Season's Greetings

I have been trudging through bureaucratic blizzards, not as cold as snow blizzards but still making it  hard to see where you're going. Of which, more anon.

For now, I have decided not to try to force myself into a Christmas spirit/mood/false bonhomie. The tree is up, although the angel on top is leaning slightly askew...seems appropriate! My beautiful Christmas Crib holds the porcelain figurines I've loved since I was a child.  

Happy Christmas. May the New Year bring you new love, new faith and new hope.

And I thought if I could get through the emotional part that was the hardest part-the bureauocratic part has me on my knees

I thought it would be straightforward and honest to-

change name/address on driving locence

change status for revenue/tax purposes

change status for effing everything I had to...

oh God no,  let's make things as difficult as possible for people who are already hurting and on their knees...

D Day Party...if you could call it that...

The D Party.

It was decreed by the powers that be in my place of employment, that we were all going out for pizzas and beer to celebrate/commemorate D Day. It had been decided that a night out would “do me good”.  How kind of them, how thoughtful. Sure wouldn’t it do us all good to have a night out…?

So, accordingly, I found myself squelching up Dublin’s Dawson Street on a balmy summer night – the rain was torrential. I’m always amazed by how we grow potatoes in this country, and not rice. What with the wetness and us being called paddies- we could be rice paddies no problem. My light summer shoes, my feet and the legs of my jeans, were all soaked by the time I got into the restaurant. I tried every contortion I could in the Ladies Loo  but  unfortunately was unable to stand on my head on the tiled floor, the only position from which it would have been possible to hold my feet and legs under the hand dryer. There was only one thing left to do. Warm myself up with wine and ignore the squelching and gurgling from my footwear...

The Office Party were all squashed round one big table, in the Italian tradition. Beer and wine flowed; the conversation flowed as we waited for our first course. No one mentioned the D word or the reason for our night out. One of my colleagues who had not been in work for a while came to the pizza party. She’d been out for a fortnight, having surgery. Cosmetic surgery. As a result of which, she overshadowed the condiments on the table. Everyone was trying not to look but it was a bit difficult to avoid…There was much talk and laughter about the procedure, and it’s after effects, do’s and don’ts. “Is it true that you can’t fly for three months?” asked one person. It was. “What else can you not do?” asked another.  “Well, I can’t go on fairground rides” was the reply. “I can’t bungee jump either”. We were in hysterics, with suggestions that she might knock herself unconscious in a fast elevator and similar remarks. The hilarity grew. One colleague decided that she just had to rise from the table and sing Beyoncé’s “If you like it put a ring on it” with accompanying actions.  Shortly after that, it was time to leave. We left the pizza joint and headed to a late night drinks venue. A young female colleague challenged a much older, bigger, male colleague to a drinking contest. Possibly not the wisest idea.  A good night. Numbed by tiredness and wine, I headed home and left them to it. After all, it was a Thursday and there was work in the morning…

Friday.

It seems that one person tripped in her skyscraper heels and fell under a taxi but was uninjured; one person got out of a taxi when the driver refused to give her his details; one person insulted a guy she thought was trying to pick her up but who had only wanted to return the cigarettes she had dropped on the dancefloor – and the piece de resistance?

In the late night place, she who had been enhanced invited two female colleagues to “feel the difference”, so to speak. Whereupon two strangers had approached them, introduced themselves as two happily married men, asked them if they were 3 lesbians and then asked if they, too, could “feel the difference”. I gather the aftermath of that encounter was not pretty.

The final encounter relating to the “D Party” was not pretty either, although excruciatingly funny. Female Colleague X, who had challenged Male Colleague Y to the drinking contest, had been charged with the task of bringing a birthday cake for Colleague Z into work on Friday morning. Accordingly, she had stopped off at a large supermarket chain store to buy a readymade birthday cake. Unfortunately, she felt very unwell Friday morning. With the consequence that she was unable to venture as far as the cake section, due to the fact that she was puking into a plastic bag grabbed at the cash desk. The supermarket insisted on scanning the plastic bag at a checkout  and she had to pay for it -and presumably had to take it home with her, which is where she went and phoned in sick from.  

What can I say?

When you work with people like this, life isn’t all bad. J

Would a blow torch do it?

I'm having a little difficulty with number 3...changing myself from a thermometer to a thermostat. Perhas because I find both images slightly unsettling...:).  Random act of kindness; distributed little almond cakes to colleagues today...have been accused of  WRECKING  their diets...Note to self; Next random act of kindness must not involve food + office environment.

Dr. Feelbetter's Prescription for Happiness...allegedly...and not a mention of anti-depressants...

