Things kids say in the library #2

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A girl just walked into the library and said to her friends’ “I’m not wearing any pants!”
Shocked, one of her friends said, “WHAT!?”
The first girl lifts her dress up, oblivious to everyone else in the library, and says, “Ha ha, I’ve got my bathers on!”
The library was suddenly silent. Nobody wanted to look at her, so they all looked at me instead.

I asked her to put her dress down, and never lift it above her head at school again.

Everyone in the library went back to what they were doing, pretending the whole scene had never happened.

Things kids say in the library.

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Girl 1 to Girl 2, who has very long, straight hair in a ponytail and no fringe: Did you have a haircut?

Girl 2: [Flipping her ponytail over her shoulder] Yeah, I did.

Girl 3: It actually suits you.

A random conversation.

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Tonight, an impromptu conversation occurred when a friend messaged me out of the blue.

Friend: Power went out.
Me: That’s no good.
Friend: Pedalling my bike now. LMAO.
Me: Haha. Not sure you meant to message me, though.
Friend: Scared my dog though… Oh. Sorry! Hugs.
Me: No problem, mate. Actually, I think this has been one of my favourite conversations all night.
Friend: hehehehehehehe
Me: Do you mind if I blog it? Names changed, of course.
Friend: Sure thing. Looks like the storm is about to hit here. Gonna be a yuck night for sleep.
Me: Yep.
Friend: It’s still hot out. About 24 outside. It’s horrible.
Me: Yeah, here too.

And that was all. Completely normal.

“Going home!”

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Last night,  my father-in-law was transferred from the specialist hospital in Melbourne to our regional hospital because he is no longer critical. For someone who the doctors weren’t convinced would survive his injuries until ten days ago, he has come a very, very long way.

When I called in to visit him after work tonight, some of the family were still there. It was nice to see Mum looking so much more relaxed, and everyone happier now that Dad is improving and responding more frequently. I’ve heard from others that Dad has tried to say a few words, but sometimes they didn’t know what he was trying to say, but I haven’t been there when it happened, until tonight.

As I was about to leave, I said “Night Dad, I’m going home.” He turned his head and looked directly at me, raised his eyebrows and said, “Going home!”  His words were slurred the way a man talks after seventeen beers, but definite. He had responded directly and verbally to me.

There are no words for that feeling. I had tears. I wanted to sing, I wanted to cheer, and I wanted to hug everyone in the room. I knew they were all feeling it, too. I didn’t really know what to do, so I just smiled and said to him, “Yes, I’m going home. I’ll come back and see you tomorrow after work.” He looked pretty happy with that, so I smiled and squeezed his hand.

After being part of this family for 25 years, and working side by side on the farm with him for 15 of them, it’s wonderful to know that he still knows who I am, and that I’m still special to him. Even more wonderful is that we still have our beloved Dad whom we have very nearly lost twice to accidental head injuries after a fall.

Maybe we won’t have to cancel Christmas this year after all.

Tired.

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I am so very ready to sleep throughout the entire three hours’ drive home from Melbourne.
I didn’t sleep much last night. It was a hot almost-summer night and my pain levels were beyond the stupid end of the scale. Truth be told, they still are, even though I’ve been throwing drugs down my throat whenever I’m able to.

I’ve spent most of today either wishing I were asleep or actively trying not to be, given that I am at the hospital with family again and sleeping on the job is not likely to prove too popular with the others, given that they are all pretty beat too.

It is an enormous blessing that the immediate threat to my father-in-law’s life appears to have passed. Now the family must begin to consider questions of care, ongoing assessments and rehabilitation. We have no idea what he will or will not be able to do.
What does seem clear is that the short-term future is going to become a new “normal” of more routine hospital visits once he is moved to a hospital closer to home, which is infinitely better than the ICU waiting room vigil we’ve been keeping since his accident a few weeks ago.

We’re on our way home. I’m off to sleep. ‘Night.

Singing With The Radio.

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This morning as we were driving, the radio played Meatloaf’s “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad”. By the time we got to “I’m crying icicles instead of tears” all three of us in the car – plus the one on Skype – were singing along.

We discussed the idea that there are some songs that it’s almost compulsory that people should sing along with. They are classic, infectious songs that unite generations and have stood the test of time.

Is this list something that will grow much, or is there an elite set of songs that really are a step above all the others?
Feel free to suggest one or two of your favourites if you wish.

