Sleepless Nights

Author: Veronica

  • Life in mashed peas

    I awake to the sound of Isaac crying. Blearily I stumble out of bed and down the hallway. His face breaks into a grin as I look at him, the nightlight casting shadows over both of us. I pick him up and sit down on the couch to feed him. He arches his back and turns away, hunting for the light.

    For him, it is morning.

    I peer at my watch. The nightlight is not conducive to watch reading, surely it doesn’t say 5am? Unfortunately, it does.

    I gather him up, still in his swaddle and take him back to my bed. He’ll play and I will pretend it is still night time.

    We snuggle down, him, a cracker in hand and me, hiding in my pillow. He grabs a handful of my hair and munches contentedly. The pulling hurts, so I wiggle him further away and hand him the remote to chew on. Contented, he sighs.

    Nathan opens one eye and looks at us, his peace disturbed. I counter by placing my cold feet on his legs to warm them. He mumbles, but doesn’t pull away.

    Contentment never lasts longer than 20 minutes, so our time here is limited. Soon he will complain about his wet nappy and his belly that is grumbling for solids – my milk; not enough.

    I sniff the top of his head and sigh. I’m so very tired, but this is nice

    Later we will watch the sun rise, looking out the windows with him on my hip. Amy isn’t awake yet, this is our time. Him and me. Me and him.

    Us.

    ***

    Breakfast time.

    Amy sits on the floor peeling grapes.

    Why?

    Huh?

    Why are you peeling grapes?

    Cos.

    Oh. Okay.

    It makes sense to her, I won’t argue.

    I boil the kettle while Isaac grumbles on the floor. Not long woken up from a nap, I suspect he’s still tired. A mug, a teabag and some sugar. Add the water and walk away.

    I find some peas in the freezer and pour boiling water over them. Not yet warm enough, they go on the stove to heat through. I add milk to my tea and stir. A big sip later, I’m happy. Why didn’t I do this 3 hours ago when I first woke up?

    Oh. Right. I was pretending it was still night time.

    Isaac grumbles louder, near to crying. I hand him a square of bread to gum while I prep the peas. He gurgles, putting his fist in his mouth, bread and all. I drain the peas and place them in a container.Two minutes later and breakfast is ready.

    I sit Isaac in his bouncer with a tea towel as a bib. His eyes light up as the spoon moves towards his mouth. Happily he eats his peas, one mouthful at a time.

    He lifts his foot and waggles it at me. Preoccupied with getting peas in his mouth and nowhere else, I ignore it. He waggles harder.

    I look.

    It’s a very nice foot Isaac.

    He grins and kicks, happy that I noticed.

    The last mouthful goes in his mouth, just as he sneezes.

    Peas everywhere.

    Isaac giggles.

  • The House

    I pop my key in the door and turn the lock. It opens with a click and I walk into the dim depths. The house that was always warm is now cold. I flick on a light and wrap my arms about myself. With a press of a button, I turn on the heatpump. Knowing that it will take a while for the heatpump to warm things up, I turn on the wall heater as well.

    Nathan brings the children inside. Isaac is in his pram, complaining about the lack of mobility he has in there. Amy walks around the house getting into mischief.

    The house is a mess. As I walk around, I pick things up and put them back down again. This doesn’t feel right. It’s not easy here.

    The floor has gotten dusty. Nan would hate that. I poke at the dust with my foot, unable to muster the energy to find the broom and sweep.

    We wait for Mum to arrive.

    Boxes litter the floor. Empty, they are just waiting for things to fill them.

    It’s not right that you can pack someone’s life into boxes after they are gone.

    I take a deep breathe and pick a cupboard and a box. Chin up and head back, it needs to be done. There is no time for memories.

    The scrape of gravel outside tells me a car has arrived. Mum. Amy is excited.

    Nanny! Nanny! We are at MyNanny’s house!

    Yes. We are.

    Amy doesn’t quite understand the concept of death. She’s been told that MyNanny died, but she doesn’t understand what that means. She just knows that MyNanny is no longer here, in her house.

