Navelgazing

I need time.

by Veronica Foale on October 2, 2009

in Book, Family, Navelgazing

I turn around and there’s another appointment; another request for someone to see the children. The paperwork piles up behind me and I spin around, knocking it all to the floor. Carefully I transcribe appointment dates onto a calendar, using a hand that doesn’t work too well. A calendar to dictate our days, whether we stay or go, venture out into the world, or stay at home, bundled up with hot drinks and gardens that need weeding.

I open up my word document, determined to write. I look at it, trying to make my fingers bleed words onto the page. It doesn’t work, and staring at it doesn’t help.

Sighing, I click away.

Not today.

Not tonight.

I wander through the house talking to myself. I could lie and say I was talking to the children, but neither of them are listening to me anyway. My partner looks at me strangely and then looks away. He’s used to my talking. It helps me move through the day, talking about what I need to do. Like looking at my feet helps me walk.

I stop to fold some laundry before drifting away again. It’s too hard to settle.

I need some time. Some space to just,

stop.

Before starting again.

To be more than a mother, more than just the sum of my parts.

There are words inside me, I just can’t find the valve to turn them back on.

So instead I will just

stop.

And let them build up again. Until, like a pipe unblocking they burst free and run down my fingers, dripping into my computer.

To build my story again.

I need time.

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Heartsore

by Veronica Foale on September 24, 2009

in Navelgazing, Writing

Three months ago, to the day, she died.

We sat in the room, a group of strong women and vowed not to leave until it was over. We drew strength from each other, in the being there together. We sat and loved the one of us who was failing, who wouldn’t make it to the evening. My brother and uncle joined us and added to our strength.

Her breathing, which had been laboured all day, got raspier and she pulled the oxygen mask off her face. Her hands flailed a little, unsure of her place anymore. We stood around her, an armoured guard; a support team. Our backs to the world we circled her and kept her safe. Holding hands we showed her that it was safe to leave us; that we would be okay in her absence. We lied of course, but that is what you do when someone is dying. You tell them what they need to hear to be at peace.

She turned towards her mother and looking at her, she stopped breathing. Collectively we breathed out together.

Her eyes glazed over and we said stupid things

It’s over

Peaceful

No more pain

as our eyes dripped tears and we knew that we were lying to ourselves, to each other.

***

Mum and I told her we loved her, shortly before she drew her last breath. I will be forever grateful for that, along with the hours preceding when I sat holding her hand.

It was not an easy goodbye. Goodbyes rarely are.

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Searchable

by Veronica Foale on September 22, 2009

in Children, Navelgazing, Writing

Somewhere, a bot trawls this site. Deeming it not spam, a little switch is flicked and suddenly I’m searchable. My name, linked to my writing, out there on the internet.

I imagine old school friends randomly Googling for me and pulling up this site. What would they think? But then, maybe I’m the only one who Googles for people to see what shows up.

I remind myself to breathe, this is what I wanted. A personal side of the professional me. A declaration that I am a writer. This is what I do, I write.

***

Sitting down at my laptop, I open my word document and sit down to write. Two sentences in, my daughter asks for food and my son gets himself stuck under the futon. I press save and sighing, I close my laptop. Working with the children around is impossible.

I put my computer away and grab some food. Laying down on the floor we all eat together. The children take turns clambering over me and soon I’m covered in sticky kisses and drool.

It’s not the work I’d intending on doing, but it’s my job nonetheless. I enjoy this as much as I enjoy the silence of writing.

***

Blearily I stumble out of bed, summoned by the baby’s cries. I trip over imaginary things as I walk into his bedroom and lift him up for a feed. He snuggles down into my arms and snuffles at my breast before settling in for a feed. His eyes shut almost instantly and I contort myself towards the nightlight to read my watch.

5.30am

I should stay awake and work while the children are sleeping.

I really should.

My head drops forwards and I doze lightly while he feeds. I’m still incredibly tired.

The baby snuffles and sighs deeply waking me up. His feed finished I put him back down and leave the room.

