36 years

The trip to the hospice helped, a lot.  The seizures are now largely under control and the episodes of confusion have lessened.  Following release from the hospice, we had about a week during which Dad's
mental acuity incrementally improved, showing us flashes of the pre-cancer Dad.  Not to say things are totally rosy (he's still largely confined to the wheelchair and walking is not on the cards, he
tires easily, his memory is shot, his eyesight is limited), but he and Mum are enjoying some quality of life now.  They can reminisce together, which is huge.  Revisiting your shared memories and good
times is such an important part of any relationship, I've come to appreciate.

I am holed up in my bedroom at home while builders busily fix gib plasterboard in the hallway and baby's room.  They're also fixing a few shoddy piles under the front section of the house.  I've been home now for the best part of a week and got to spend a long weekend with
P, which was so needed.  My 'weekends' away from Hawke's Bay had largely been on Thursday/Friday and he's been nuts at work -- it'd been about a month since we'd spent any quality time with one another, and stress was fraying our edges.  P has shouldered the financial and practical responsibilities (work, the renovation) together with looking after my emotional needs, and I'm doing what I can to support
my mother and father, as well as cope with reality of my father dying while I'm heavily pregnant. We very much needed to spend some time just enjoying each other's company and acknowledging what the other is going through. Three days was perfect.

We are going to Mum and Dad's this weekend (I leave on Thursday, P is
joining us on Saturday).  It's the last trip I have booked before the
baby's due date.  I'm 36 weeks on 11 June and while I think the
midwife will give me a dispensation to travel, I'm starting to find
travel much harder.  I'm trying not to think about the impotence of
sitting in the house in Auckland, unable to assist or spend time with
Mum and Dad, growing larger and unsure when I'll be able to be back
with them.  Mum has better assistance now provided by a retired RN for
a couple of hours a day, which allows her to manage the farm, but the
companionship and someone else to share the chores has been helpful
for her, I think.  No one else can give the time I have been able to
this past month, and as things deteriorate as they inevitably will,
she's going to need more emotional support.  I call twice a day at
least when I'm not there, but it's not the same.

At this stage, the plan is for Dad to spend a night or two in hospice
after the baby is born so Mum can come and meet him or her.  As soon
as we're able after that, I'd like to take the baby to Hawke's Bay to
meet Dad.  Who knows whether that will be feasible (whether Dad will
be up to it, whether we'll be up to it, whether baby will be up to it)
but I don't think we have much time.  We have an official trip booked
for September, but I can't wait that long.  I don't think we have that
long.  I don't know.

And yet, life keeps on keeping on, even though I'm preoccupied with
death.  The baby feels huge to me now.  I've had enough comments from
strangers about my size to last a lifetime (woman at the Citta outlet
store who outright said I must be more than 34 weeks last weekend,
because I look huge, you are very lucky I swallowed my righteous
indignation and left your shop without committing a crime).  To be
fair, the student midwife told me this morning that I'm measuring
about a week ahead, so I am large; I just don't want to hear about it
from strangers.  My back has been getting very sore if I don't walk or
practice yoga or if I sit with poor posture.  The indigestion has
eased.  There's a little insomnia, though I never know if that's
pregnancy related or Dad related.  I can discern little fists and feet
on my lower right hand side and I can most definitely feel the effects
of a head on my bladder.  I've been washing baby clothing for days,
marvelling that I'm going to produce an entire human being to fill
those wee onesies.  We are agreed on two possible first names for
either sex, though not on middle names.

We've finished antenatal classes.  At the last session, I quietly
asked the instructor what steps I could be taking now to help avoid
post natal depression.  She has had a friend go through this exact
thing with her mother (i.e. brain tumour during pregnancy, rapid
deterioration and death shortly following birth), but as far as it
went helpwise was having a list of people to call on to help care for
the baby when I need to cry.   I think I should probably be seeing a
counsellor now, but I don't want to.  Writing helps, immeasurably.
The cartharsis in corralling the feelings and committing them to the
page is evident; I have a controlled weep at the end of writing a
post.

Today is Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary.  36 years - a lifetime
together, but not long enough.  Mum and Dad have not really been
adults without one another.  They had plans, together.  Over the
weekend, Mum was gifted a black labrador puppy.  She already has a
devoted golden lab, but there was a spare kennel and her friend who
bred the puppy wanted to give her something else to lavish love on and
receive love in return.  She's thrilled - it's a responsibility, yes,
but one that sits happily alongside caring for Dad.  Six months ago,
Dad would have been terribly cross.  Puppies are long-term
responsibilities that make travel and spontaneity much harder.  It's
an acknowledgement of how the plans have changed that he's happily
acquiesced, knowing what it will mean for Mum.  It's awful and it'slovely, both.

Happy anniversary, my parents. Let's always celebrate it.

a trip booked before all of this

I spent four days in Golden Bay this weekend.  Think of a map of the world.  Then think of the small collection of islands in the bottom right hand corner of the globe, to the bottom right of Australia.  That's NZ.  Of the two largest islands in the cluster, think of the southernmost one.  See how at the top it curves away in an odd spit of land known as Farewell Spit?  Golden Bay is beneath the Spit, sandwiched between two national parks, and is pretty remote, as far as places on earth go.  It is inhabited by dairy farmers, hippies and transient German tourists, so far as I can tell.  It's pretty much my favourite.

We went for a wedding and it was lovely, despite torrential rain that ruined the marquee two nights before and saturated the grass and guests on the day of.  We crammed into the local hall and celebrated loudly the illegal marriage of two old and dear friends (illegal only in the sense that they're doing the licence thing later and had an unregistered celebrant, not illegal in terms of consanguinity or anything scandalous, should you be concerned).  While they don't live in Golden Bay, they are civil servants who would love to be hippies making goat cheese off the land.  We gifted them chooks and a coop for their backyard as their wedding present.  They're chuffed. 

