My little boy is hurting. I think.
I told you a little while back about the tears when we told him Merlin was going to die (who, by the way, is still well and truly alive. And nearly 17 in people years!)
A couple of weeks ago, his teacher called me, and said he'd 'changed'. That he was 'flat', and not as chirpy as usual. That he was regularly drifting off, and not snapping back to attention like he used to. That he was being a bit more 'silly' and 'naughty'. Mainly following others (how like my boys!), but still, somewhat out of character.
He's also lost some of his energy. He's more inclined to want to watch TV or play a video game than to head outside. Some of this is the horrible cold weather we're having at the moment, but I'm always looking for other signs.
Granted, he's been sick lately (the flu kept him at home almost a week), and seems to be still a bit flat after that (with big, worrying black circles under his eyes until a couple of days ago), but always in the back of my mind is that it's about Sam.
Which is fair enough, yeah? I mean, it's only been 18 months (last week) since we lost Sam. And Oliver was a lot younger then. I'm still having trouble understanding it, I can't even imagine how Oliver's processing it.
And the bizarre, tragic, pointless stuff doesn't stop either. Never do we get a chance to say to Oli 'everything's OK. No one's going to die today', everyone's OK.
Last week, a good friend of Anthony's mum was in a freak accident. Something you would never imagine happening. She's now on life support with little prospect of recovery (and no prospect of healthy brain function). Of course Oliver sees how this has affected his grandmother. How could he not? His cousin is also in hospital with complications (I'm assuming) from his recent epilepsy diagnosis. A kid in the class next to his has been in hospital for the last few weeks with collapsed lungs and goodness knows what else.
It's terrible that a kid so young has to see so much death. So much pain. So much grief. But how do you shield them from it? You just can't!
So what do I do? I told Oliver's teacher that I wasn't too worried if he fell a little behind. Which is kind of true. I've always thought that primary school was more about developing kids as people (social skills, communicating etc), so I can handle it if he's a little behind on his reading or maths. Plus I'm a teacher, so I can catch him up if necessary. But what can I expect from them in terms of mental health?
The school counsellor's not an option. They are only in schools once or twice a week, and Oliver doesn't really have an identifiable (by testing) special need, so it's not likely the counsellor will be able to do much.
She also referred me to the school chaplain. At first I baulked at that, because I'm an atheist, but she assured me that they had a non-religious approach to working with kids. So I'm thinking about that.
I think what I'll probably do is take him to my GP. Get him checked out - the full works. Perhaps from there a psychologist? I don't know.
But in the mean time, I've organised a special trip. Just for him and me.
In the holidays, we're going to drive down to Melbourne. We had a fairly nice time there last year, and I wanted to see my Grandpa, so I took some leave and decided to take him down. During our trip, I've booked a hotel near the city for three nights, so we can do some touristy stuff, like the zoo and the Tutankhamen and Lego exhibitions, and just hang out. The two of us. Days busy doing the running around, but nights at the hotel watching movies and playing cards. With no distractions. Just me and him.
Because a lot of how I react to Oli's situation is guilt. Guilt because I'm at work every day, and taking on study and gym commitments; which I know are good for my mental health, but I feel guilty about them because I'm not 'here' for Oli.
It's not like he's all alone. I mean, Anthony's here with him all the time, and he does a good job of it too. But still I have the guilt. It's probably not rational (and I know I shouldn't worry about Anthony thing, because he's not the same man that he was when he and Sam were in this carer situation - something I may write about one day), but it's there.
So to compensate, I do what I do best: overcompensate.
Still, I think it will be a nice trip. It will be nice for us to hang out, to talk (6 hours in a car together kinda promotes conversation), to do some mum/son things. I'm looking forward to it. I think he is too. Let's hope it helps. Even if just a little bit.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
The Second Year
I've had a week or so of really missing Sam. Not constant melancholy or anything like that, but strong feelings of loss.
It started with the usual stuff - last Saturday we watched the broadcast of the Foo Fighters gig, which brought back those feelings of 'wish you'd been there'. Then on Sunday night we went over to my brother-in-law James' house to watch the DVD of the Green Day tour that he and Sam went to, just before Sam died.
Even though the DVD was shot in Tokyo, it still gave me a really good sense of what it must have been like, and I know that Sam would have loved it. It was his first major concert, one of his favourite bands, and it was a pretty awesome show from what I can see: lots of great songs, a real presence on stage, fire and special effects, sing alongs - everything you want from a good concert experience.
As I said a while back, his main reaction was 'it was good, yeah', but I know it was a lot more exciting to him than he made out. Despite getting home from Sydney quite late, he still went to school the next day to tell everyone about it!
The concert DVD ended with 'Time of Your Life', which as you know was played while Sam's coffin was lowered at his funeral. So it was a bit of a sad moment for all of us.
Despite a busy week, there have been lots of little moments when Samuel was right at the front of my mind. I'm also seeing lots of comments from his friends about learning how to drive, which starts that ache again. I hate all these reminders that Sam won't get to do those things. Not that I begrudge his friends, it just hurts.
Then, on Saturday night, we watched the movie 'Tangled', which (of all things) set me off. As you probably know, it's an animated Disney movie about Rapunzel, so not they type you'd usually associate with grief. But there's a scene towards the end where the town sends a big bunch of lanterns up into the sky, an annual thing that marks the birthday of the lost princess (i.e. Rapunzel). For some reason, all I could think of was Sam, and the tears just flowed.
I've mentioned before that I've found this second year harder than the first. That's not to say that I am spiraling into misery or anything like that - I'm definitely in the 'testing - acceptance' stages of grief - but I am experiencing many more of the feelings now, that I expected, but didn't feel in the early days.
My best friend Sally and I were talking about it yesterday, and we decided that during the first year, we were so busy getting used to things, and going through 'firsts': the first Christmas, first birthday, first Mother's Day etc; that we didn't have time to think of the permanence of this. Not as much as we do now, anyway.
It is permanent. I'll never see him again. That's hard.
Don't worry about me; there are plenty of things to make me happy, and to keep me going. But it's important that I still document these things. Because I do miss him. So much.
It started with the usual stuff - last Saturday we watched the broadcast of the Foo Fighters gig, which brought back those feelings of 'wish you'd been there'. Then on Sunday night we went over to my brother-in-law James' house to watch the DVD of the Green Day tour that he and Sam went to, just before Sam died.
Even though the DVD was shot in Tokyo, it still gave me a really good sense of what it must have been like, and I know that Sam would have loved it. It was his first major concert, one of his favourite bands, and it was a pretty awesome show from what I can see: lots of great songs, a real presence on stage, fire and special effects, sing alongs - everything you want from a good concert experience.
As I said a while back, his main reaction was 'it was good, yeah', but I know it was a lot more exciting to him than he made out. Despite getting home from Sydney quite late, he still went to school the next day to tell everyone about it!
The concert DVD ended with 'Time of Your Life', which as you know was played while Sam's coffin was lowered at his funeral. So it was a bit of a sad moment for all of us.
Despite a busy week, there have been lots of little moments when Samuel was right at the front of my mind. I'm also seeing lots of comments from his friends about learning how to drive, which starts that ache again. I hate all these reminders that Sam won't get to do those things. Not that I begrudge his friends, it just hurts.
Then, on Saturday night, we watched the movie 'Tangled', which (of all things) set me off. As you probably know, it's an animated Disney movie about Rapunzel, so not they type you'd usually associate with grief. But there's a scene towards the end where the town sends a big bunch of lanterns up into the sky, an annual thing that marks the birthday of the lost princess (i.e. Rapunzel). For some reason, all I could think of was Sam, and the tears just flowed.
I've mentioned before that I've found this second year harder than the first. That's not to say that I am spiraling into misery or anything like that - I'm definitely in the 'testing - acceptance' stages of grief - but I am experiencing many more of the feelings now, that I expected, but didn't feel in the early days.
My best friend Sally and I were talking about it yesterday, and we decided that during the first year, we were so busy getting used to things, and going through 'firsts': the first Christmas, first birthday, first Mother's Day etc; that we didn't have time to think of the permanence of this. Not as much as we do now, anyway.
It is permanent. I'll never see him again. That's hard.
Don't worry about me; there are plenty of things to make me happy, and to keep me going. But it's important that I still document these things. Because I do miss him. So much.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
This is what it's all about...
A couple of posts ago, I wrote about the changing face of my grief, and how some of it was accompanied by guilt.
I got a couple of wonderful responses that I wanted to draw your attention to. Click here to read them.
When Sam died, people kept saying things like 'it will get easier' or 'in time you'll fee better'. At the time, I thought that it couldn't possibly be true, that the incredible pain and shock that I was feeling would be with me forever. That I'd always have trouble functioning (doing the 'mundane' things, as Susan mentioned in her comment), and even that I'd never want to face the world again (I had a very hard time leaving the house at all in the first month or so after Sam died).
As time went on, and things didn't hurt quite so much, I started to think that maybe we'd be OK. But there was that guilt about the good days, that if I showed people I was OK, they'd think I'd forgotten Sam.
Now, I know that I'm going to be OK. Better yet, I know that (most of) the people around me are too, especially Anthony and Oliver. There are still those guilt moments, but they don't happen so often. I could even see myself saying those very words to someone else going through this: 'it will get better in time'.
It does get better in time. I guess for some people, that time might be a little longer, but it does get better. And even though we've tried hard all along to keep Sam's memory alive, now it is even easier, because we don't feel that extreme sadness when we do talk about him. We can laugh about the great memories we had, we can smile when we think of what he did for us.
So what next?
The purpose of this blog in the beginning was to document my grief, and share my memories of Sam. I still have a few of them to share, so I will continue to do that. I'm sure there'll also be some times when I'll need to write about the grief too. But I hope you don't mind if I branch out a bit.
I love to write, and I'd like to use this space to write about a whole range of things. It will mean the blog is a little different, but I hope there will still be enough to keep my wonderful readers interested. I'd love it if you could stay with me.
I got a couple of wonderful responses that I wanted to draw your attention to. Click here to read them.
When Sam died, people kept saying things like 'it will get easier' or 'in time you'll fee better'. At the time, I thought that it couldn't possibly be true, that the incredible pain and shock that I was feeling would be with me forever. That I'd always have trouble functioning (doing the 'mundane' things, as Susan mentioned in her comment), and even that I'd never want to face the world again (I had a very hard time leaving the house at all in the first month or so after Sam died).
As time went on, and things didn't hurt quite so much, I started to think that maybe we'd be OK. But there was that guilt about the good days, that if I showed people I was OK, they'd think I'd forgotten Sam.