Songs Everyone Should Automatically Sing Along With:

Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad – Meatloaf
Bohemian Rhapsody – Queen
Dancing Queen – ABBA
Summer of ’69 – Bryan Adams
Hotel California – The Eagles
American Pie – Don McLean
Sweet Home Alabama – Lynyrd Skynyrd
Sweet Caroline – Neil Diamond
Hey Jude – The Beatles
I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor
It’s A Long Way To The Top – AC/DC
I’m Gonna Be [500 Miles] – The Proclaimers
Piano Man – Billy Joel
Imagine – John Lennon
Love Shack – The B-52s

Tiny, huge victories.

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A week ago there was not a lot of hope. The doctors thought that there was insufficient progress or response to indicate any great hope of recovery.
That changed in the blink of an eye – literally.

We stood by the bed and my husband spoke to his father.
“Hi Dad, it’s Fred.”
Eyes that had been closed for ten days opened a little.
I saw it; so did the nurse.
We didn’t know that the same thing had happened to my brother-in-law a couple of hours earlier.

Those two responses were tiny, but huge. They were enough to show the doctors that there was response and possibly recognition.
Feeling encouraged, we all sat outside in the courtyard and talked.
We looked at a patient across the courtyard, under a tree in his reclining chair, and commented how nice it would be if we could do that with Dad “one day”.

Since then, there has been significant improvement and more direct response. He has nodded slightly for yes and moved his head sideways for no.
Then, this morning, there was a golden moment. I commented to him that the family were being noisy. He raised his eyebrow in a “What’s new?” expression. Everyone saw it and we all laughed.

I could have cheered. This was the first time since his accident that he revealed his sense of humour. This was more than I had hoped for this early.

A little later I was holding his hand. I talked with him and gently squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. I had to swallow my tears. I am so thankful I don’t even know how to express it.

And now, Dad is in his reclining chair outside, in the sunshine and surrounded by his wife and sons and a few other family members. He turns his head when his son speaks to him. He dozes off and wakes again, and looks up to see blue sky and sunshine. He nods when I ask him if the sunshine feels good on his skin.
Was it really only a week ago that we thought this was a pipe dream?

We don’t know what the future holds or how he will progress, but it’s such a blessing to see that the man we know and love as our dad is still with us. His body may be a bit broken but his spirit is not.

Even through the pain, fear and despair of the last few weeks, we can see that we have been very, very blessed. Every victory is tiny, but huge.
Thank you, God.

Well, this sucks.

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There are times when admitting that you can’t physically do something you desperately want to do really hurts.

Just when you think you’ve come to terms with chronic pain and the physical limitations that go with it, something new crops up to remind you, yet again, that some doors close to you when you have a physical disability.

It’s not that other people tell you that you can’t do it. It’s knowing that trying will cause you physical pain and misery, and that you’ll end up regretting making the effort the minute you realise you can’t give it 100% and do the job like you used to.  So you don’t take it on.  You just internalise the disappointment and keep doing the things you can still do, without telling anyone how much it sucks for your own body to be the source of your misery.

Gate A-4

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This is an absolutely beautiful story. Please read it!

Gate A-4.

via Gate A-4.

The Other Kind Of Journey.

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I’ve had enough of hospitals. Waiting, wondering, hoping, fearing. Staring at walls in various shades of white, surrounded by people in scrubs who are all hurrying to be somewhere else. Steeping in the tension and quietness of suspense, strongly brewed.

I’d like to be somewhere else. Of course, I have preferences, but I wouldn’t be too choosy about a change of locale right now. Perhaps not jail, though.

Yet I am held here by forces stronger than my desire to be gone: an eclectic mix of fear, grief, loyalty, duty and belonging, amongst which the balance of power alternates at a sometimes giddy rate.

I belong here with the family, yet I know it’s different for me. I’m the only in-law here, but he’s my dad too. I’m still as afraid as they are.

I know what it’s like to lose a parent, to say goodbye that last time while still not wanting them to go at all. The others don’t know that yet. I think they all realise, though, that whether he lives or dies, they will never be the same again.

They’re blessed to be here together. When my mum died, it was just her and me. My sisters and brother couldn’t get there in time, although they desperately wanted to. It was me who watched and waited and wept in that quiet room. I sang her hymns and prayed with her. She held my hand, even though she was not conscious, and even though she had long forgotten who I was, I knew something buried deep inside her remembered me. How I longed for my siblings then. It was unfair for all of us. I had to do it on my own, but I had precious, awful time with her that they did not.

I thought about that day a lot yesterday when I knew the others were together. I’m glad they can keep each other strong. I’m glad I am here with them today.

The ominous, helpless heaviness of waiting has wrapped its dreadful cloak around us. There is nothing to be done except remain there.