We stayed in a bach beside the water with fourteen-ish old friends from scattered corners.  We laughed, we reminisced, we hugged, we swam, we ate together. 

The sun came out the day following the wedding.  We celebrated by a taking trips to the clearest, cleanest springs I have ever seen and to a remote, windswept beach on the Abel Tasman coast where seal pups were playing in a rockpool.  It was magical.  Te Waikoropupu Springs and Wharariki Beach, respectively, should you ever find yourselves in that neck of the woods.  The springs are wai tapu or sacred water, so you can't touch or drink the water, but nothing I have ever seen has made me so thirsty in my life.  And the seal pups! Well, I have no words for the seal pups except for horrific things like ADORABLE.

It was restorative.  I used to have family living in that neck of the woods, so I called Dad every day for recommendations and to discuss the lay of the land, the size of the ice-creams.  It was a lovely way of reminiscing about childhood trips spent swimming in the river, panning for gold and running over the dunes.  It was precious.

On the way home, we stopped in Nelson for lunch with Dad's two surviving sisters, his brother and their spouses.  Dad is the youngest by a reasonable stretch and it is tough to see them grapple with the mortality of their naughty, independent wee brother.  We focussed instead on my baby and the next generations of grandchildren and greatgrandchildren.  It was lovely to see them. 

We came home last night to a plastered master bedroom, two happy kitties and a boat load of washing, following an unfortunate incident in P's bag with a bottle of red wine.  I really, really needed that trip.  I needed the laughter and the happiness of a wonderful life event and the natural beauty and the escape from the everyday and the time with family and the sleep, oh god, did I need the sleep. 

I am really a lucky girl, I think. 

the end of another month of this

I'm going to visit Mum and Dad this weekend and I'm a bit nervous.  Fragile as he was two weeks ago when I saw him last, he's now lost his hair, is battling a burned/cracked/chapped face and is using a walking cane.  If I've said it once, I've said it far too many times: this, from a man who three months ago was digging holes and fixing fences and lugging rocks for landscaping purposes.  It's fucking brutal, is what it is.

My nerves arise out of the unknowns - I don't give a shit what his hair looks like, but I just want him to still be my dad underneath it all, you know? 

These things (hah, cancer, a 'thing' - it's like I can't name it for fear of the consequences) come in batches.  A colleague's father has just had surgery for prostate cancer.  Another's ex-boyfriend has been paralysed from the chest down in a workplace accident this week.  I find myself understanding and empathising properly to some degree for the first time (maybe that's why they're telling me?)

To top it off, I started fucking bleeding again last night.

It wasn't a major - no cramps, finished quickly, I can still feel the baby move (I think - I play a constant game of 'firstborn or gas?').  Still scary to turn around to flush and find your toilet looks like a murder scene at twenty to one in the morning.  Afterwards, I lay still in bed for twenty or so minutes, burning with concentration at my stomach, hands wrapped around it.  I got up again to check progress and things appeared to have eased.  I slept, uneasily. 

The good news, I suppose, is that the suspected UTI wasn't in fact an infection - just a raised bacteria level.  I haven't really reported much good news this pregnancy - here we are: I feel mostly like a human being (albeit a human being with a sore tailbone) and I'm starting to relish having a belly.  I want to feel this baby more often so I can enjoy the feeling of not being alone.  I do enjoy being by myself, but it's nice to know someone is just quietly there with me. 

motivational quotes have never been my thing

Dad's not back on chemo yet; his liver enzymes are now causing concern.  They've knocked back the steroid dose and told him to take care, he's fragile right now. 

Two times I felt rage, warranted or unwarranted, in the last few days:

• Reading an article in the Herald about a patient with the same tumour as Dad, who has survived 20 years and claims it was his unorthodox self-prescribed medication routine that 'cured' his cancer.  I wanted to scream; whether or not it was the acne medication that helped that guy and whether or not Dad starts insomnia pills as a supplement, we still have no fucking idea whether it will work.  It doesn't give me hope, not at all. 
• Quotes pasted by relations on Facebook from a recently deceased public figure implying that if she'd better taken care of herself, rather than looking out for others all the time, she would not have been diagnosed with cancer or may have picked it up earlier.  Hey, it's always possible that her diagnosis was late because of her schedule assisting others.  But if you'd like to make yourself feel better about being a little selfish from time to time, you do not need the words of a dead woman lashing herself for missing her disease while helping others to make you feel better.  And do you genuinely believe that cancer differentiates on some kind of moral basis?  You might, but I certainly don't.

Anger is part of the process, I expect. 

right now

We were at the lake this weekend, at the bach that Dad purchased a share of in the time just B.D. (before diagnosis).  It was tough to see him sleep for lengthy periods and sit quietly on the deck, sheltered from the sun.  He'd usually be the first to direct the walk, to back the boat down the ramp into the water, to run into the water for a swim. 

I didn't do many of those things either this weekend, preferring instead to stay close to him where I could.  My stomach has been feeling slightly uncomfortable and stretchy, of late, and I think the depression surrounding Dad's illness kicks in a little more when I see him in person, which in turn makes me feel physically drained.  I sat on the couch with him, joked about all his pills and I asked about the hairloss and the dimming of his vision, but mostly we talked about small things.  We watched the opening game of the Cricket World Cup and cheered the Black Caps on together, but I don't think he could see much of the action ('was that a four or a six?' 'what's the RPO now?' 'who bowled that?'). 

I heard murmuring through the wall at night.  It's simultaneouly reassuring and awful to know that Mum and Dad were chatting quietly together in the dead of night - reassuring because they're in this together, awful because I know why they're awake.  I also heard some terrible snoring coming from my sister K, which was mostly just reassuring because I want her to sleep while she can.  I don't know what she's thinking a lot of the time (I think I once did?  When we were young and lived together and knew each other better than anyone else) but I hope she's managing to find peace in all of this.  We call each other more regularly, now.  We don't say much, but we do share each nugget of information or insight into how our parents are feeling. 