Now, I know that I'm going to be OK. Better yet, I know that (most of) the people around me are too, especially Anthony and Oliver. There are still those guilt moments, but they don't happen so often. I could even see myself saying those very words to someone else going through this: 'it will get better in time'.
It does get better in time. I guess for some people, that time might be a little longer, but it does get better. And even though we've tried hard all along to keep Sam's memory alive, now it is even easier, because we don't feel that extreme sadness when we do talk about him. We can laugh about the great memories we had, we can smile when we think of what he did for us.
So what next?
The purpose of this blog in the beginning was to document my grief, and share my memories of Sam. I still have a few of them to share, so I will continue to do that. I'm sure there'll also be some times when I'll need to write about the grief too. But I hope you don't mind if I branch out a bit.
I love to write, and I'd like to use this space to write about a whole range of things. It will mean the blog is a little different, but I hope there will still be enough to keep my wonderful readers interested. I'd love it if you could stay with me.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Grief? What grief?
What would you think of me if I told you that sometimes I forget?
It's not that I forget Sam, I'll never do that. But sometimes I forget that I'm 'grieving' for him.
Perhaps it's because it's been more than a year, and my mind has adjusted to the loss of Sam. I'll be happily travelling along and suddenly something will spark a memory or a thought about him. Then I'll feel guilty because he wasn't on my mind already.
Like for example, while we were in Merimbula, I was very busy having fun (I'll tell you about it in the next post). Then I'd see a bunch of teenagers messing around in the pool/at the beach and suddenly I'd think about Sam: what role he would have played in the group - the macho boy (nah), the obnoxious loudmouth (nah) or the nice boy sitting quietly talking to a couple of pretty girls (yeah, maybe).
And then I'd remember that I am still grieving, and get a little sad. But also feel guilty that he hadn't been right at the front of my mind.
When we were packing up our trailer, a big dragonfly was flying around us. We both thought it was nice, like Sam was watching over us, and that he approved of our holiday. That was the only time I felt a real pang. Yes, there had been a couple of other times when I thought about how much he would have liked something we were doing, but I hadn't felt that strong sense of loss that I would have felt months ago.
It probably doesn't make much sense to you. I don't know if I'm explaining it right, but it's happened a few times lately.
I've wondered before what the statute of limitations is on grief - how long we are 'supposed' to make public our feelings about what happened. Do I keep forcing myself to talk publicly about how sad it is for me to have lost Sam? Like some people seem to expect, and like some people still do.
Don't get me wrong. It is sad, but (and I've always said this) I want to focus on the happy memories, and on creating a whole lot of new happy memories. But if I don't talk (or post) once in a while about how sad I am, or how much I miss Sam, does it make me look heartless?
I know that everyone does this differently, and the time it takes is different for everyone, but there seems to be expectations. Expectations that I sometimes have trouble meeting.
I enjoyed my time at the coast. As opposed to last year's trip, when it was all very sad, we did not dwell on the absence of Sam much at all. What we did do was concentrate on having a great time together as a family. Our new family, that has taken some getting used to, but is starting to feel OK.
It's not that I forget Sam, I'll never do that. But sometimes I forget that I'm 'grieving' for him.
Perhaps it's because it's been more than a year, and my mind has adjusted to the loss of Sam. I'll be happily travelling along and suddenly something will spark a memory or a thought about him. Then I'll feel guilty because he wasn't on my mind already.
Like for example, while we were in Merimbula, I was very busy having fun (I'll tell you about it in the next post). Then I'd see a bunch of teenagers messing around in the pool/at the beach and suddenly I'd think about Sam: what role he would have played in the group - the macho boy (nah), the obnoxious loudmouth (nah) or the nice boy sitting quietly talking to a couple of pretty girls (yeah, maybe).
And then I'd remember that I am still grieving, and get a little sad. But also feel guilty that he hadn't been right at the front of my mind.
When we were packing up our trailer, a big dragonfly was flying around us. We both thought it was nice, like Sam was watching over us, and that he approved of our holiday. That was the only time I felt a real pang. Yes, there had been a couple of other times when I thought about how much he would have liked something we were doing, but I hadn't felt that strong sense of loss that I would have felt months ago.
It probably doesn't make much sense to you. I don't know if I'm explaining it right, but it's happened a few times lately.
I've wondered before what the statute of limitations is on grief - how long we are 'supposed' to make public our feelings about what happened. Do I keep forcing myself to talk publicly about how sad it is for me to have lost Sam? Like some people seem to expect, and like some people still do.
Don't get me wrong. It is sad, but (and I've always said this) I want to focus on the happy memories, and on creating a whole lot of new happy memories. But if I don't talk (or post) once in a while about how sad I am, or how much I miss Sam, does it make me look heartless?
I know that everyone does this differently, and the time it takes is different for everyone, but there seems to be expectations. Expectations that I sometimes have trouble meeting.
I enjoyed my time at the coast. As opposed to last year's trip, when it was all very sad, we did not dwell on the absence of Sam much at all. What we did do was concentrate on having a great time together as a family. Our new family, that has taken some getting used to, but is starting to feel OK.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A Whole Year...
I haven't posted for a few days. It's been a busy time: I had my birthday last Thursday (which was nice - I started a post about it but never finished, perhaps I will some time), and I've been getting ready for tomorrow, and Christmas.
Tomorrow, it will be one year since Sam left us so suddenly. I can't believe how quickly the time has passed. I still have moments of not believing; of thinking he'll walk through the door any moment. I know he won't, but something keeps me wishing.
I thought I'd be more upset, but I guess it's just me. I'm sad - no more or less than I was before, but I'm not crying much (still). We'll see how it is tomorrow.
Right from the start, I vowed that I would not wallow in grief. I would allow myself to be sad, but I would honour Sam's memory by being positive.
I think I've done that pretty well, and I feel good for it. I think it's helped the people around me too. It doesn't mean that I have lots left to help others through their own grief/problems, but it has meant that we can remember Sam in positive ways.
Tomorrow will be no different. We have invited people over - anyone who remembers Sam and would like to spend some time sharing memories. I've called it 'Celebrating Sam Day', and it will hopefully be full of good food (I've got together some Sam favourites - he did like food!); great company and good memories.
I do plan to write about it at some point. Bear with me for a couple of days, because I've got to work Thursday and Friday, and then it's Christmas. I'll post about the day when I can.
Before I go though, I wanted to thank you once again, dear readers. As you know, this blog has been an important part of my journey through grief, and I have been blessed to have your support along the way. I don't know where my blog will go from here, but I do know I'd like to keep writing it. I hope you'll stay with me.
Thanks again.
Tomorrow, it will be one year since Sam left us so suddenly. I can't believe how quickly the time has passed. I still have moments of not believing; of thinking he'll walk through the door any moment. I know he won't, but something keeps me wishing.
I thought I'd be more upset, but I guess it's just me. I'm sad - no more or less than I was before, but I'm not crying much (still). We'll see how it is tomorrow.
Right from the start, I vowed that I would not wallow in grief. I would allow myself to be sad, but I would honour Sam's memory by being positive.
I think I've done that pretty well, and I feel good for it. I think it's helped the people around me too. It doesn't mean that I have lots left to help others through their own grief/problems, but it has meant that we can remember Sam in positive ways.
Tomorrow will be no different. We have invited people over - anyone who remembers Sam and would like to spend some time sharing memories. I've called it 'Celebrating Sam Day', and it will hopefully be full of good food (I've got together some Sam favourites - he did like food!); great company and good memories.
I do plan to write about it at some point. Bear with me for a couple of days, because I've got to work Thursday and Friday, and then it's Christmas. I'll post about the day when I can.
Before I go though, I wanted to thank you once again, dear readers. As you know, this blog has been an important part of my journey through grief, and I have been blessed to have your support along the way. I don't know where my blog will go from here, but I do know I'd like to keep writing it. I hope you'll stay with me.
Thanks again.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Another month passes
Why do I keep marking the months as they pass? It doesn't serve a specific purpose I guess, but I guess in a way it helps.
Outwardly, we are seeming more and more 'normal' every day. Well, not normal, perhaps less 'sad'.
But readers, I do want you to know that even though on the outside we are getting on with things, there are still moments of sadness. They are more private now, relegated to dark, night-time moments, or brief periods when a memory intrudes. But they are still there. They always will be I guess.
7 months later and there is still not much progress on a permanent memorial. We haven't really been inspired by and ideas yet, and still don't like the idea of leaving Sam in a cemetery. I think we will probably always keep his ashes with us, but I also think it's important (for me anyway) to have a public place that other people can visit. I just don't know what. A bench or something somewhere might be nice, but where?
I think we're all going to have to support Oliver a bit too in the coming weeks and years. Outwardly he is fine, but I do get glimpses of the sadness inside him. He is a lot more sensitive than he was before; I was a bit cranky when I got home last night, and he copped a bit of a mouthful. Very bad on my part, I know, and I apologised straight away, but I could see that he was quite upset.
He's also very lonely. As I've already said, he was quite clingy during the holidays, wanting to spend every minute with me. He jumps at every opportunity to spend time with someone else, and is finding it hard to play on his own (harder than it used to be anyway).
Apart from the days immediately following Sam's death, Oliver hasn't really shown much emotion. Perhaps it's coming? Whatever happens though, we'll be here for him.
Miss you Sam.
Outwardly, we are seeming more and more 'normal' every day. Well, not normal, perhaps less 'sad'.
But readers, I do want you to know that even though on the outside we are getting on with things, there are still moments of sadness. They are more private now, relegated to dark, night-time moments, or brief periods when a memory intrudes. But they are still there. They always will be I guess.
7 months later and there is still not much progress on a permanent memorial. We haven't really been inspired by and ideas yet, and still don't like the idea of leaving Sam in a cemetery. I think we will probably always keep his ashes with us, but I also think it's important (for me anyway) to have a public place that other people can visit. I just don't know what. A bench or something somewhere might be nice, but where?
I think we're all going to have to support Oliver a bit too in the coming weeks and years. Outwardly he is fine, but I do get glimpses of the sadness inside him. He is a lot more sensitive than he was before; I was a bit cranky when I got home last night, and he copped a bit of a mouthful. Very bad on my part, I know, and I apologised straight away, but I could see that he was quite upset.
He's also very lonely. As I've already said, he was quite clingy during the holidays, wanting to spend every minute with me. He jumps at every opportunity to spend time with someone else, and is finding it hard to play on his own (harder than it used to be anyway).
Apart from the days immediately following Sam's death, Oliver hasn't really shown much emotion. Perhaps it's coming? Whatever happens though, we'll be here for him.
Miss you Sam.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Black Dog
I have a very long and intimate connection with depression.