    I know this too.

    Mum and I look at each other, understanding without words. This is not easy for us, to work methodically through Nan’s house packing things up. It’s not a small job either.

    Grab a garbage bag. We’ll do the closet.

    Okay.

    Vinnies*?

    Yes.

    Yes.

    No. I’ll take that.

    You sort, I’ll fold.

    Okay.

    It feels a little morbid as I pick items from Nan’s closet to go into mine. We’d talked about this, in the before. I knew that she wanted me to have her clothes that I would wear. Hell, I’d been borrowing her clothes since I was 10. It was what we did.

    I take a deep breath and pick through.

    Emptying clothes hangers.

    One.

    By.

    One.

    I stroke things. Remembering things I’d borrowed previously. Remembering things Nan used to wear often. Some things I can’t bear the thought of.

    Vinnies. Please. I couldn’t wear it.

    I know.

    Okay.

    It smells of Nan here still. In the silence, it almost feels like she is watching me. I know she is not. She swore she wouldn’t haunt her house and I believe that if she’s watching me, here is not the place to find her.

    I’ll fall apart later. Not now, not here. Panic attacks when people are watching are awful.

    Breathe. Just breathe.

    Slowly we’re emptying things. Packing them up. Leaving them empty.

    A person lived here once. Not anymore.

    Here, there are just broken hearts and silence.

    A lifetime, being packed into boxes and carted away.

    ***

    *St Vincent de Paul Society. Second hand shops.

  • Blog Persona VS real life

    Brenda at Mummy Time wrote the other day about how sometimes we can seem like different people on our blogs.

    I’ve been thinking about it. A lot actually.

    Am I the same in real life as I am here?

    I like to think I am, but the truth is, no.

    In real life I have a much darker sense of humour. I’m blunt and matter of fact. I laugh at inappropriate things.

    In real life, I am sadder. I am wrapped up in my own head and sometimes have huge conversations and scenarios play out with different people. I over think things.

    In real life, I am tireder. I am snappy and out of patience and ready for a coffee break. Only I don’t drink coffee.

    In real life I have panic attacks. I have to consciously remember to breathe.

    In real life, my words don’t flow all the time. Sometimes I can argue an impassioned argument and win. Other times, it feels like my words are too heavy for my mouth.

    In real life, we sometimes eat ice-cream for lunch. I swear too much. I bake my own bread, but don’t dust. Ever.

    I yell. Often.

    I have a horrifically dirty mind. I’m always having to pull myself up out of the gutter.

    I laugh at myself all the time.

    Sometimes, I have to pull my tongue out of my cheek with pliers, that’s how firmly it gets wedged in there.

    And see, the dark humour; the snark; the blunt; they don’t always translate well to writing.

    Blogging is snippets. It’s bits and pieces hashed together to make a whole. So while each post is an accurate representation of me in that moment, it’s not the whole me and it could never hope to encompass everything I am.

    I’m multi-faceted. I’m three dimensional. I’m complete.

    I’m a real person with a blog and an urge to write.

    ***

    Do you think your blog is an accurate portrayal of yourself? Do you like your blogging persona? Do you think your friends and family IRL would like your blogging persona? (Not your blog, just your blogging persona)

    What about twitter?

  • Wrist braces and I click apparently.

    My physiotherapist is lovely. No, really, she is. Funny and amusing and everything.

    I still walked out of the appointment with a good case of bleh though.

    We sat down and she asked about which joints were affected. I may have laughed a little bit and asked where she wanted me to start.

    From the top.

    Okay.

    So, I started from the top and worked my way down. By the time I’d listed ten or so joints she was looking overwhelmed and I hadn’t even made it down my arms! She’d run out of room on her sheet by the time I got to my feet.

    I’m pretty sure I still forgot things.

    She took a deep breath and I could almost see her brain ticking over as she realised that this was a much bigger job than she thought it was going to be.

    I could have told her that.