We arrived home about 7.30 last night.  Cocoa was waiting on the step but Tabitha was nowhere to be seen.  It was unusual and she didn't turn up until 1.30 this morning.  Christ, I was so relieved.  I do not need any more death or despair on top of what's already going on, not that there would ever be a good time to lose her.  I am funnelling so much love and affection into those cats who don't have a clue that things aren't as they should be.

The next visit I'd booked is for Easter, some seven weeks away.  I don't think I can leave it that long.  I want to make this finite time we have left last as long as I possibly can.  Plus, I think Mum needs me.  A colleague the other day commented that I must be wishing time away to get to June and my departure on maternity leave.  No, I snapped, I want it to stand still right now.  I felt terrible and apologised - she doesn't know the finer detail of what's happening in my life and it was well meant.  Yes, I'm looking forward to meeting this baby but no, I can't fathom that we're probably only going to get further away from Dad as he should be.  As he was. 

(Christ, the past tense has made me cry.)

I have the 20 week scan this week.  I haven't yet identified any clear movements from the baby which, although probably normal, is making me nervous.  I have been considering whether we should find out the sex to share with Dad, just in case.  I couldn't bring myself to ask whether he wanted to know though - it felt too much like saying 'what if you die before July?' out loud.  I can't say that.  I won't say that.  Maybe we'll ask for one of those envelopes with the sex written on a note inside, that I can offer him if and when things change.  I hope the baby is fine and healthy; worry is pulling at my heart. 

life can, in fact, go on

I stood in the hospital lift by his bedside, next to the nurse, wondering if the smile and laugh was real or merely reflexive. 

'Hi, Dad.'

**************************************
On a Wednesday, he went to hospital.  On a Thursday morning, my mother called, several times.  The last time, she told me to get my sister and get there, fast.  On a Thursday evening, I saw him in the high dependency unit, unresponsive to his family but grimacing in pain.  On a Friday morning, he slept easily but continuously, despite overheard whispers from staff of a difficult night.

On a Friday afternoon, I met the palliative care doctor.

They'd increased the steroids, but there was nothing further they could do but offer pain relief.

*****************************************

It was a Friday afternoon when he woke up.

*****************************************

It was simultaneously the worst and the most miraculous few days of my life.  We genuinely believed that he wasn't going to wake again; we wouldn't be speaking to him again.  In the early hours of Friday morning, I listened to hours of music in the warm dark of the bedroom, tears leaking down my face, holding a jersey I'd borrowed from his bedroom.  At 4am, I saw a light go on and Mum and I sat in the shared warm dark of the living room, drinking a cup of tea and quietly facing a new reality.  Friday afternoon and Saturday I lived on a euphoric rush of life, life, life. 

He was released on a Monday to travel to start the treatment regime.  He's not the Dad of life before diagnosis, nor is he even the Dad of life shortly after, but he's my Dad and he's alive.  He's alive. 

I am so profoundly grateful and yet I am utterly bereft and broken.  The reality is that there will be peaks and troughs in an inevitable downhill slide.  I thought I was talking realistically before when we were planning for one year, maybe two if we were lucky.  I now appreciate that to have him in July when the baby is born will be a gift, one we may not receive.   

I hate what this is doing to him.  I hate what this is doing to my mother. 

***********************************************

I'm struggling to write about it.  Apart from that brutal Thursday and the vulnerable days that followed, I'm ignoring the problem in everyday life.  In my own city, between visits and phone calls, I'm able to pretend that everything is fine.  I need the catharsis of writing and talking but I can't bring myself to indulge. 

***********************************************

I love him.

2014 in review

I usually post this before the end of the year, and I started drafting it in early December, anticipating a lovely long summer holiday.  I've since amended it so if it seems disjointed and/or erratic in tone, you can probably take an educated guess as to why.  I'm trying for slightly less maudlin in tone ... but I'm not sure I've got there. 

1. What did you do in 2014 that you'd never done before?

This is incredibly boring, but I started developing goals and plans for my career.  I've never actually done that before - I'm still in the early stages, but a very new experience.

Got knocked up.  That's kind of a big one, I guess. 

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Last year's answer still applies:

Eh. I don't really do resolutions because I don't need another stick with which to beat myself. There's usually a vague thought about getting fit, losing weight, blahblah but I know in my heart of hearts I'm quite happy to truck along eating a wheel of cheese and watching the development of my bingo wings.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes!  P's cousin S had a wee boy who we love to death. 

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Timothy, my lovely kitten.  I don't care what you say about cat ladies or pets, I felt real, honest to goodness grief when wee Tim died.  It was awful. 

5. What countries did you visit?

I didn't leave the country this year (unless you count the South Island?!) 

6. What would you like to have in 2015 that you lacked in 2014?

I had written that I'd like to have more contentment in 2015, but that doesn't seem right any more.  I'd like to have more quality family time. 

7. What dates from 2014 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

27 October 2014.  Labour Day, a Monday.  Even though it was a public holiday, I needed to go in to work, so I got up early, leaving P in bed.  I went to the bathroom.  I started the shower while three minutes passed.  I stopped it again.  I climbed back into bed with P and broke the news.  We lay there, quietly, for quite a while.  Freaking out, I suppose.  We still cannot get our heads around the fact that we're going to be parents. 

19 December 2014.  The day of Dad's biopsy.  It suddenly became real that my father is mortal.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Making it through the first trimester, I suppose, if that can be counted as an achievement?  It sucked and then it got better.  We thought for a while that I was going to miscarry, so it feels like an achievement to have got this far (15 weeks tomorrow).

9. What was your biggest failure?

Worky stuff. 