And that's why I know I'm possibly on the way there...
After Samuel was born, I suffered from Post-natal depression. It wasn't severe, and I recovered quickly (it wasn't even until afterward that I knew what it was).
A bit later on (but before Oliver) I had proper, diagnosed depression, but once again, it wasn't too serious. I was never medicated or anything, just made aware of it.
Then, just last year, a counsellor told me I had 'depletion depression' - that is, depression caused by being a 'super mum' and being all things to all people.
And then of course, there's Anthony's depression. Not something I'm particularly interested in rehashing here, but back in 2006 we went through a pretty rough time when he had a fairly serious breakdown.
So I guess you could say that I'm familiar with depression, and all that comes along with it. I know how it feels, and I know how hard it is to live with.
So when I started feeling sad, worthless, listless, hopeless...(etc) I knew that I'd probably be better off paying attention to my mental health.
So I'll go and see a doctor this week. Don't worry readers (especially you mum and dad!), I'm aware of it, so that's gotta mean something, doesn't it?? This is, after all, an honest representation of my life (and my grief journey), so I do need to be honest, don't I??
xx
And that's why I know I'm possibly on the way there...
After Samuel was born, I suffered from Post-natal depression. It wasn't severe, and I recovered quickly (it wasn't even until afterward that I knew what it was).
A bit later on (but before Oliver) I had proper, diagnosed depression, but once again, it wasn't too serious. I was never medicated or anything, just made aware of it.
Then, just last year, a counsellor told me I had 'depletion depression' - that is, depression caused by being a 'super mum' and being all things to all people.
And then of course, there's Anthony's depression. Not something I'm particularly interested in rehashing here, but back in 2006 we went through a pretty rough time when he had a fairly serious breakdown.
So I guess you could say that I'm familiar with depression, and all that comes along with it. I know how it feels, and I know how hard it is to live with.
So when I started feeling sad, worthless, listless, hopeless...(etc) I knew that I'd probably be better off paying attention to my mental health.
So I'll go and see a doctor this week. Don't worry readers (especially you mum and dad!), I'm aware of it, so that's gotta mean something, doesn't it?? This is, after all, an honest representation of my life (and my grief journey), so I do need to be honest, don't I??
xx
Friday, June 11, 2010
Another funeral
It was pretty awful.
I'm going to say now that I hate that it always comes back to Sam, but then again, it's always going to, isn't it?
I am very sad for my friends, and very sad for the group of people who are close to them and their daughter, who now have to start grieving. She was a lovely girl, and it was obvious by the number of people at her funeral that she was very well loved.
I had only met her a couple of times. I remember her as sweet, and gentle and very friendly. Her funeral was very moving and lovely, with some beautiful moments - when her mother, brother and sisters got up and spoke; when one of K's friends spoke beautifully; when one of her teachers spoke the words many people were obviously thinking.
When they were describing her, I was reminded of myself as a teenager. She was always trying to help people, always smiling, didn't like seeing people unhappy, wanted to be friends with everyone, not just one little group of people (and sometimes some of those little groups got angry with her). That was what I was like at school too. It's what I'm like now too, sometimes. Her birthday was 2 days before mine, too. Perhaps it's a Sagittarius thing.
But I have to admit, my thoughts did keep coming back to Sam. Their funerals were so different, and yet so similar. I certainly cried more at K's funeral than I did at Samuel's. Lots more. Especially afterwards.
I guess there are going to be lots more times that I feel this overwhelmed by grief. And it will be a long time before things are good or normal.
I'm having a day off today because I just feel so drained. I've had a little cold on and off for a few weeks now, but it's not really that. I think it's been building up for a couple of weeks now. I've got a terrible headache that is probably stress related, and my body just feels so sore and tired. I'm sure it's all stress, but I'm just going to have a quiet, nothing day.
Looks like Oliver will too.
When we picked him up yesterday after the funeral, he said "so many people are dying". I thought: what a sad thing for a six year old boy to have to be thinking about.
But I've gotta admit, it's exactly what I was thinking too. First, of course there was the Sam thing, which we're all having trouble adjusting to. Then there was my best friend's grandmother last week (which was sad, because of how my friend was feeling, but a different kind of sad, because, after all, she was 90). Then there was K. So much death. Too many unnecessary deaths!
I guess he's worried about who's going to die next. I know that thought's always in the back of my mind. I told him that people die all the time, it just happens that lately it's been people that we know. I also told him that no one we know is likely to die any time soon.
He didn't ask any more questions, and was fairly chirpy after that, so hopefully it's not worrying him too much.
But we're going to have a day off together today. I know it sounds like I'm a terrible mother, not sending him to school, but I don't care. He has got a weird looking rash on his arms, so I will take him to the doctor, but really, it's more of a mental health day for both of us.
I'm going to say now that I hate that it always comes back to Sam, but then again, it's always going to, isn't it?
I am very sad for my friends, and very sad for the group of people who are close to them and their daughter, who now have to start grieving. She was a lovely girl, and it was obvious by the number of people at her funeral that she was very well loved.
I had only met her a couple of times. I remember her as sweet, and gentle and very friendly. Her funeral was very moving and lovely, with some beautiful moments - when her mother, brother and sisters got up and spoke; when one of K's friends spoke beautifully; when one of her teachers spoke the words many people were obviously thinking.
When they were describing her, I was reminded of myself as a teenager. She was always trying to help people, always smiling, didn't like seeing people unhappy, wanted to be friends with everyone, not just one little group of people (and sometimes some of those little groups got angry with her). That was what I was like at school too. It's what I'm like now too, sometimes. Her birthday was 2 days before mine, too. Perhaps it's a Sagittarius thing.
But I have to admit, my thoughts did keep coming back to Sam. Their funerals were so different, and yet so similar. I certainly cried more at K's funeral than I did at Samuel's. Lots more. Especially afterwards.
I guess there are going to be lots more times that I feel this overwhelmed by grief. And it will be a long time before things are good or normal.
I'm having a day off today because I just feel so drained. I've had a little cold on and off for a few weeks now, but it's not really that. I think it's been building up for a couple of weeks now. I've got a terrible headache that is probably stress related, and my body just feels so sore and tired. I'm sure it's all stress, but I'm just going to have a quiet, nothing day.
Looks like Oliver will too.
When we picked him up yesterday after the funeral, he said "so many people are dying". I thought: what a sad thing for a six year old boy to have to be thinking about.
But I've gotta admit, it's exactly what I was thinking too. First, of course there was the Sam thing, which we're all having trouble adjusting to. Then there was my best friend's grandmother last week (which was sad, because of how my friend was feeling, but a different kind of sad, because, after all, she was 90). Then there was K. So much death. Too many unnecessary deaths!
I guess he's worried about who's going to die next. I know that thought's always in the back of my mind. I told him that people die all the time, it just happens that lately it's been people that we know. I also told him that no one we know is likely to die any time soon.
He didn't ask any more questions, and was fairly chirpy after that, so hopefully it's not worrying him too much.
But we're going to have a day off together today. I know it sounds like I'm a terrible mother, not sending him to school, but I don't care. He has got a weird looking rash on his arms, so I will take him to the doctor, but really, it's more of a mental health day for both of us.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Get this out of my system first
I've got a post planned, but I just wanted to do a little venting (complaining?) first. Sorry if it's 'rambly' and hard to read.
I've gotta admit, I'm struggling a little with the death of K. She was almost exactly the same age as Samuel was when he died, and it's all hitting a little too close to home. She had an asthma attack, which I must admit was what I thought had happened to Samuel for a long time.
I know that each case is different, and I'm so sad for her parents and her family and friends, but I'm also sad because of how much it reminds me of Sam's death. And how much I keep thinking that this stuff just should not happen!
I had been feeling a little sorry for myself anyway, as you know. It just seemed to be a whole lot of things that keep piling on. The inquest had come to an end (we received the updated, final death certificate today). The weather has been getting colder and more miserable. My best friend's grandmother died last week, and we went to her funeral on Thursday. I'd taken Oliver to the doctor and found out there's a chance he might have to have surgery (very minor surgery to have one of his testicles brought down, but I was freaking out about any kind of anesthetic - pathetic I know!). Work has been ultra busy. No one really comes to my Sunday drinks any more :( That person I've mentioned before was back to their old ways...things were just, well, shitty.
Then of course a tragedy like this happens, and you feel a little bit guilty that you were worried about the weather.
So it's been a pretty sad few days. I've been watching on Facebook as a page is set up for K, and people have been writing beautiful messages.
When Sam died, I suspended my account and logged out of Facebook for at least a month (I can't remember exactly how long), because I couldn't face that same outpouring. Funnily enough, once I logged back on, I couldn't get enough of the messages and wonderful support I received on there. I hope that K's family is getting something out of that.
It's not that we're close to K's family, not really. I went to high school with K's dad; I've had coffee with the family once before, and we talk on Facebook a bit, just general stuff that happens between people that are busy living.
But now, somehow we feel a connection. I hate that a connection could be formed over something so horrible, but it's there (Anthony and I have talked about it and we both feel the same). That's where all this 'searching for kindred spirits' came from.
As I've mentioned, when Samuel died, I went looking for people that felt the same way as me. Who had some kind of understanding of what I was going through. It wasn't that I felt that my family and friends were not supportive, because they were, but I wanted to talk to people who knew what it was like to have a great hole cut out of your life; one that can never be filled.
At first, I didn't have much luck; the first group I found online was way too religious for my liking! There are a couple that I have found since then, like Kate, Jaimee and Tammy (thanks girls); and I have found some good support back on Essential Baby.
But this need to reach out; to find other people who had this horrible, traumatic, life changing event envelop their lives was one of the main reasons that I started this blog. If I couldn't find them, I'd pour my heart out into the (cyber) space. Part of me (the part that always makes people want to feel better), also thought that maybe I'd be able to help someone through all of it too.
And I really want to help K's parents. Desperately! I hate that someone else has to go through all this. Someone that I know. This stuff is not supposed to happen!
I went over to see them on Saturday, not knowing if I would be a help, or just a nuisance; someone who just brought them down. I'm hoping it was the former. And I'll do anything else that I can to help them.
On Thursday, Anthony and I will go along to K's funeral. There was never any doubt that we would.
But in the end, there's nothing anyone can do. Those of us who get lumped with this horrible burden go through it so differently. There doesn't seem to be a right way, or a wrong way, just the way that's going to get us through to the other side.
I've gotta admit, I'm struggling a little with the death of K. She was almost exactly the same age as Samuel was when he died, and it's all hitting a little too close to home. She had an asthma attack, which I must admit was what I thought had happened to Samuel for a long time.