    She had me walk along the hallway while she watched. My ankles/knees/hips obliged me nicely by clicking loudly with every step.

    You click lots.

    I know.

    Twist for me like this. Now this. Okay, this? And now this. Hmmmm. Wow, you really are quite flexible.

    I know.

    Then we laughed.

    Because dude. I know.

    We fitted a wrist brace, as well as a knee brace. I couldn’t afford the knee brace today, so we settled on more support bandages. They’re doing their job well enough, so that will do for now. I need to think about ankle braces, because really, I’m sick of being tipped sideways as my ankle rolls. There is nothing more sexy that a sudden stumble as you walk down the steps [across the room, through the supermarket…]. Suggestions? Anyone? (BendyGirl, Carol, Achelois, I’m looking to you for suggestions)

    Next week we’ll be looking at half an hour of core stability exercises and half an hour of Pilate’s.

    But I’m still bleh.

    Maybe because while she was lovely, she didn’t really seem to have any advice or ideas about what to do to minimise long term impact. I know that she is more used to working with sporting injuries than long term floppiness, but still.

    [I know that today was just an initial consult and that she might spend the next week working out a Very Big Plan. I know this.]

    It just would have been nice to walk into there and find a physio who had a definite plan in mind already. It’s great that I am so active in my own medical care, but sometimes it’s also exhausting. I’d love to pass the reins to an expert, if only for a little while.

    Although I’m still a little amused at just how her face looked after those first ten joints with issues still hadn’t made it down past my hands.

    And right now?

    I’m researching just what kind of dye I need to dye an icky tan coloured wrist brace a decent colour and also what colour I want.

    Feel free to input suggestions.

  • Physiotherapy and fear

    I picked up a pen today to write in my journal. The further I got down the page, the worse my handwriting got, until at the very end, my hand sort of collapsed and I gave up.

    I’d written maybe 40 words total.

    I spent the next hour massaging various bits of my hand back into place, while clutching it to my chest. It’s still sore.

    I start physiotherapy tomorrow. The rational side of my brain knows that it will be fine and that we will get things moving for some braces for my worst joints. The irrational side is telling me that I am faking this, that I’m not really sick, that I don’t have anything wrong and to buck up and grin and bear it already, you faker.

    Seven years of being told by medical professionals that nothing is really wrong has that effect on a person.

    It’s also a shift in my perception of myself. My wrist needs bracing and no matter how I go about it, a wrist brace will be a very visible sign of something ‘wrong’. I’m not sure how to handle that. Making the invisible visible with external aids.

    I’ll still be me. I’ll just be me with accessories. Ehlers Danlos Barbie; now comes with joint braces and a side of pain killers. Walking stick sold separately.

    I sat down to type a list of joints that dislocate and sublux today. After I’d listed just about every single major joint in my body and some minor ones too, I gave up. Instead my bit of paper now says most of them. fix me.

    Tomorrow.

    ***

    I had Pink playing on the computer as I pottered about the house yesterday. Amy started singing.

    So what, I still a rock star, I’ve got my fuck you…

    [actual lyrics: So, so what, I’m still a rock star, I’ve got my rock moves… I see where Amy got confused]

    I left the room.

    I nearly wet myself laughing. I laughed so hard I spat my cup of tea all over Nathan and the clean washing. I’m glad I wasn’t in front of the computer.

    She’s brilliant. Funny. Frustrating. Exhausting.

    She’s almost three. Where did that time go?

    ***

    Nathan went and got my camera out of the bedroom this afternoon.

    Honey, why won’t your camera turn on?

    I grabbed it. I fiddled buttons, I switched things on and off. I got steadily more stressed and nauseous.

    You got it out of it’s bag? On top of the cupboard? I DON’T KNOW! It was working when I used it a few hours ago! What did you DO?!

    I nearly died.

    It’s battery was flat. A quick battery change later and I was breathing easily again.

    Please, don’t do that to me again.

    ***

    Oh and more photos. Because I’m enjoying sharing them. Suck it up.

    Mossy Rock

    Budding Cherry