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Nothing serious.  I got pretty tired of morning sickness, however.  Does accidentally triggering a vom with my toothbrush count as injury?

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Probably the professional assistance with renovating the dining room.  I love that room now, so much.  It looks wonderful.   

12. Where did most of your money go?

Once again nothing changes from 2013:

House! Also getting piffled away on food and booze; we're just so GOOD at spending on that.

Oh, one other item - pregnancy tests.  I wasted a loooooooot of those. 

13. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Seeing an embryo and then a foetus at successive scans. Unreal. Butterfly feelings. P wanted to go out for champagne afterwards, which is our usual celebratory reaction, but isn't particularly appropriate for me, just now!

Both P and I were promoted this year.  While each of us felt a bit wrung out at the time of our own promotion, we were super excited for each other.  I'm so proud of him - he sets goals, achieves them and is so diligent and hardworking.

14. What song will always remind you of 2014?

Chet Faker, I don't know the name of the song, but it has a line about making you move with consequence which sounds terrible but I like it a lot.  We listened to a lot of Chet Faker while renovating the dining room.  The song smells like bare timber, to me. 

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) Happier or sadder? I originally wrote: About the same.  I'm a fairly cheery wee chap. But scratch that.
b) Thinner or fatter? Oh yes, most definitely fatter.
c) Richer or poorer? Wee bit richer - promotions, plus we paid off a chunk of mortgage, even though we spent a bit on the house.  Property values keep rising, so I guess in a very theoretical sort of a way we're a bit richer in equity too? 

16. What do you wish you'd done more of?

Debt reduction, as ever.  With the beauty of hindsight, spending more time with my family.  

17. What do you wish you'd done less of?

Frivolous spending and being narky to P.

18. How will you be spending Christmas?

The plan was to have a few Christmases with the family - on the day itself, we were meant to be at our house, with P's mother, brother, sister-in-law, SIL's brother and SIL's parents.  That changed with Dad's diagnosis and we spent Christmas at my parents' place.  We ate, played boules in the sunshine & napped indoors when it got too hot.   

19. Did you fall in love in 2014?

The baby is still too uncertain for me to have fully fallen in love.  We had some problems during the first trimester and then another scare at week 14.  As certainty is grows, however, so does love.

With Tabitha, Timothy and Cokes I most definitely fell in love.  I wanted cats in 2013 and in 2014/first days of 2015 they have been such a joy.

As always, I fell a bit more in love with P.  He has been so wonderful during the early stages of pregnancy and I don't know what I would have done without him over the past four weeks during Dad's diagnosis.  He's upset and grieving too, but he's consistently treated me patiently, kindly and respectfully, when I haven't always been rational.

20. What was your favourite TV programme?

Loved a bit of Game of Thrones this year, Homeland, Top Chef as per usual.  Sadly, we have watched a lot of The Block.  Judge away, I would!

21. What was the best book you read?

Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood.  Didn't love the two further books in the trilogy, but very much enjoyed the first.  (I think I read this first in 2014? God, my memory is shot). 

22. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Chet Faker.  Yet again, I'm probably waaaay behind the curve.

23. What did you want and get?

The pregnancy.  It took a wee while -- we started trying in January.  Not long in the scheme of things, but long enough to underscore that we did indeed want to have a baby.  While there's some apprehensiveness about what it means for our lives, it also feels very right.   

24. What did you want and not get?

Original answer: a dishwasher.

Now? A positive prognosis for Dad.

25. What was your favourite film of this year?

I haven't really been to the movies in 2014, can you believe it? We watch quite a few at home, but none of them have been earthshattering, I don't think.  Pass.

26. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I could not for the life of me recall what I did on my 32nd birthday!  I actually had to check the post I wrote the day after (THIS is why I keep a blog!) - we had friends around for dinner and to watch the rugby the night before and P's friend P2 conned me into a night on the town in the early hours of my birthday itself.  We spent the day of my birthday hungover and giggly. 

27. What kept you sane?

Up until October, buckets of tea.  Mum, Dad, P.  Plenty of sleep. 

28. What political issue stirred you the most?

Election 2014 in NZ.  The Auckland Rail Loop (just get on with it, NZ!).  The Hopeless Minister of Womens' Affairs (I haven't written about this but HOLY SHIT you're not a feminist because you're not into 'flag waving'??!  You think beauty pageants are good for young women?!) 

29. Who did you miss?

Friends in the Northern Hemisphere.  Timothy, badly. 

30. Who was the best new person you met?

S's son is pretty awesome.  He's cuddly and not a whinger, what more could you want?!

31. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2014.

Original answer: Patience really is a key to remaining happy in the face of disappointment.

Holy shit that's prescient.  Or, you know, trite enough to apply to any life situation.  Let's pretend it was prescient of me, shall we? 

I've also learned that life really isn't fair. 

decemberish

The end of year party season has well and truly begun.  Case in point: it was not yet 3pm last Friday at a team lunch when one attendee grabbed her breasts in an illustration of the difficulty caused by her lovely (but possibly workplace inappropriate) backless top.  I'll have you know I was a model of propriety.  Oh, hey now, doubters: I had to get back to the office so I actually was well behaved, unusual or no!

The party got me in the holiday spirit.  I dragged P to a Christmas tree farm and thence to the Warehouse for cheap decorations.  We bought a ghastly Michael Buble Christmas CD and I thrashed it while adorning the tree with super! cheap! candy! canes! and scattering glitter on the floor.  My house smells just lovely, like pine and happiness.  I abhor pine scents generally - them old fake ones - but I cannot get enough of huffing my Christmas tree.  It's delicious and sends me straight back to my childhood.  The tree itself isn't as big as my family memories, at least in part because the space for it ain't so big neither.  I left the bottom largely undecorated, expecting the purrymouses to destroy it in five seconds flat.  However, they're largely unphased.  Cokes batted a decoration to get my attention last night, but then he also jumped on me, scratched my leg, ate my headphones and manufactured a spew on the living room floor all in an effort to wake us up to fill his bowl this morning, so I think I don't think he has a particular animus in relation to the tree.

TWO WORKING WEEKS, TWO WORK PARTIES AND A LUNCHEON LEFT.  CANNOT WAIT TO BE DONE.

I'm so desperate to be finished this year I've started drafting my usual end of year survey.  I'm still struggling with a pithy description of 2014, in large part due to denial that 2014 has in fact begun. 

********************************************

On another, horrible note, I've had some very bad news that affects my Hat Friend.  I am sorely worried for her.  I don't pray, I think -- so I'm thinking near constantly about Hat Friend's situation and hoping for the best possible outcome.  It's scary when (a) things are completely out of our control and (b) your words sound like horrible, hopeless platitudes.  Words can be powerful. I need to corral them and winnow out the least effective, leaving something meaningful, I hope. 

decision 2014

We got half cut on champagne and went to pick out wedding jewellery for M on Saturday afternoon.  I expect that's why I fell asleep by 9pm on Saturday night during the election coverage; being sauced, that is.  We had a lovely time at the jewellery store.  After finding the perfect earrings and matching necklace, we tried on everything in the vintage cabinet.  I flounced around the store with a three carat diamond on my finger (verdict: terribly gauche and wondrously obnoxious, three carats is), while trying to persuade Hat Friend to purchase an expensive gold fob chain or a beautiful emerald ring.  We drank some more bubbles afterwards and toasted the bride.  Can't wait for her wedding day. 

Election coverage: do you know, I think the coverage on my facebook page was probably more extensive and vitriolic than the coverage on the two major free to air channels?  That's saying something.  I woke up to posts on Sunday morning saying things like:

- 'Shame on you, New Zealand'
- 'Crying into a bucket of KFC, Dotcom?'
- 'If you didn't vote, you can't complain'
- 'Moving to Scandinavia'

Had the result gone a different way, I think I would have seen just as much disappointment from the other half of my feed.  It wasn't all one-way traffic.  I've found it hard to work myself into a proper lather about this election, though for all that I'm disappointed that NZ doesn't appear to wish to make any major decisions that might result in a narrowing of the gap between the rich and poor.  Wow, I didn't expect to make any direct statements about my political leanings on social media (other than, you know, me feminism) but there we have it.  Oh, except I've bagged Colin Craig before and I was thrilled to see we'll go another three Colin Craig-free years. 
 

did catherine morland attend the opera while in bath?

P and I attended the NZ Opera's production of La Traviata last night.  I am an operatic Philistine, in that I know nothing about opera other than fictional genteel flutterings of fans and eye contact amongst the crowds attending the opera in Regency romances (OH GOD I'VE EXPOSED MYSELF.  Yes, I read Regency romances.  I'm so sorry).  I'm pretty sure no one was making eyes at me last night.  But I was also probably 30 years too young for most of the crowd.  Aaaaaaaaanyway, I know little about the opera, so bear that in mind when you read the list below:

• Lovely set.  Similar to last year's production of Madame Butterfly in the use of a central pivoting stage, but beautiful.  The chandeliers as set dressing on the ground at the right moments were haunting, as were the dusty mirrored walls. 
• Lorina Gore as Violetta was beautiful, suitably fluttery at the right moments and had a magic voice.
• Alfredo's a bit of a numpty.  You know, aside from all the other plot holes, I found old Alfredo vaguely stalkerish (you've been in love with her for a year from afar but just met her three minutes ago?!), nauseatingly in love (noble! mysterious! love), easily taken in (YOUR DAD WAS MEANT TO BE VISITING IN YOUR ABSENCE, 'FREDO. WHY DO YOU THINK SHE'S CRYING AND LEAVING?) and ultimately, not very good at being angry.  He didn't make my heart swell.
• I need more sparkly dresses in my wardrobe for these occasions.  About 40% of the audience were dressed to the nines and I loved it, wished I made more of an effort.
• The chorus songs were so great!
• I'm pretty sure I saw a girl I went to primary school with in the audience, but I was too chicken to approach her.
• Wish I could have seen into the pit - I really wanted to watch the orchestra, as they sounded wonderful.
• We ate a really great meal at Depot first (again.  Love that place).

See, I told you I know nothing about opera. 

_____________

Also, I want to say I feel good about writing the #yesallwomen post, now.  I hope you didn't feel obliged to read it (don't feel obliged, if you're just reading my blog for the first time.  It's about 2 posts ago).  I found it cathartic.  I suspect that part of the purge is the feeling that I'm contributing to something broader, an education, a movement.  If I can do one thing for someone else now (be it tell a man that consent is a yes, freely and knowingly given, or tell a woman that she's not alone), I won't beat myself up about the decision I made at the time not to speak of it. 

I've also done one thing for me.  I've acknowledged what happened.  That alone might be selfish, but god has it made me feel free.

autumn farm

I had a short weekend on the farm with my parents.  I took my big camera and photographed the bejesus out of the bonfire, Mum's cat and dog, the lambs, the fields (not yet downloaded, I'm afraid if you're jonesing for a look at pictures of wee sooty-faced little lambs this blog is a real tease).  We ate and drank and were merry.  I slept over 10 hours.  I cuddled the cat who swiped me amiably when he'd had enough.  P shot at rabbits.  We swigged whiskey fireside and watched the stars come out. 

I noticed Bert's overt absence on the hilltop, with his lower lip drooping and socked back hoof resting.  Couldn't bring myself to visit his grave (Christ, I can't hang up the washing at home without darting glances at Timothy's resting place and hurting inside my ribs).  Mum sympathised; she can't visit Bert and ten years on, she still thinks of Pip (the family Jack Russell terrier) every time she walks to the apricot tree on the hill.  We talked about Sam, Mum's labrador cross, who disappeared by the mailbox one day, never to be seen again.  It's worse about Sam - she doesn't have a spot, only an empty kennel.  The graveyard inside my heart is getting terribly big.  Perhaps that's what happens with age - only you notice it first with the pets.  May it be years before any other people join.  Decades.  Please.

Wow, that makes me ache and it wasn't at all where I intended to go with this post.

The sun was out - over 20 degrees, shining sky and green hills.  I love this land, this country.  I really do. 

unwanted

You know, I'm sorry, I really wanted to blog about something hopeful today.  But, the icing on the cake this week (this awful, heartrending week) was that I was touched without my permission on the way to work this morning.

I feel soiled.

I fully admit I was overly engrossed in my phone as I walked down the street.  I looked up; oh, cafe tables on the street ahead, must step right to avoid collision.  As I did so, I felt a hand brush against my thigh, the bottom of my bum.  I swerved; thinking I'd stepped in front of someone and got in the way.  So I had, sort of.  He was walking purposefully forward, backpack on, sandy cropped hair, rumpled clothing. I wasn't directly in his path.  I turned back around and kept walking. 

A full three seconds later, I felt it again. 

That time it was clear.  A full, deliberate, open handswipe down the right side of my bum and thigh.  I spun with a breathy 'hey', shocked, and the fucker didn't even register.  Kept right on walking. 

Me, full of words and opinions, was speechless.  7.45am, crowded public place.  I debated with myself: did that really just happen?  Am I sure it wasn't an accident?  It wasn't; I know what I felt, I'd had a chance to register the space between us after the first swipe and it was big enough that he would have had to deliberately move into my space to touch me again, some time and a few steps after the original.  As I blanked, he veered around the corner and I crossed the road with the lights.  For five minutes, I kept checking my back, brushing off the invisible finger marks he left. 

What the fuck.  I thought about saying something further, out loud, but it was a busy public space and I didn't want the shame of accusation.  There shouldn't be any shame in accusation, but my mind was spinning with 'everyone will think you're being hysterical.  It was just an accidental commuter brush'.  I'm really angry with myself now for staying quiet because I know it wasn't and that bastard deserved to get served a volley of abuse. 

In the scheme of things, not that much.  But still fucking illegal.  ILLEGAL.  You do not get to touch me without my permission.  You have made me feel disgusting and you didn't appear to give one single shit. 

he's still gone

All the avoidance in the world hasn't changed things, Timmy is still gone.  We've been showering Tabby with love and keeping her largely indoors; til she's older and Cocoa is allowed to roam free, we tell ourselves.

We buried Tim in the garden.  I laughed and sobbed as we had to pull up the rest of the misshapen and stunted carrot crop to make space for him.  Eventually, we'll plant a tree for him.  I worry that he's too close to the back fence, that the neighbour's dogs will bother him.  Then I remember he's dead, and I cry.  I pegged out washing nearby this weekend, with Tabby in and around my feet, and I remembered how much he enjoyed smooching my ankles while I folded or shook out garments as necessary.  I love that cat.  I loved that cat.

I've been keeping a cautious distance from Cocoa, not yet ready to commit, given events transpired so shortly after his arrival.  He has a terrible infestation of fleas and this morning pooped under the table, so it was easy to be a bit distant.  In fairness, Cocoa is not thrilled at being kept indoors after eight or so years of having unfettered external access and I believe the poop incident was a clear communication that he's not happy with the current state of affairs.  Even if I disagree with the mode of expression, I can appreciate a cat so clearly committed to taking a stance.  We'll get there. 

It's amazing, isn't it, that the short passage of a couple of months has wrought so much change in my formerly responsibility-free lifestyle.  When my boss asked if I was ok the morning after, I dissolved into tears, apologised for being unprofessional and exclaimed I couldn't believe I feel like this about a cat.  But I do and it is what it is.  I wouldn't take back having adopted Timothy for anything. 

new arrival

Cocoa the cat arrived late last night, after J's memorial service.  My MIL dropped him off after an hour's drive back from what was likely a long day.  I hope we've relieved her of at least one worry.

Cocoa's stress levels weren't too bad; he's in the dining room, shut off from the purrymouses who were last seen this morning avidly watching the door.  However, he seems very keen for human company and I feel awfully guilty that we're out of the house today.  Each time we enter the room, he leaps out of the bottom shelf of the bookcase where he's been hiding behind the books and deposits himself in our laps, arching, kneading, purring, trying desperately to vocalise a breathy miaow.  (You know we've provided him with plenty of safe, dark, soft hidey-holes, right?  But he's chosen the bookcase instead.)  I'm pretty sure he hasn't used the litterbox yet though so there must be some deal of aggravation for the poor puss.  Besides which, our whole house must stink of the purrymouses to him.  My MIL will visit him during the day today, thank goodness. 

Three cats in one house suddenly feels like a lot.  We're glad to give Cocoa a home and it'll be only a month or so until he's likely to be settled, but just at the moment I can't believe cats have taken over my existence so rapidly. 

Thinking of J each time I look at her cat with his long, black fur and large green/yellow eyes. 

so, so stupid

I can't be trusted to act like an adult, ever.  I spent yesterday dying a horrible, horrible, self-induced death ten times over.  The last two things I remember from the night before (the wedding after party) are swimming in the middle of a tropical cyclone (though the details of the swim are pretty hazy) and delivering a full bodied slap to someone's face (no idea who).  That last was part of a game, not malicious, but....still.

I am so, so ashamed of myself for not knowing my limits. 

If driving two and a half hours home over some of the windiest roads in New Zealand counts as punishment, well, then I've been well and truly punished.  But I'm still cracking a whip of self-flagellation and I still physically feel like shit over 36 hours later.  Just charming.  I carried plastic bags of puke + shame in the car on the way home, while P (god bless his compassionate and understanding heart) drove as carefully and smoothly as he could possibly manage.  We took an hour's breather at Thames.  I reclined the seat, swallowed the vomit and asked P to go eat outside, anywhere away from me. 

So, the wedding was lovely but I got carried away.  Awful, immature behaviour and I while I know my in-laws are amazing and very understanding I. Am. Mortified. 

I'm not typing this out of any sense of misplaced pride in my actions (trust me, there's no whoooo! such a kah-razy night! here.  More OH FUCK WHAT DID I DO AND WHYYYYYYY).  I am utterly ashamed and by god I mean to remember this lesson. 

Have I got a problem with the demon drink?  Judging by my performance, it would seem that there is a good chance.  I'm 31 for fuck's sake and I have had PLENTY of chances to learn my lesson.  Why I would get black out boozed is just...beyond me.  If you've got any material thoughts about this, plz to tell. 

Off to turn over a new leaf. 

not brave

I lay on the bed with Mum yesterday morning, having delivered her a cup of tea.  We watched Tabitha play on the angora blanket my grandmother (her mother) gave me.

Gently, she told me that she had something to tell me, but that she wouldn't say it out loud if I didn't want to hear it.  I knew it was my horse.  I told her not to say anything.  She would give me the details when I'm ready, she said.  She said she couldn't tell me before it.  And then, each day passed, and each day she found she couldn't tell me.  She was right, it was better not-telling in person.

Later, I asked her where he is.  Poplar, the paddock by the stream.

I deliberately haven't thought about it since. It is not brave.  I am not brave.

In February, she told me his legs were bothering him and that a hard decision needed to be made.  I said I understood, but I couldn't bring myself to say anything more.  I couldn't bring myself to accept it, to be the one to say the word.  It was not brave.  I was not brave. 

Throughout February, I ignored it.  I should have booked a trip to say goodbye before the weather turned.  I was busy, I told myself.  I ignored it.  It was not brave.  I was not brave.

I think it was '97, when we bought him.  I went to try him and fell a little bit in love.  He was chestnut and enormous, with a round gait that required a different seat to that I was used to.  We called and said thank you but no.  By the end of the call, we'd agreed another trial time.  That was it.  He was ours. 

I fell in love.  We all did.  We had many ponies and horses during our teenage years and I loved them all, but he was special.  16.3 hands high, gentle, striking, special.  He was known all through the area.  Small children used to come up to have a pat or ask for a quick ride.  They bought him treats.  He always, always did what I asked.  With gentle grace and enormous effort.  In return, he could use me as a post to scratch that spot on the base of his neck.  Gently mouthe my ponytail with his whiskery lips.  Rest his oversized head on my shoulder. 

I moved to university.  Eventually, reluctantly, Mum sold him.  The caveat was that if the purchaser ever wanted to sell him again, or retire him, could she please call us first. 

She sent us regular updates.  Then she called.  His legs meant he could no longer stand anything but a gentle hack.  He retired to the farm.  Every day, Mum took him a carrot.  He was probably a little lonely, which breaks my heart just thinking about it.  We brushed him and spoke to him and loved him and he stood on the top of the hill, master of all he surveyed. 

Thank you Mum and Dad for all you did for him.  You did it for me and I love you for it.  I have had trouble saying this out loud.  It is not brave.  I am not brave.

He is gone.  I miss him terribly.  I wish I had been brave. 

state of the nation iii

Following the visit to the in-laws' freshly renovated property and in the scramble to get ready for my parents' impending visit, I have started mentally charting all the ways in which my house is defective and needs work.  This has apparently taken precedence over the actual conduct of any preparatory work: the bedsheets remain unchanged, the floor remains unvacuumed, cupboards are empty and the shower curtain is a sight.  But I have mentally catalogued that the living room window is a horrific mess held together with putty, that the garden needs weeding, and that there's actual daylight coming into the kitchen cupboards from outside the house.  Say it with me now: you paid how much for what?!

This is clearly playing on my mind just now, as the first licks of autumn are curling around and through all the crevices of the purple palace.  (They're also howling straight through the permanently tied open cat flap as well.  Timothy has shown a marked resistance to having to actually push the perspex to facilitate entry and exit and I'm nothing if not a pandering mother.)  I've started hovering over design websites again, planning the lovely subway tile bathroom of my dreams, furnishing the refinished bedrooms with plush linen. 

I think this gentle dissatisfaction is more symptomatic of requiring something to look forward to.  P and I toyed with the idea of visiting Cambodia over the extended Easter break this year but have decided to save the pennies for the mortgage instead, given the extravagant holiday spending we indulged in over Christmas this year.  We've got no plans for trips greater than a weekend in the works.  Nothing enormous is happening at work at the moment.  This is the first time in a very long time I've felt that there wasn't something on the horizon to plan for or look forward to.  I think I'm projecting my need for excitement onto the property. 

I don't think this is a bad thing, necessarily.  We knew moving back to New Zealand meant that we both needed to focus for a while on our careers; in particular, I've moved about a bit and need to prove that I can work in a role for longer than five consecutive minutes.  We're at the stage of our careers where we're pushing for the next step and setting up long term plans (or at least, we should be considering what to do next).  But I think I need something else going on in my personal life to relieve the humdrum of the daily work routine.  I think I ought to plan a low key holiday perhaps.  Or start posting cat videos on YouTube. 

property matters

I think we're back on an even keel now.  I enjoyed P's company yesterday on the bus over to his dad's house so I guess he can't be made of pure evil. 

OK, so.  Say you have a cross-leased home.  You own 1/4 share of X metres squared with four houses on it; say, Numbers 2 through 5.  You live in Number 4.  None of the houses have off street parking.  Number 1, not on the cross lease, is a home and therapy business, though you've never seen anyone go there for treatment, much less understood what sort of therapy it is doling out.  Number 2, probably the nicest of the bunch, is for sale.  You get a phone call from a prospective purchaser.  She:

- wants to use Number 2 as an office for her business;
- has three or four staff;
- will need resource consent from the council to do this and thinks that the council will only by concerned about noise and traffic;
- thinks there is good parking on a side street;
- considers her business won't generate noise;
- has been told by other residential neighbours to her business in its current location that they appreciate having someone home all day;
- wants to sound you out about whether you'd be prepared to consent to vary the terms of the cross lease to allow No 2 to be used in this way. 

Do you agree to the usage of the property in this way?  My instinct is no; but I don't want to be unreasonable (slash can't be unreasonable by the terms of our cross lease).  I mean, it's really just a preference on my part for nice, residential neighbours, and a desire that our whole street doesn't become marginalised / workplacified, which is kind of a worry given it's proximity to the city.  Ill defined complaints, really.  It might be the time to agree to subdivide?

Also, do you think I've done a terrible job of seeking to anonymise this information?  Why yes, so do I!

And yes, I think it's probably apparent that my daytime lawyering has little if anything to do with matters property.  I received my worst ever grade in property law while an undergraduate; I'm pretty sure I erased what little knowledge I had of it shortly after gaining admission to the bar and would NEVER advise anyone else on property issues, FYI.  In case you were wondering what sort of hopeless solicitor asks the internet questions about her real estate issues - I'm a different sort of hopeless lawyer.  (I JEST.  I AM PERFECTLY COMPETENT.  MOSTLY) (Never ask me about trusts.  Just, don't.  Wills either.  In fact, just assume I'm not able to advise you about anything, ever, including your haircut.  Hopeless is the name of the blog, after all)

i am a cat lady

So help me jeebers, I'm obsessed with my babies, adopted last week from the SPCA. 

TIMOTHY SNOOZING.
OH MY GOD I JUST CAN'T EVEN LOOK AT THIS WITHOUT MELTING.
ALSO, I PROMISE I AM ACTUALLY WEARING PANTS IN THAT PICTURE, CONTRARY TO THE GENERAL IMPRESSION.

TIMOTHY (FOREGROUND) AND TABITHA, TAKING A BREAK AFTER DOING THEIR BEST TO DEMOLISH THE NEW COUCH.  I LOVE THEM SO MUCH I FORGIVE THEM THEIR SOFT-FURNISHING -RELATED TRESPASSES.

OH MAN, I wish I could post it here but you know what is better than a kitten in my lap picture?  A kitten curled up with my husband picture! Mutual naps were the business and I got out of control with the camera.  These are two from my phone - the 50mm lens on the DSLR took a BEATING over the past few days. 

I teared up leaving them all by themselves this morning ('is this what parents who return to work after parental leave feel?', I sobbed to P, 'But those parents don't leave their babies alone with just water, litter, toys, bedding and biscuits.  Where is our nanny?! I feel so GUILTY'.)

Gosh, I've triggered the guilt again, they're all by THEMSELVES right NOW and the tears are welling.  I am a sentimental mess, but surely I can't be blamed?  I mean, I'm in the heady throes of a new relationship.  That stage where you can't think about anything else, you want to discuss it with everyone you see and your heart bursts out of your chest when you lay eyes on the objet d'amour.  Kittens: all it took to take the sarcastic veneer from my heart, apparently. 

a+e

P lost a chunk of his thumb this weekend, thanks to injudicious use of a mandolin (instrument of the kitchen variety, as opposed to a stringed instrument, though that would also have been a sight to see - I feel confident gouts of blood don't often come of a serenade).  I wasn't there when the injury was sustained, for which I think we're all grateful,* but I was the one who hauled his mangled carcass to the A&E yesterday. 

Can we just sing a round of Hallelujah for a Christmas miracle?  There was not one other person aside from medical staff in the entire emergency clinic.  Unbelievable.  The only delay in obtaining speedy and efficient treatment was me filling out P's form and narrating it back to him (it's his right thumb).  P was not so keen on my description of how the injury occurred - I wanted to write: 'Potatoes Dauphinoise and a Sharp Thing - Need I Say More?' but my suggestion made him all huffy.  We went with: 'preparing dinner', which I think you'll agree is terribly boring. 

P was seen quickly and I stayed put in the waiting room, reading my fill of mimi smartypants (terrible choice for a medical centre, given mimi kept making me snicker.)**  I could vaguely hear P talking to the nurses though and asking for a spot to lie down when they took off the dressing, poor love. At one point, a nurse appeared and asked whether I was the girlfriend.  This made me a bit huffy, as she asked with a spot of incredulity.  I composed myself, trying to believe that P's babyface probably had more to do with it that me looking like a decrepit cradlesnatcher or an uncaring witch who deserts her one-and-only, and replied in the affirmative, resisting the bizarre temptation to wave my left hand and cry 'wife, actually'.

He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening prone on the couch with the thumb elevated, as removing the original dressing had caused further bleeding.  I think it was quite sore too.  However, because I'm awful I kept veering between laughter (he looks so funny, giving the entire world a bulky thumbs up) and edging away from him (because ew, I missed you while you were gone but I cannot handle that thing touching my body).  What a magnificent nurse I'd make. I think I've really missed my calling. 

*I am NOT. GOOD. in an emergency.  Think faint, freak out-y.  I'm not proud of this, but at least I'm honest with myself.  Oh god, I'm feeling vaguely squirmy and nauseous just thinking about it.

**Given my emergency response-mode, I couldn't deal with seeing the injury in the flesh, as it were.  Poor P was therefore deprived of the soothing balm of my company in the emergency room.  I'm sure he desperately missed having my hand to hold.