I know that each case is different, and I'm so sad for her parents and her family and friends, but I'm also sad because of how much it reminds me of Sam's death. And how much I keep thinking that this stuff just should not happen!
I had been feeling a little sorry for myself anyway, as you know. It just seemed to be a whole lot of things that keep piling on. The inquest had come to an end (we received the updated, final death certificate today). The weather has been getting colder and more miserable. My best friend's grandmother died last week, and we went to her funeral on Thursday. I'd taken Oliver to the doctor and found out there's a chance he might have to have surgery (very minor surgery to have one of his testicles brought down, but I was freaking out about any kind of anesthetic - pathetic I know!). Work has been ultra busy. No one really comes to my Sunday drinks any more :( That person I've mentioned before was back to their old ways...things were just, well, shitty.
Then of course a tragedy like this happens, and you feel a little bit guilty that you were worried about the weather.
So it's been a pretty sad few days. I've been watching on Facebook as a page is set up for K, and people have been writing beautiful messages.
When Sam died, I suspended my account and logged out of Facebook for at least a month (I can't remember exactly how long), because I couldn't face that same outpouring. Funnily enough, once I logged back on, I couldn't get enough of the messages and wonderful support I received on there. I hope that K's family is getting something out of that.
It's not that we're close to K's family, not really. I went to high school with K's dad; I've had coffee with the family once before, and we talk on Facebook a bit, just general stuff that happens between people that are busy living.
But now, somehow we feel a connection. I hate that a connection could be formed over something so horrible, but it's there (Anthony and I have talked about it and we both feel the same). That's where all this 'searching for kindred spirits' came from.
As I've mentioned, when Samuel died, I went looking for people that felt the same way as me. Who had some kind of understanding of what I was going through. It wasn't that I felt that my family and friends were not supportive, because they were, but I wanted to talk to people who knew what it was like to have a great hole cut out of your life; one that can never be filled.
At first, I didn't have much luck; the first group I found online was way too religious for my liking! There are a couple that I have found since then, like Kate, Jaimee and Tammy (thanks girls); and I have found some good support back on Essential Baby.
But this need to reach out; to find other people who had this horrible, traumatic, life changing event envelop their lives was one of the main reasons that I started this blog. If I couldn't find them, I'd pour my heart out into the (cyber) space. Part of me (the part that always makes people want to feel better), also thought that maybe I'd be able to help someone through all of it too.
And I really want to help K's parents. Desperately! I hate that someone else has to go through all this. Someone that I know. This stuff is not supposed to happen!
I went over to see them on Saturday, not knowing if I would be a help, or just a nuisance; someone who just brought them down. I'm hoping it was the former. And I'll do anything else that I can to help them.
On Thursday, Anthony and I will go along to K's funeral. There was never any doubt that we would.
But in the end, there's nothing anyone can do. Those of us who get lumped with this horrible burden go through it so differently. There doesn't seem to be a right way, or a wrong way, just the way that's going to get us through to the other side.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The ups and downs
Yesterday was kind of rough. We had one of those 'I really miss Sam' days, where tears come easily and regularly. We knew there was no avoiding it; so early in the day Anthony and I sat down to watch the DVD slideshow of photos that we had played at Sam's funeral. We cried all the way through it (Oliver was out), but it was a good release. And a good chance for a cuddle.
When I went grocery shopping later, I deliberately put my headphones on, so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I used to hate it when people did that, I thought it was so rude. But it's amazing how much your perceptions change after someone close to you dies.
Like the smiling thing, behaviours that once made me cranky are behaviours that I now adopt myself. We never think about the whole lot of things we don't see when we look at others (and neither should we, I guess): that there might be a reason they look so grumpy or sad; that they have headphones on and look away when you catch their eye...
And then there's the way that people react when you talk about kids. In the past, whenever I've talked about my kids with a group of people, there's never been a little thought in the back of my head that maybe one of them might be that person who can't have kids.Or that might have lost one.
Now, that person is me.
On the whole, I try very hard to push my feelings aside when I talk about kids with others, or just focus on Oliver.
But sometimes it can get to be too much. When people talk about how much their kids are pissing them off, or getting in the way of stuff they want to do (like I have heard too many times this week from too many different people), all I can think about is 'at least you still have them'.
Usually I don't voice this thought, but instead find a way to change the subject or extract myself from the conversation. Though yesterday I did speak up, to someone very close to me who was already feeling vulnerable, and I regret that.
The other thing that I hate to see is strangers being horrible to their children. As a teacher, I was already hypersensitive to this, but I am even more so now. I have seen many examples of this over the past few weeks, and it all just adds up.
There are so many people in the world that shouldn't be parents, and sometimes it really gets to me. Why do they get to have kids when I can't? Not that it's the kid's fault; all I feel when I ee them is a mixture of pity and sadness, that they won't have the kind of life they should have.
But I get so angry at their parents, and probably their parents, and the shitty, crazy, mixed up world, that has its priorities all wrong.
So I think this ishow I ended up where I was yesterday. A combination of events and experiences, on top of a crazily busy week where many people did (and didn't) live up to my expectations of them (including one I have posted about before, who completely, very disappointingly, dropped the ball), the whole end-of-inquest thing...it's a wonder I did'n't go completely off the rails!
But, dear reader, it's out of my system now, so don't worry too much about me. Back to livin'...
When I went grocery shopping later, I deliberately put my headphones on, so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I used to hate it when people did that, I thought it was so rude. But it's amazing how much your perceptions change after someone close to you dies.
Like the smiling thing, behaviours that once made me cranky are behaviours that I now adopt myself. We never think about the whole lot of things we don't see when we look at others (and neither should we, I guess): that there might be a reason they look so grumpy or sad; that they have headphones on and look away when you catch their eye...
And then there's the way that people react when you talk about kids. In the past, whenever I've talked about my kids with a group of people, there's never been a little thought in the back of my head that maybe one of them might be that person who can't have kids.Or that might have lost one.
Now, that person is me.
On the whole, I try very hard to push my feelings aside when I talk about kids with others, or just focus on Oliver.
But sometimes it can get to be too much. When people talk about how much their kids are pissing them off, or getting in the way of stuff they want to do (like I have heard too many times this week from too many different people), all I can think about is 'at least you still have them'.
Usually I don't voice this thought, but instead find a way to change the subject or extract myself from the conversation. Though yesterday I did speak up, to someone very close to me who was already feeling vulnerable, and I regret that.
The other thing that I hate to see is strangers being horrible to their children. As a teacher, I was already hypersensitive to this, but I am even more so now. I have seen many examples of this over the past few weeks, and it all just adds up.
There are so many people in the world that shouldn't be parents, and sometimes it really gets to me. Why do they get to have kids when I can't? Not that it's the kid's fault; all I feel when I ee them is a mixture of pity and sadness, that they won't have the kind of life they should have.
But I get so angry at their parents, and probably their parents, and the shitty, crazy, mixed up world, that has its priorities all wrong.
So I think this ishow I ended up where I was yesterday. A combination of events and experiences, on top of a crazily busy week where many people did (and didn't) live up to my expectations of them (including one I have posted about before, who completely, very disappointingly, dropped the ball), the whole end-of-inquest thing...it's a wonder I did'n't go completely off the rails!
But, dear reader, it's out of my system now, so don't worry too much about me. Back to livin'...
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The End
(Attention Reader - Please be aware that the contents of this post may be distressing or disturbing).
As I've already posted, a couple of weeks ago we received some news about Sam's death. A little over a week ago, we also received the post-mortem report. For a week, I put off reading it, mainly because I didn't really understand the medical language in it, but also because I couldn't.
I didn't want to see my boy's organs discussed so clinically. I don't know why; he's dead and he's not coming back. But the thought of seeing that stuff in print was too much.
So yesterday, Anthony and I went and saw our GP to talk it over with him. The coroner's office had suggested it so that we could decide whether or not we wanted to have a hearing.
The doctor went through it all with us, explaining each part; answering our questions and reassuring us.
The report showed that everything was normal with Sam: his organs were all normal and functioning properly; there was no sign of alcohol, drugs or poisons; there was no foreign substance or irregularities.
So, if you're still with me, what (probably) happened was that Samuel was sleeping very deeply, vomited (it may have been a very small amount), inhaled his vomit and suffocated.
One thing that we know is that Sam did not wake up (mind you, the doctor said this kind of thing also happens with people who are awake too), which is kind of comforting, as I can tell myself he did not suffer. There was no sign of an illness or condition that we should have noticed, and it was long enough after dinner for it to not be caused by 'eating too much', which, with Sam, was a distinct possibility!
There were two main questions that I had wanted answers to: what caused Samuel to vomit? And how can someone who is sober vomit without waking up? The doctor was not able to give me any kind of answer, but then again, the coroner wouldn't be able to either. So I have to accept that these are things that I will never know.
And that's the end. All that's left to do now is call the coroner's office, and tell them we're done. We don't need a hearing. All that will do is bring everything up again. Many of us would be called as witnesses and would have to hear all the details again. All for the same answers that we have now.
This is where it's going to end.
Ok, so it won't end. We'll never get over it, and there are still lots of things to do, memories to share; but the yucky bit is over. In a way it's a relief, but it's also a final, wrenching conclusion.
Yesterday, before we went to the doctor, I was fine, but afterwards I was tired and emotional. I was the same today too. It was very hard to keep it together, especially in the early part of the day. When I found out I was having the class I have the most trouble with for longer than I expected, I nearly lost it, and had to go and find a quiet spot for a while. I just wasn't sure I was feeling resilient enough.
Then, during the morning, I found out that my best friend's grandmother had died overnight. So I was feeling sad about that, and I just wanted to talk to her. It was just such a hard day to be at work.
This is what I had always been worried about; and one of the main reasons it took me so long to go back to work. Luckily, most of the staff at work are very busy at the moment, and working on their reports, so I could just hide. Because I knew if someone stopped me and asked how I was, I would have fallen apart.
But it got better. I managed to avoid meltdowns, and the class was OK too. I told them I was feeling grumpy, and they were actually pretty great. I was (almost) feeling normal by the time I left, nice and early.
And it's been OK this afternoon too. A lovely person at work loaned me their power cable, I've bought a new hard drive and I'm busy updating, and now I can use my Mac and update here.
So now that I've gotten that out of my system, I can go on to blogging about the lovely memories I have of Sam. Coming soon...
As I've already posted, a couple of weeks ago we received some news about Sam's death. A little over a week ago, we also received the post-mortem report. For a week, I put off reading it, mainly because I didn't really understand the medical language in it, but also because I couldn't.
