They were only meant to be testing for coeliacs. Nothing else. EDS wouldn’t show on a genetic screen, not enough information has been compiled for doctors to know which gene is broken in EDS.
***
I turn the music up loud and sing, badly.
Anything to make my mind switch off.
Because I’m worried. Really worried.
And to be honest, we’re already dealing with enough fucked up genes, I’m not sure I can take much more.
Subscribe via Email
I Support:
