Life

Dreaming

by Veronica Foale on August 30, 2010

in Life

Sun shines and we’re sitting outside, sipping a margarita each and laughing. The tequila goes to my head, I’ve not drunk anything for months. Beside me, my daughter plays on the grass, just toddling and happy. She’s younger here and so am I. We don’t know what is ahead of us and in this moment, we are happy. My grandmother looks at me and smiles.

A snippet of memory, dredged up.

It changes.

A birthday party. Laughter, good food, good company.

I turn and look at my grandmother, there again.

But, you’re dead. You can’t be here.

She smiles at me and disappears. Crying, I wake up.

***

I’m standing under the shower. It’s late afternoon and the air is chilling down. My shoulder is throbbing and my ribs are dislocated. Water streams down my body while I hug myself, desperate to hold my joints together for a little longer. The pain makes me retch.

I’d been reading a Dick Francis novel before deciding more painkillers and a shower were a good idea.

It’s funny the things that I remember from my childhood.

Dick Francis novels and late afternoon showers at my grandmothers were a normal Sunday routine. Despite my partner peeling potatoes in the kitchen and the sounds of my children playing, I am 13 again,  standing under the warm water at my grandmothers, taking advantage of her running water – something we don’t have at home.

A sharp squeal brings me back to the present, a present of pain and nausea and screeching children.

The water washes away tears.

***

They told me this would get better. Easier.

Like everything else it seems though, it doesn’t get easier, it just gets different. It only takes something very small to send me back to that world of pain, where my heart aches and I am broken.

I breathe and I smile and I live.

But it’s not easier, it’s just different.

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One foot and then another

by Veronica Foale on August 15, 2010

in Children, Life

There is sand in my toes and my hair is tangled around my face, hanging free, dripping salt water everywhere.

Again.

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.

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Grey Elephants

by Veronica Foale on August 8, 2010

in Life

Three grey elephants balancing, step by step on a piece of string…

She sings as she walks along the back of the futon. Look Mummy! I am balancing! Like an elephant!

Everything she says ends with an exclamation mark and she takes a few more steps before slipping and hitting her head. Tears leak on my shoulder as I hug her. Maybe you should stop balancing. For now.

Yes. I should.

Her exclamation marks stolen by a slip.

***

A frost filled morning gives way to a sunny day and the wind slices through me like a knife. I check chooks and count duck eggs. I walk across the paddock, frozen grass crunching under my feet. Behind me, a trail of poultry runs, a steady thump thump thump of webbed feet, hoping that I’ll magically produce some wheat.

Only I’ve forgotten to bring it.

I disappear inside and the ducks stand forlornly at the gate, waiting for my return.

***

I feel like a grey elephant, walking along a wire.

Every time I call for another elephant to join me, I slip a little closer to the ground, a tiny bit closer to falling.

I’m not sure what’s down there anymore.

Grief and pain and anger.

I think.

A giant hole where my insides used to be opens up and wind whistles through me like a tunnel.

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Once is unlucky, twice is carelessness.

by Veronica Foale on July 29, 2010

in Family, Life

The day after our dog is hit by a car, things go on as normal. Life doesn’t stop for a small creature who flickered out like a candle.

I supermarket and prepare for the new puppy coming home, her adoption finalised before the loss of her playmate-to-be. I fill my partner in on what I bought and he looks at me –

‘You get over dogs fast.’

Tears fill my eyes and suddenly I am angry, because no. I don’t get over things. I just don’t cry, or wail, or gnash my teeth.

I want to scream and yell

My grandmother died 13 months ago and I’ve cried twice. Twice for a great yawning hole that opened in my heart. There was no time to fall apart then, there is no time now. What makes you think I don’t feel it, just because I’m not screaming?

Instead. I say

‘I don’t get over it. I just get on with it.’

***

Losing one dog is unlucky, surely twice is carelessness. We are berated for the things we didn’t do correctly, or should have done instead. Everyone has 20/20 hindsight.

***

Unpacking the groceries and the thud of another grave being dug vibrates through my footsteps.

Milk

thud

Cheese

thud

Collar

thud

Make my son a bottle and put him to bed. Make my daughter something to eat. Wipe the counters.

thud.

Until we all stand around a grave and solemnly put the dirt back from whence it came.

Again.

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It starts with a drip.

by Veronica Foale on July 27, 2010

in Life, Navelgazing

A drop falls on my hand and I look at it, mildly annoyed. Shaking my hand, I continue with my evening, my hand slightly damp.

This is how it starts. A drop falls and leaves a wet patch that chafes and irritates me.

A second drop falls, followed shortly after by a cup of water thrown on my head. Gasping, I look around, soaked to the shoulders and wondering where it came from.

Before I know it, I’m in the middle of an icy ocean, fully clothed and wondering where the fuck my shore is. Shaking, cold, I swim towards the light until I can drag myself out of the water, to stand, dripping and shivering; sand caking between my toes as my teeth chatter a rhythym.

That is how it ends.

The trigger is something different each time:

A waft of perfume;

a photo on the wall;

a stray thought that I can’t shake.

A trigger that once pulled, drags me towards it’s culmination.

Sometimes, I walk silently, waiting for the drip.

Other times, I scream and wail; kicking and screaming like a child.

I’m BUSY. Can’t you see I’m busy? I don’t have time to swim right now.

FUCK YOU.

It’s inevitable; the drip.

This is what soul pain is. It starts with a drip and ends with a slow icy slog towards shore, knowing that you’re going to be cleaning sand out of your toes for days.

And you never know what your trigger will be until it hits you, like a brick wall at high speed.

SLAP.

No thought for what you were doing, suddenly you’re swimming.

Again.

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