I didn't want to see my boy's organs discussed so clinically. I don't know why; he's dead and he's not coming back. But the thought of seeing that stuff in print was too much.
So yesterday, Anthony and I went and saw our GP to talk it over with him. The coroner's office had suggested it so that we could decide whether or not we wanted to have a hearing.
The doctor went through it all with us, explaining each part; answering our questions and reassuring us.
The report showed that everything was normal with Sam: his organs were all normal and functioning properly; there was no sign of alcohol, drugs or poisons; there was no foreign substance or irregularities.
So, if you're still with me, what (probably) happened was that Samuel was sleeping very deeply, vomited (it may have been a very small amount), inhaled his vomit and suffocated.
One thing that we know is that Sam did not wake up (mind you, the doctor said this kind of thing also happens with people who are awake too), which is kind of comforting, as I can tell myself he did not suffer. There was no sign of an illness or condition that we should have noticed, and it was long enough after dinner for it to not be caused by 'eating too much', which, with Sam, was a distinct possibility!
There were two main questions that I had wanted answers to: what caused Samuel to vomit? And how can someone who is sober vomit without waking up? The doctor was not able to give me any kind of answer, but then again, the coroner wouldn't be able to either. So I have to accept that these are things that I will never know.
And that's the end. All that's left to do now is call the coroner's office, and tell them we're done. We don't need a hearing. All that will do is bring everything up again. Many of us would be called as witnesses and would have to hear all the details again. All for the same answers that we have now.
This is where it's going to end.
Ok, so it won't end. We'll never get over it, and there are still lots of things to do, memories to share; but the yucky bit is over. In a way it's a relief, but it's also a final, wrenching conclusion.
Yesterday, before we went to the doctor, I was fine, but afterwards I was tired and emotional. I was the same today too. It was very hard to keep it together, especially in the early part of the day. When I found out I was having the class I have the most trouble with for longer than I expected, I nearly lost it, and had to go and find a quiet spot for a while. I just wasn't sure I was feeling resilient enough.
Then, during the morning, I found out that my best friend's grandmother had died overnight. So I was feeling sad about that, and I just wanted to talk to her. It was just such a hard day to be at work.
This is what I had always been worried about; and one of the main reasons it took me so long to go back to work. Luckily, most of the staff at work are very busy at the moment, and working on their reports, so I could just hide. Because I knew if someone stopped me and asked how I was, I would have fallen apart.
But it got better. I managed to avoid meltdowns, and the class was OK too. I told them I was feeling grumpy, and they were actually pretty great. I was (almost) feeling normal by the time I left, nice and early.
And it's been OK this afternoon too. A lovely person at work loaned me their power cable, I've bought a new hard drive and I'm busy updating, and now I can use my Mac and update here.
So now that I've gotten that out of my system, I can go on to blogging about the lovely memories I have of Sam. Coming soon...
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Thank you for listening
I tell you this, and I tell you plain:
What you have done, you will do again;
You will bite your tongue, careful or not,
Upon the already-bitten spot.
~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
What you have done, you will do again;
You will bite your tongue, careful or not,
Upon the already-bitten spot.
~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
OK, so my first post yesterday was a little heavy. I know this, because people asked me if I was OK not long afterward. I am OK I guess (as much as I can be); but I am grieving, and occasionally I need to vent.
But I guess you knew that. From the first time you read my blog you knew I was grieving for my Sam. And if you kept reading, you must have known that once in a while I'd say something sad. I've said it before, but I do appreciate the way that some of you have stayed on that roller coaster, from the tame, flat parts, right through to the terrifying loop-de-loops.
That is what it's like for me too. For a while, things are going along OK: I start to see some normality creep back in, start to laugh, smile, and have fun again; and then bang! It hits me. I'm never going to see him again. It can be as simple as a smell, a sight, a memory; something someone says, but it can be anything that gives me that strong feeling of loss.
For the sake of my sanity (and that of my family and friends), I've got to get it out. This blog is my venting spot. It's where I can get it out.
It's not that I don't have people that I can talk to. I do. There are people in my life that are there for me: when I need to talk they are there to listen; just listen. Not offer advice, or try and make it about them, but just listen. I'm lucky that way I guess, because there are a lot of people who don't have that.
But sometimes there's no one. Or they're not there at the time I need to get it out. Or they don't want to hear it. And that's OK too, I guess.
One of them is Anthony. He's my partner. He's been in my life more than 16 years, and my partner for 15 and a half. But he's never been much of a talker. Oh, he talks about stuff - like politics, and renovations, and our kids, but he's not much of a talker about 'feelings'.
It's never really been a problem. I talk for both of us. It's OK by him and it's OK by me. Always has been. We've had our problems, but he's proved to me over and over again how much he loves me; in much more tangible, non-verbal ways.
It has been hard with the whole Sam thing though. Because I have wanted to talk to him. And sometimes he just doesn't want to. I guess I kind of understand. He feels this whole thing so differently to me. He cries more than me (like I've said before), and is much more likely to actually express his grief (which I know is the complete opposite of what I've just said about him), and there have been times when I've been hesitant to mention something about Sam because I don't want to upset him.
But I do sometimes wish we could have long, meaningful, heartfelt conversations. Sometimes we do, but probably not as much as I'd like.
So that's why I have you, dear reader. It's really the main reason I started this blog, and why I keep it going. I can say everything I want to say, and not worry about how people are going to react (apart from the odd 'are you OK?'); or that they're going to start talking about how they feel; or that their eyes are going to glaze over halfway through; or that they're thinking of all the things they could be doing, instead of listening to me say stuff I've said already.
My lovely readers, who are still with me after all this time, can choose when they read it. They can choose to not read it if they want to. I'll never know. But I'll have got it out, and that's what's really important.
Thanks to those of you who do stick it out with me. In a way you are the ones who do listen. I don't think there's too much difference between someone sitting there listening to me talk, and someone sitting there reading what I write. It's not like I need advice. In fact, there's not much advice anyone can give. There's not even much that anyone can say. But there's lots that I can say. That's the point.
So thanks again readers. I love having you around.
And a final thought:
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Just a rant...
Why can't this be a dream?
I had a really bad dream the other night (causing me to wake up at 4.30am!), where someone I love dearly had died. At the time, I woke up truly believing it, and was quite worried until I talked to them.
I wish I could wake up to find out Sam was still alive.
I hate walking past his empty, cold bedroom every day. I hate it, but I need to do it. It's sometimes the only way I feel close to him.
I hate walking through the shopping centre and seeing teenagers having fun and causing chaos (just like he used to do with his friends on Friday nights).
I hate walking out of a movie (last one was Iron Man 2) thinking 'Sam would have liked that'.
I hate seeing ads for new TV shows that Sam loved (like The Gruen Transfer). And wondering why I go out of my way to watch Top Gear only now, when I used to let him watch it alone.
I hate knowing I'll never get to teach him how to drive. I had already been making plans to give him my car.
I hate seeing ads for colleges and high school open nights, and knowing he won't ever get there.
I hate not knowing what to do with his ashes.
I want him back, and it's not fair.
I had a really bad dream the other night (causing me to wake up at 4.30am!), where someone I love dearly had died. At the time, I woke up truly believing it, and was quite worried until I talked to them.
I wish I could wake up to find out Sam was still alive.
I hate walking past his empty, cold bedroom every day. I hate it, but I need to do it. It's sometimes the only way I feel close to him.
I hate walking through the shopping centre and seeing teenagers having fun and causing chaos (just like he used to do with his friends on Friday nights).
I hate walking out of a movie (last one was Iron Man 2) thinking 'Sam would have liked that'.
I hate seeing ads for new TV shows that Sam loved (like The Gruen Transfer). And wondering why I go out of my way to watch Top Gear only now, when I used to let him watch it alone.
I hate knowing I'll never get to teach him how to drive. I had already been making plans to give him my car.
I hate seeing ads for colleges and high school open nights, and knowing he won't ever get there.
I hate not knowing what to do with his ashes.
I want him back, and it's not fair.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day
I'm not sure I want Mother's Day. I've been sitting here for a while, thinking about Sam and getting sad, so I thought I'd blog for a while.
Mother's Day hasn't really crossed my mind much this week. Perhaps because I've been so busy. There hadn't been much a sense of dread or anticipation. Until yesterday. I started to think about it a bit yesterday (and obviously others did too, as when I got back from my photography expedition there was a pot of little paper daisies (I think) sitting on the bench waiting for me.
But last night at the engagement party, I really started to feel it. The speeches were what really set me off; I started to think about how I'd never see Sam get engaged. Then some of the people I was sitting with started talking about what a pain kids were, and how they'd never have them, or only wanted babies, but not kids. Of course all I could think about was how much I'd like to see mine. As painful as he was sometimes, he was also pretty awesome.
So by the time I got home, I was a little melancholy. I posted about it on Facebook, and got some lovely messages from people, which helped a bit. I'm glad people are still tuned in enough to do that for me (thank you!). This morning, it's not so bad (perhaps the alcohol I'd consumed had switched my emotions into hyperdrive), but it still hurts. I'm glad I'll be busy all day.
Every Mother's Day I wake up before everyone else. I'm a morning person; tuned to wake up at a certain time, and it doesn't change on the weekends. I might get out of bed a little later, but once I'm awake, I can't just roll over and go back to sleep. For a few years, each Mother's Day I stubbornly waited in bed for everyone else to get up, hoping for some breakfast in bed, or at least a coffee. But the rest of my family are night owls, and like to sleep in, so a while ago I realised that it was never going to change; that I probably wasn't ever going to have the 'kids on the bed' Mother's Day that I'd always had with my parents. Once I figured that out, I enjoyed creating new traditions with my family.
Not that we had any traditions, really. For the past few years, Sam had made me a card and has been getting Ollie to sign it since he was able (I'll have to dig some of them out). We'll often go out somewhere - for a picnic or to the markets, somewhere that I choose. And I never cook. We usually go out with my parents for dinner, and sometimes we do breakfast with Anthony's family, so there's always good food and company involved too.
I've never made a huge deal about Mother's Day. I've always told my family not to bother too much with presents (although I secretly do love getting them!), they just had to be nice to me (all of them), get along (the kids), and maybe give me a massage (Anthony). Sometimes they manage all that plus a pressie, sometimes they manage none of it. :) It's OK though, because the rest of the year, they show me in lots of ways that they love me and appreciate me.
My little family and I have never been all that great at 'Hallmark Days'. We make a big fuss about birthdays, but as I've posted before, we don't really do too much at Christmas and Easter. We don't even acknowledge Valentines Day or Halloween, and Mothers/Fathers Days are fairly low key (as I've described above). For the most part, I'm of the opinion that you should be able to celebrate your loved ones any day of the year, and these days seem mainly geared towards big spending (I know it's hypocritical to criticise this after I've just said I like presents, but don't worry, I'll be able to live with myself!).