Stumbling again, I head back to bed. The warmth of my partner envelopes me as I snuggle into his back. He mumbles a little and then lets me rest my cold feet against his legs. He’s nice like that when he’s asleep. For a moment, I regret that I’m not working. Only for a moment though.

My pillows are soft and soon my feet will defrost. Giving into my need for more rest, I let sleep claim me.

Soon both children will be awake and I can attempt to work through breakfast.

Up until the point when they need me and I end up on the floor, covered in sticky kisses and drool.

Again.

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Twelve Weeks

by Veronica Foale on September 19, 2009

in Navelgazing

Twelve short weeks after she died, an open home is held. Her house, opened for strangers to walk through and peer at, opening cupboards and turning on taps. A reluctant sale, twelve weeks doesn’t feel like long enough for the house to have sat empty grieving its occupant.

Her life has been packed away in twelve weeks. Packed into boxes and crates, split and moved throughout the houses of those of us left. Where once furniture sat, empty space now presides. Walls are devoid of pictures; rooms of furniture. What was once a home is now just a house. It’s been stripped of it’s essence of home, nothing more than walls and flooring.

I can’t feel her here anymore and that makes me sad.

Today, strangers walk through her house, deciding whether or not they will buy it. They leave fingerprints on the glass and footprints on the ground. They poke at the garden and imagine all that this house could be with them living there. Then they will decide whether or not that is what they want.

Yesterday I walked through the house trying to see it with strangers eyes.

That light switch is dirty. The window needs washing. That tap is cracked. It needs another bedroom, the carpet is clean, the pantry is huge…

And then I thought about it properly.

I planted that tree. I weeded that garden. There is where I played, where we dug, worked, wrote. I woke up to this view, I watched the birds bathing from here. Here is where I lay with a book, here is where I slept. There are the marks left from my paintings on the wall. Here is where I lived. Here is where I brought my newborn children to visit. I sat here and ate. I curled up here and cried.

More strangers will come after today.

Looking. Touching. Poking.

Soon, someone will offer to buy it. They will move in and place their things in the corners. They will sweep our ghosts out along with the dust and leave new memories littered across the floor.

Our ending will be become their beginning.

Twelve weeks does not seem like enough time to come to terms with that.

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Blogging is a public space

by Veronica Foale on September 16, 2009

in Navelgazing, On Blogging

It’s quiet over here. The silence and empty pages fill the room. Untouched, I haven’t yet gotten around to filling this space with words.

Eventually it will become full. I’ll walk in here and hear a familiar babble of sounds. My fingers on the keyboard and my voice echoing quietly throughout. I’ll tell stories and maybe someone will stop by to listen to me, to read what I’ve got to say. I’m not sure how that makes me feel anymore.

It used to be, once upon a time I blogged for myself, but also for my audience. I updated my blog often with amusing anecdotes and stories about the children. Journalling myself for them later.

Now I find myself needing something for myself. To move away from my blog persona of Sleepless Nights and move towards myself, Veronica Foale.

It scares me a little, putting my name out onto the Internet for anyone to find. Before this I enjoyed a thin veneer of anonymity. As my veneer grew ever thinner, my frustrations with the limits of my space there grew.

I want somewhere, just for me.

People say, write about whatever you want to write about, we’ll still read. Go silent, we’ll be here when you come back. Cry, we’ll hold your hand.

It’s not as easy as all that though. Sleepless Nights, while not well known on the Internet, is well known within my family and in-laws alike. Sometimes I wonder how they see me, that blog persona who was very similar but also very different to who they saw in real life. Do they wonder where I hide my words when they’re with me? I hope not.

I’m a writer. I need to write. I’m driven to write. I’ve got so many words burbling about inside of me, begging to be let free that I need to open the tap and let them out sometimes.

I like Sleepless Nights.

I also like Veronica Foale.

And until I can work out how to mesh the two of them together, they’ll remain separate.

I think I’m going to enjoy this.

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