Having also worked with people, and then as a teacher for a while now, I have seen the impact these days can have on those who don't fit the traditional mould. I've seen the lonely people celebrating Christmas or Easter at the movies, or at the club. I wonder how a kid who's lost their mum feels when everyone's talking about Mother's Day? What about the kid who never knew their Dad? And what about the woman who desperately wants to have kids, but can't?
Or the mum who's lost their child.
I don't really want to celebrate Mother's Day. I know that I still have one child, and maybe things will change in time, but for now I'm content to be cynical about it. Samuel turned me into a mother, perhaps before I was ready, but he made me the mum that I am now. I don't want to celebrate being a mother without him.
Mother's Day hasn't really crossed my mind much this week. Perhaps because I've been so busy. There hadn't been much a sense of dread or anticipation. Until yesterday. I started to think about it a bit yesterday (and obviously others did too, as when I got back from my photography expedition there was a pot of little paper daisies (I think) sitting on the bench waiting for me.
But last night at the engagement party, I really started to feel it. The speeches were what really set me off; I started to think about how I'd never see Sam get engaged. Then some of the people I was sitting with started talking about what a pain kids were, and how they'd never have them, or only wanted babies, but not kids. Of course all I could think about was how much I'd like to see mine. As painful as he was sometimes, he was also pretty awesome.
So by the time I got home, I was a little melancholy. I posted about it on Facebook, and got some lovely messages from people, which helped a bit. I'm glad people are still tuned in enough to do that for me (thank you!). This morning, it's not so bad (perhaps the alcohol I'd consumed had switched my emotions into hyperdrive), but it still hurts. I'm glad I'll be busy all day.
Every Mother's Day I wake up before everyone else. I'm a morning person; tuned to wake up at a certain time, and it doesn't change on the weekends. I might get out of bed a little later, but once I'm awake, I can't just roll over and go back to sleep. For a few years, each Mother's Day I stubbornly waited in bed for everyone else to get up, hoping for some breakfast in bed, or at least a coffee. But the rest of my family are night owls, and like to sleep in, so a while ago I realised that it was never going to change; that I probably wasn't ever going to have the 'kids on the bed' Mother's Day that I'd always had with my parents. Once I figured that out, I enjoyed creating new traditions with my family.
Not that we had any traditions, really. For the past few years, Sam had made me a card and has been getting Ollie to sign it since he was able (I'll have to dig some of them out). We'll often go out somewhere - for a picnic or to the markets, somewhere that I choose. And I never cook. We usually go out with my parents for dinner, and sometimes we do breakfast with Anthony's family, so there's always good food and company involved too.
I've never made a huge deal about Mother's Day. I've always told my family not to bother too much with presents (although I secretly do love getting them!), they just had to be nice to me (all of them), get along (the kids), and maybe give me a massage (Anthony). Sometimes they manage all that plus a pressie, sometimes they manage none of it. :) It's OK though, because the rest of the year, they show me in lots of ways that they love me and appreciate me.
My little family and I have never been all that great at 'Hallmark Days'. We make a big fuss about birthdays, but as I've posted before, we don't really do too much at Christmas and Easter. We don't even acknowledge Valentines Day or Halloween, and Mothers/Fathers Days are fairly low key (as I've described above). For the most part, I'm of the opinion that you should be able to celebrate your loved ones any day of the year, and these days seem mainly geared towards big spending (I know it's hypocritical to criticise this after I've just said I like presents, but don't worry, I'll be able to live with myself!).
Having also worked with people, and then as a teacher for a while now, I have seen the impact these days can have on those who don't fit the traditional mould. I've seen the lonely people celebrating Christmas or Easter at the movies, or at the club. I wonder how a kid who's lost their mum feels when everyone's talking about Mother's Day? What about the kid who never knew their Dad? And what about the woman who desperately wants to have kids, but can't?
Or the mum who's lost their child.
I don't really want to celebrate Mother's Day. I know that I still have one child, and maybe things will change in time, but for now I'm content to be cynical about it. Samuel turned me into a mother, perhaps before I was ready, but he made me the mum that I am now. I don't want to celebrate being a mother without him.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
So Nice!
I forgot to mention the nice things that happened to me today.
It's so easy to get caught up in this business of day-to-day life, and well, in grief, that sometimes we forget to notice the nice little things that happen. So I thought I'd write about the lovely things that happened to me (and my boys) today.
I had a busy morning at work today, starting well before 8am and going non-stop for a bit (it was hard-going with the headache I had from my sleepless night and tummy ache!). When things settled a bit, and I was just getting into the tidying up, a mum that's been helping in the library turned up with an extra coffee. It wasn't originally for me, but the person she'd bought it for is away, so she gave it to me. It was just what I needed at the time!
Then, when I finally got a chance to check my pigeon hole, I found this;
along with a little card that had a nice little 'cheer up' message. It came from a lovely new teacher that I have only known since I got back to work (6 weeks + holidays ago), and it was a really touching gesture. She said later that she had noticed that I looked a bit 'down', so she thought she'd give me the 'Sunshine Bear'.
When I got home, my brother-in-law was there. He had bought Ollie a little lego car (To say that Ollie is TOTALLY addicted to lego woudl be somewhat of an understatement), and some hot chips for the boys to eat for afternoon tea.
Then, another friend arrived at the house at the same time as me, with some nice beer that he proceeded to share with me. I don't normally drink during the week, but I didn't mind a beer or two. In fact, it went down quite well.
And, just as I was starting to think 'what the heck am I going to cook/eat for dinner', my mother-in-law called to say she was going to make dinner for us. She brought over some yummy stuff for us, and I didn't have to cook! Now that Sam's gone :( I am the sole cook in our house (Anthony does the odd jaffle or reheated pie, but I cook the meals. I don't mind really, he does a lot of other things - and he cleans up afte me in the kitchen!), and while I enjoy cooking most of the time, there are times when I really don't want to! Today was one of them.
These things probably don't seem like much, but it's these thoughtful; kind gestures that just mean so much. It's not that uncommon around here I guess (we do know some very nice people: my mum and dad dropped a meal off for us last week, and people quite often give me little chockies or pop in to visit), and it's been even more common since we lost Sam, but it's really these little things that make my day sometimes.
I wanted to make a point of mentioning it, because these things get overlooked so often.
So thank you to those lovely people. You made my day. I want you to know that I'm grateful you are in my life.
It's so easy to get caught up in this business of day-to-day life, and well, in grief, that sometimes we forget to notice the nice little things that happen. So I thought I'd write about the lovely things that happened to me (and my boys) today.
I had a busy morning at work today, starting well before 8am and going non-stop for a bit (it was hard-going with the headache I had from my sleepless night and tummy ache!). When things settled a bit, and I was just getting into the tidying up, a mum that's been helping in the library turned up with an extra coffee. It wasn't originally for me, but the person she'd bought it for is away, so she gave it to me. It was just what I needed at the time!
Then, when I finally got a chance to check my pigeon hole, I found this;
along with a little card that had a nice little 'cheer up' message. It came from a lovely new teacher that I have only known since I got back to work (6 weeks + holidays ago), and it was a really touching gesture. She said later that she had noticed that I looked a bit 'down', so she thought she'd give me the 'Sunshine Bear'.When I got home, my brother-in-law was there. He had bought Ollie a little lego car (To say that Ollie is TOTALLY addicted to lego woudl be somewhat of an understatement), and some hot chips for the boys to eat for afternoon tea.
Then, another friend arrived at the house at the same time as me, with some nice beer that he proceeded to share with me. I don't normally drink during the week, but I didn't mind a beer or two. In fact, it went down quite well.
And, just as I was starting to think 'what the heck am I going to cook/eat for dinner', my mother-in-law called to say she was going to make dinner for us. She brought over some yummy stuff for us, and I didn't have to cook! Now that Sam's gone :( I am the sole cook in our house (Anthony does the odd jaffle or reheated pie, but I cook the meals. I don't mind really, he does a lot of other things - and he cleans up afte me in the kitchen!), and while I enjoy cooking most of the time, there are times when I really don't want to! Today was one of them.
These things probably don't seem like much, but it's these thoughtful; kind gestures that just mean so much. It's not that uncommon around here I guess (we do know some very nice people: my mum and dad dropped a meal off for us last week, and people quite often give me little chockies or pop in to visit), and it's been even more common since we lost Sam, but it's really these little things that make my day sometimes.
I wanted to make a point of mentioning it, because these things get overlooked so often.
So thank you to those lovely people. You made my day. I want you to know that I'm grateful you are in my life.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Reason
We got some news about Sam's death yesterday.
(Attention Reader - Please be aware that the contents of this post may be distressing or disturbing).
I'd actually been expecting it to take a lot longer, so I'm not sure if I was prepared for it or not. I was at work in the morning when I noticed Anthony had called. I keep my phone with me for the time, but never answer it when I'm teaching. As I was standing there talking to a class, I noticed that it kept ringing and buzzing messages, so as soon as I could I prevailed on the teacher nearby to keep an eye out, and then popped around the corner and called him (by this time there were 2 text messages and 3 missed calls so I knew it was important).
Anthony was very upset, and told me he had just heard from the detective in charge of the investigation into Sam's death. By now I was pretty upset too, and all I could think about was going home and hugging him (so glad this didn't happen while I was in Melbourne!). I called the executive, who (thankfully) came down straight away and I just ran out of there. I have never left work so quickly, but I knew if I didn't I was going to fall apart right there in front of all the kids.
I cried all the way home, because Anthony had already told me what was going on. And when I saw him I cried a lot more.
So this is what we know:
Sometime during the night of the 21st/22nd December, Samuel vomited. He was a very deep sleeper, and was probably sleeping on his back, and the official (so far) word is that 'he asphyxiated on the contents of his stomach.' I believe the other term for this is 'aspirated'.
That's it.
I am a little torn. While it is good to know what happened, I'm also a little (pissed off? frustrated? disappointed? devastated?) that it was this stupid little thing that killed him. Not a condition (like a heart attack or an aneurysm or an asthma attack), but an event. A stupid, one in a million, crazy accident. One minute I feel like screaming, and the next I feel so flat. It's not that I wanted it to be some glamorous, exotic cause of death, and I definitely didn't want it to be something that I'd have to watch Oliver for, but it just seems so...I don't know...pointless.
Don't get me wrong, it's good to know what it was that took my beautiful boy away from me. It does help to ease some of those little twinges (What could I have done differently? What if I had/hadn't....?), but it doesn't really make me feel any better.
There's nothing we could have done. Samuel did vomit more than others (and was sometimes pretty disgusting about it, as I have posted previously), but as my GP said when I spoke to him today, short of lying down next to him every night and watching him sleep (which I can tell you now Samuel would NOT have allowed!), we couldn't have prevented it.
There's nothing suspicious about it: he didn't eat anything unusual that night; he didn't drink or take drugs; his 'blood' results came back clear; there was (as far as I know) no sign of an allergic reaction; it was just vomit. It's a one in a million thing - it hardly ever happens to people who are not drunk, on drugs or severely ill anyway, but I guess Samuel was always destined to stand out, to not be 'one of the crowd'.
The more I think about it though, the more I think that it opens up a whole lot of other questions. How could someone sleep through that? Wouldn't your body wake you up? I know I've woken up in the past to vomit, and I'm sure Samuel has too. What was it that caused him to vomit? Did he have some kind of gastro? Was it an allergic reaction to something (although I don't there were signs of it)?
I really hope that the Coroner is able to shed some light on this.
So, we're back down again. I feel like the grief has started all over again. I was sick already (I did end up having sinus infection, and have just started antibiotics), I feel worse now. My head is pounding and I feel nauseous. I'm going to stay home have a bit of a rest tomorrow. I know people will probably think I'm bludging, or wonder why I'm making a fuss, but I can't help it, it's just the way I feel. As I've said before, I don't know the rules on this grieving thing, but I do know how I feel.
(Attention Reader - Please be aware that the contents of this post may be distressing or disturbing).
I'd actually been expecting it to take a lot longer, so I'm not sure if I was prepared for it or not. I was at work in the morning when I noticed Anthony had called. I keep my phone with me for the time, but never answer it when I'm teaching. As I was standing there talking to a class, I noticed that it kept ringing and buzzing messages, so as soon as I could I prevailed on the teacher nearby to keep an eye out, and then popped around the corner and called him (by this time there were 2 text messages and 3 missed calls so I knew it was important).
Anthony was very upset, and told me he had just heard from the detective in charge of the investigation into Sam's death. By now I was pretty upset too, and all I could think about was going home and hugging him (so glad this didn't happen while I was in Melbourne!). I called the executive, who (thankfully) came down straight away and I just ran out of there. I have never left work so quickly, but I knew if I didn't I was going to fall apart right there in front of all the kids.
I cried all the way home, because Anthony had already told me what was going on. And when I saw him I cried a lot more.
So this is what we know:
Sometime during the night of the 21st/22nd December, Samuel vomited. He was a very deep sleeper, and was probably sleeping on his back, and the official (so far) word is that 'he asphyxiated on the contents of his stomach.' I believe the other term for this is 'aspirated'.
That's it.
I am a little torn. While it is good to know what happened, I'm also a little (pissed off? frustrated? disappointed? devastated?) that it was this stupid little thing that killed him. Not a condition (like a heart attack or an aneurysm or an asthma attack), but an event. A stupid, one in a million, crazy accident. One minute I feel like screaming, and the next I feel so flat. It's not that I wanted it to be some glamorous, exotic cause of death, and I definitely didn't want it to be something that I'd have to watch Oliver for, but it just seems so...I don't know...pointless.
Don't get me wrong, it's good to know what it was that took my beautiful boy away from me. It does help to ease some of those little twinges (What could I have done differently? What if I had/hadn't....?), but it doesn't really make me feel any better.
There's nothing we could have done. Samuel did vomit more than others (and was sometimes pretty disgusting about it, as I have posted previously), but as my GP said when I spoke to him today, short of lying down next to him every night and watching him sleep (which I can tell you now Samuel would NOT have allowed!), we couldn't have prevented it.
There's nothing suspicious about it: he didn't eat anything unusual that night; he didn't drink or take drugs; his 'blood' results came back clear; there was (as far as I know) no sign of an allergic reaction; it was just vomit. It's a one in a million thing - it hardly ever happens to people who are not drunk, on drugs or severely ill anyway, but I guess Samuel was always destined to stand out, to not be 'one of the crowd'.
The more I think about it though, the more I think that it opens up a whole lot of other questions. How could someone sleep through that? Wouldn't your body wake you up? I know I've woken up in the past to vomit, and I'm sure Samuel has too. What was it that caused him to vomit? Did he have some kind of gastro? Was it an allergic reaction to something (although I don't there were signs of it)?
I really hope that the Coroner is able to shed some light on this.
So, we're back down again. I feel like the grief has started all over again. I was sick already (I did end up having sinus infection, and have just started antibiotics), I feel worse now. My head is pounding and I feel nauseous. I'm going to stay home have a bit of a rest tomorrow. I know people will probably think I'm bludging, or wonder why I'm making a fuss, but I can't help it, it's just the way I feel. As I've said before, I don't know the rules on this grieving thing, but I do know how I feel.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Sick
I feel like crap.
I'm not well, but it's probably not as bad as I've had before. I haven't got much energy, and a fairly constant sinus headache, it seems to be the usual virus/turn of the season sort of thing.
No, it's more than just illness. I just feel flat, (probably) depressed, and listless. I don't really care what I'm eating or how much weight I'm putting on or how much I'm drinking. I know I should be out in the garden or playing outside with Ollie or doing some tidying or getting ready for work tomorrow, but I don't care. Well, no, that's wrong, I do care, but I just don't want to think about it. It would be nice to just switch off, and not think about anything at all for a while. But I know that's not the solution either.
I suppose it's the grief. My way of dealing with it. I know that my food issues are most likely rooted in some kind of psychological issue. Something that I have to deal with to be able to eat properly and lose weight, but surely I'm not going to have much success with that while I'm trying to process this grief stuff.
Just a vent. I know it's not always like this, just how I fell today.
Carry on.
I'm not well, but it's probably not as bad as I've had before. I haven't got much energy, and a fairly constant sinus headache, it seems to be the usual virus/turn of the season sort of thing.
No, it's more than just illness. I just feel flat, (probably) depressed, and listless. I don't really care what I'm eating or how much weight I'm putting on or how much I'm drinking. I know I should be out in the garden or playing outside with Ollie or doing some tidying or getting ready for work tomorrow, but I don't care. Well, no, that's wrong, I do care, but I just don't want to think about it. It would be nice to just switch off, and not think about anything at all for a while. But I know that's not the solution either.
I suppose it's the grief. My way of dealing with it. I know that my food issues are most likely rooted in some kind of psychological issue. Something that I have to deal with to be able to eat properly and lose weight, but surely I'm not going to have much success with that while I'm trying to process this grief stuff.
Just a vent. I know it's not always like this, just how I fell today.
Carry on.
Time to grieve
Is there a time limit for grief? Do I have a certain amount of time before I have to 'just get on with it'?
Lately I've been reading and hearing about other people's experiences with grief, and they are inevitably confronted by people who think they should be 'over it'. Sometimes not long after they have lost someone, sometimes years later. Thankfully I don't have too many horrible, inconsiderate people in my life saying these kinds of things, but it has certainly got me thinking.
To me, 4 months isn't that long. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago that Sam was here with us, and other times I can feel him, hear him, see him, like he was here only yesterday. But the times when I realise, when it really hits me, that I won't see him again -ever- that's when the grief hits full force.
It doesn't cripple me. Well, not in ways that stop me from functioning completely anyway. But it does manifest in ways that will probably affect aspects of my life or my relationships with people.
And how long can I sustain that? How long can I ask people to put up with it, before they get sick of it and start telling me 'get over it' or ' you should be over it by now'? (yes lovely readers, people have actually said these things to the grieving folk I mentioned earlier).
It's going to have an affect on my health. I know I'm not looking after myself very well - eating too much crap (or just too much), drinking too much, not talking about things when I should, not exercising enough...all of these things will have an impact that I'll have to address at some stage, but how can even begin to get my head around my weight issues etc when I am still trying to get my head around losing one of the great loves of my life?
And I don't want to go out partying. Not really. There are of course times when I enjoy a night out, but they don't happen often. Mostly because I don't want to be away from Ollie or Anthony for too long. I don't want to drink and dance and pretend everything's OK. I want to stay at my house where it's safe and I know where everyone is and what they're doing.
I don't even really want to work. I used to love teaching so much, and sometimes I still do, but the rest of the time I just don't feel like I'll do it justice. I'm certainly not prepared to put in the kind of hours that I used to, and when I think about it, that's probably going to restrict my career path. I'm not going to get promoted with that kind of attitude.
Thankfully I don't feel like this all the time. There are times when I do the right thing, take care of myself a bit better. Times when the grieving part of me shrinks back a little.
But it always comes back. How long will it go on I wonder? It's a rhetorical question I guess. I know the answer. It never goes away, it just gets smaller or easier to deal with (well that's what people say anyway). But what if it takes me too long? What if I lose some other things in that time?
It'll pass (or it'll fade at least), but I don't know when that will happen. Please don't tell me, because you don't know either. Thanks in advance though, to those of you that I know will stick it out with me.
Lately I've been reading and hearing about other people's experiences with grief, and they are inevitably confronted by people who think they should be 'over it'. Sometimes not long after they have lost someone, sometimes years later. Thankfully I don't have too many horrible, inconsiderate people in my life saying these kinds of things, but it has certainly got me thinking.
To me, 4 months isn't that long. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago that Sam was here with us, and other times I can feel him, hear him, see him, like he was here only yesterday. But the times when I realise, when it really hits me, that I won't see him again -ever- that's when the grief hits full force.
It doesn't cripple me. Well, not in ways that stop me from functioning completely anyway. But it does manifest in ways that will probably affect aspects of my life or my relationships with people.
And how long can I sustain that? How long can I ask people to put up with it, before they get sick of it and start telling me 'get over it' or ' you should be over it by now'? (yes lovely readers, people have actually said these things to the grieving folk I mentioned earlier).
It's going to have an affect on my health. I know I'm not looking after myself very well - eating too much crap (or just too much), drinking too much, not talking about things when I should, not exercising enough...all of these things will have an impact that I'll have to address at some stage, but how can even begin to get my head around my weight issues etc when I am still trying to get my head around losing one of the great loves of my life?
And I don't want to go out partying. Not really. There are of course times when I enjoy a night out, but they don't happen often. Mostly because I don't want to be away from Ollie or Anthony for too long. I don't want to drink and dance and pretend everything's OK. I want to stay at my house where it's safe and I know where everyone is and what they're doing.
I don't even really want to work. I used to love teaching so much, and sometimes I still do, but the rest of the time I just don't feel like I'll do it justice. I'm certainly not prepared to put in the kind of hours that I used to, and when I think about it, that's probably going to restrict my career path. I'm not going to get promoted with that kind of attitude.
Thankfully I don't feel like this all the time. There are times when I do the right thing, take care of myself a bit better. Times when the grieving part of me shrinks back a little.
But it always comes back. How long will it go on I wonder? It's a rhetorical question I guess. I know the answer. It never goes away, it just gets smaller or easier to deal with (well that's what people say anyway). But what if it takes me too long? What if I lose some other things in that time?
It'll pass (or it'll fade at least), but I don't know when that will happen. Please don't tell me, because you don't know either. Thanks in advance though, to those of you that I know will stick it out with me.
She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts. ~George Eliot
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Last of our holidays
For a brief moment, I ummed and ahhed about posting about the rest of our Melbourne trip. Part of me was thinking 'who cares?', but then I remembered that I wasn't really writing this blog to entertain everyone else, I'm writing it as a record of my thoughts and experiences.
I do very much like it that people are reading my blog. It makes me feel good to know people look for it (and that they're not just my parents - much as I love that they read it), and I love it when people make comments. But in the end, I am writing it for me. So I guess there will be times that no one cares about what I've written but me.
Our trip to Melbourne was bittersweet I guess. It was really great to see my Grandpa (I know some people might find it weird that I was so enthusiastic about seeing an 84 year old, but I really quite like him). I also go to see (most of) the rest of my Melbourne family, and do some touristy stuff, but it was also really hard being away from home. In the past, I've always been reluctant to leave anywhere after a week, always wanting to stay that bit longer, hold onto my holiday as long as I can. But this time I was ready to come home after about 4 days. It was mainly because I missed Anthony and wanted to be with him.
Maybe it was too soon to go for so long, and it will change over time, but I was so ready to fly home this morning when I got up. Then Anthony called to tell me about a dream he'd had (a nice one about Sam) and I burst into tears. I wanted so much at that moment to be there with my arms around him.
After that I was a bit of an emotional mess. Oliver and I dropped in and had lunch with Grandpa, then we drove out towards the airport. These days I am pretty confident when driving around Melbourne. When we arrived, I managed to drive all the way to Grandpa's, and then to Eric and Karen's without a map. I can get to my more frequently visited haunts quite easily, and with a Melway, can usually find my way anywhere. But this morning was different. I somehow managed to miss the exit and ended up on the Westgate Bridge, which as you might know, is a massive bridge that is nowhere near on the way to the airport. Because of the state I was already in, I nearly lost the plot. I had a bit of a panic attack, stopping in the shoulder while the traffic whizzed past, and just sat for a moment. (Oliver stayed calm, thankfully). Luckily, a sense of calm came over me and I managed to get myself turned back around (and had my first trip over - and back over - the bridge).
Perhaps Sam was giving me a bit of a hand? He used to be my navigator when we went to Melbourne, and had had his share of a frustrated mum going 'just read the map!', which at age 8 or 9 is a tricky prospect, especially given Melbourne's size and funky plonking down of roads.
So, the Melbourne trip. We had been doing 'touristy' stuff for the last few days. The Victorian government (in their infinite wisdom) had decided that it would be a terrible shame for Easter (or more to the point, the Easter long weekend) to be celebrated outside of school holidays, so Victorians had gone back to school just as we were starting our holidays. While it made it hard to see our family (and friends), it also meant that many of the tourist attractions were nice and quiet. And the weather was magnificent! Unseasonably warm, but lovely nonetheless.
On Tuesday Oliver, Karen and I went on Puffing Billy. It really was a lovely ride. Not too many people, and a perfect trip through the beautiful forests of the Dandenongs.
It was the perfect activity for Oliver: a noisy, smoky train and a ride where he could sit and dangle his arms and legs out of the carriage. He enjoyed it a lot.
Yesterday, we went up Eureka Tower.
Now, if you know me, you'll know that I'm not real good with heights, so I was a little nervous.
Because Eureka Tower is bloody high! It's apparently the highest viewing platform in the southern hemisphere. It's 88 floors up and my ears popped as we hurtled upwards in the lift. At first I found it difficult to get close to the windows, but after seeing Oliver's enthusiasm (head pressed right up against the glass: "Those cars look like toys!"), I relaxed and spent a lovely couple of hours gazing off into the distance.
I think that Eureka was one of my favourite activities. Funny that something so mundane as a very high building would entertain us both for so long, but there you have it.
And then today we flew home. Apart from the Westgate debacle, it was a perfect flight, and we were both very happy to see Anthony in the baggage collection area.
I'll go again. Probably sooner rather than later. It was great to see everyone, and Oliver really was a good travel companion. I'd still like to see the west though (particularly beyond the end of the Westgate Bridge), and I am keen to 'do' the Great Ocean Road and see the 12 Apostles before they all fall into the sea. But next time, I'm going to actively lobby for Anthony to come.
So how about some interactivity? What's your favourite part of Melbourne, and have you ever gotten lost?
I do very much like it that people are reading my blog. It makes me feel good to know people look for it (and that they're not just my parents - much as I love that they read it), and I love it when people make comments. But in the end, I am writing it for me. So I guess there will be times that no one cares about what I've written but me.
Our trip to Melbourne was bittersweet I guess. It was really great to see my Grandpa (I know some people might find it weird that I was so enthusiastic about seeing an 84 year old, but I really quite like him). I also go to see (most of) the rest of my Melbourne family, and do some touristy stuff, but it was also really hard being away from home. In the past, I've always been reluctant to leave anywhere after a week, always wanting to stay that bit longer, hold onto my holiday as long as I can. But this time I was ready to come home after about 4 days. It was mainly because I missed Anthony and wanted to be with him.
Maybe it was too soon to go for so long, and it will change over time, but I was so ready to fly home this morning when I got up. Then Anthony called to tell me about a dream he'd had (a nice one about Sam) and I burst into tears. I wanted so much at that moment to be there with my arms around him.
After that I was a bit of an emotional mess. Oliver and I dropped in and had lunch with Grandpa, then we drove out towards the airport. These days I am pretty confident when driving around Melbourne. When we arrived, I managed to drive all the way to Grandpa's, and then to Eric and Karen's without a map. I can get to my more frequently visited haunts quite easily, and with a Melway, can usually find my way anywhere. But this morning was different. I somehow managed to miss the exit and ended up on the Westgate Bridge, which as you might know, is a massive bridge that is nowhere near on the way to the airport. Because of the state I was already in, I nearly lost the plot. I had a bit of a panic attack, stopping in the shoulder while the traffic whizzed past, and just sat for a moment. (Oliver stayed calm, thankfully). Luckily, a sense of calm came over me and I managed to get myself turned back around (and had my first trip over - and back over - the bridge).
Perhaps Sam was giving me a bit of a hand? He used to be my navigator when we went to Melbourne, and had had his share of a frustrated mum going 'just read the map!', which at age 8 or 9 is a tricky prospect, especially given Melbourne's size and funky plonking down of roads.
So, the Melbourne trip. We had been doing 'touristy' stuff for the last few days. The Victorian government (in their infinite wisdom) had decided that it would be a terrible shame for Easter (or more to the point, the Easter long weekend) to be celebrated outside of school holidays, so Victorians had gone back to school just as we were starting our holidays. While it made it hard to see our family (and friends), it also meant that many of the tourist attractions were nice and quiet. And the weather was magnificent! Unseasonably warm, but lovely nonetheless.
On Tuesday Oliver, Karen and I went on Puffing Billy. It really was a lovely ride. Not too many people, and a perfect trip through the beautiful forests of the Dandenongs.
It was the perfect activity for Oliver: a noisy, smoky train and a ride where he could sit and dangle his arms and legs out of the carriage. He enjoyed it a lot.
Yesterday, we went up Eureka Tower.
Now, if you know me, you'll know that I'm not real good with heights, so I was a little nervous.Because Eureka Tower is bloody high! It's apparently the highest viewing platform in the southern hemisphere. It's 88 floors up and my ears popped as we hurtled upwards in the lift. At first I found it difficult to get close to the windows, but after seeing Oliver's enthusiasm (head pressed right up against the glass: "Those cars look like toys!"), I relaxed and spent a lovely couple of hours gazing off into the distance.
I think that Eureka was one of my favourite activities. Funny that something so mundane as a very high building would entertain us both for so long, but there you have it.And then today we flew home. Apart from the Westgate debacle, it was a perfect flight, and we were both very happy to see Anthony in the baggage collection area.
I'll go again. Probably sooner rather than later. It was great to see everyone, and Oliver really was a good travel companion. I'd still like to see the west though (particularly beyond the end of the Westgate Bridge), and I am keen to 'do' the Great Ocean Road and see the 12 Apostles before they all fall into the sea. But next time, I'm going to actively lobby for Anthony to come.
So how about some interactivity? What's your favourite part of Melbourne, and have you ever gotten lost?
4
It's 4 months today since we lost Sam. In some ways it feels like 4 years; in others, like it was yesterday.
He's always right there in my head, from the minute I wake up until I go to sleep again. He's the first thought I have when I wake up. Everything reminds me of him. It's not always sad though, which is kind of good, because I think I'd be actively trying to forget, and I never want to do that.
My cousin, who is about 4 months younger than Sam, reminds me of him a bit too. In a lot of ways they are completely different, but they are similar in their teenage-ness (and Calvin has lovely blonde curls too!). While we have been staying with him and his family, he and Oliver have been alternating between having a lot of fun together and annoying each other (well actually, Ollie's doing all the annoying!). It reminds me so much of my boys together when Sam was alive. It hasn't been too upsetting though. It's nice for Ollie to have that 'big brother time' again.
I'm really wishing I went home yesterday, so that I could be with Anthony now. I'm glad I'll see him this afternoon.
He's always right there in my head, from the minute I wake up until I go to sleep again. He's the first thought I have when I wake up. Everything reminds me of him. It's not always sad though, which is kind of good, because I think I'd be actively trying to forget, and I never want to do that.
My cousin, who is about 4 months younger than Sam, reminds me of him a bit too. In a lot of ways they are completely different, but they are similar in their teenage-ness (and Calvin has lovely blonde curls too!). While we have been staying with him and his family, he and Oliver have been alternating between having a lot of fun together and annoying each other (well actually, Ollie's doing all the annoying!). It reminds me so much of my boys together when Sam was alive. It hasn't been too upsetting though. It's nice for Ollie to have that 'big brother time' again.
I'm really wishing I went home yesterday, so that I could be with Anthony now. I'm glad I'll see him this afternoon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)