THE PRESCRIPTION FOR HAPPINESS

1. Keep a journal.
2. Record small victories.
3. Are you a thermometer or a thermostat? Be a thermostat; a thermometer always  reacts to other people.
4. Have 5 good/positive  qualities/emotions/thoughts (good dwarves) to every 1 negative one.
5. Happiness= pleasure, engagement and meaning.
6. Have realistic optimism.
7. Expand your happiness.
8. Plan, persist, persevere.
9. See the silver lining in every situation.
10. Journal; write what it would feel like in 3-5 years, if everything you  imagined/wanted came about, i.e. the best possible self of you.
11. Think and Thank.
12. Gratitude- a conscious choice to focus on what’s working in your life.
13. Wanting what you have, right here, right now.
14. Write a gratitude diary twice a week.
15. Read the story of Borghil Dahl for inspiration.
16. Be kinder to yourself.
17. Perform 5 random acts of kindness each week.
18. Lighten up on your inner critic.
19. Set goals consistent with your values.
20. Use vision and action together.
21. Be committed.
22. Do one thing tomorrow to improve my health and expand my happiness.
23. Commit to small daily improvements.
24. Small improvements done over time produce amazing results.
25. Open your heart and mind to possibility.
26. Exercise daily.
27. Positive thoughts produce new brain neurons.
28. Flow-be in the zone- in the moment.
29. Being creative = happy=energised.
30. Make time to do what you love, and love what you do.
31. We mirror the behaviour of the 5 key relationships in our lives.
32. Surround yourself with people that will support your dreams and empower you.
33. If you can’t pull the people in your life UP, don’t let them drag you down.
34. There is a “we” in wellness, and an “i” in illness.
35. Celebrate your victories with suitable people.
36. Volunteering once a month = 7% increase in happiness.
37. Volunteering once a week = 16% increase in happiness.
38. Your compass represents your values.
39. Seek    Silence. Stillness. Solitude. Security. Serenity.
40. Let the past go.
41. Make a conscious choice to focus on what is good in your life.
42. Commit to small improvements which over time will lead to amazing results.

Oh yes, again...

NOT AGAIN

Same Courtroom, different judge.  This time I was alone in the well of the court. Judge #2 asked what the reason for this appearance was. I explained that I had been asked to return with specific information from the Pension People.  Ah yes, she said. I handed over the document received from them to the Registrar who then handed it to the judge.  Her Honour wasn’t satisfied with it. It doesn’t state x, y, z as required, she said with a touch of anger. “I’m sorry” I said. “This is what they sent me. I took it to be what was wanted.”  I was so visibly upset that she relented a little. “You weren’t to know” she said.   “But they most certainly should”- and she fixed a new date for me to appear in the courtroom, with the information required just to rubber stamp the process. So now I have to go back – again- in November. Is there no end to this?

I went home, rang the Pension Scheme Management Company. The phone call I'd never ever made to a service company; I was massively, massively angry. I was put through to a senior manager who tried to convince me that a judge asking for more detailed information than they ordinarily supplied, was a very unusual request. If it’s so unusual, I said, how did my husband’s pension provider know to do it? There was silence on the other end of the ‘phone. These organizations are  and always have been paid huge sums of money to administer schemes and invest funds...and over the last number of years they've lost huge sums and depleted pension schemes to the point where they're being closed down. Bye now, sorry about that...

The upshot of this is, I’m the  one who is upset, discommoded and has to attend a court again. Not to mention the other stuff; changing my name on some official documents e.g. driver’s licence, passport, i.d. cards, credit cards….

As for sorting out the house and living arrangements, I’m not even going to go there. I’m going to the pub instead. Which is probably not the wisest idea, but it’s the one that appeals to me right now. 

Not AGAIN, Judge!

When I stop foaming at the mouth, I will post what happened at Court Hearting Part Deux.

The day after...

THE AFTERMATH

The day after D Day I was back in work. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. My office looked the same; my desk was where it always was. But I was not who I had been. I was now a divorcee.

It was a Friday, so that evening I packed some clothes and on Saturday morning drove to the west of Ireland, to the northernmost tip of Galway. I was on my own, there to lick my wounds but I also knew there was a Bridge Club Holiday going in that hotel that particular week. Saturday I drove the length and breadth of Connemara, sobbing all the way along the winding roads leading to places that had previously soothed me and landscapes that always had wrapped themselves around my soul. On to Roundstone and down to Inverin. Cried my way back past the solitude of Lough Inagh. Stopped at the heart-breaking beauty of Kylemore Abbey. Lit a candle in Our Lady of the Wayside, the little church that sits at the junction of four winds. Nothing helped. Back at the hotel in the late afternoon, I had a shower, washed my hair and sat in my room reading. To my surprise, the ‘phone rang; they were short one person for the Bridge tournament, would I oblige? I would. So down I went, wet hair and all. I had tea and the loveliest scones and jam I’d ever tasted delivered to my table. Hastily swallowed them and as play began noticed every table held wineglasses, shot glasses, glasses of crème de menthe and what have you. Arsenic and Old Lace all over again… As play progressed and I had no clue what my partner held or what she was doing, I realized Partner was three sheets to the wind, so to speak. The tournament continued as did the merriment. Our score continued downwards in inverse proportion to the amount of wine consumed by Partner…My reward for coming down and playing? After the session ended Partner suggested I should take “Improver Lessons”… The fact that she was so well on that she could hardly pronounce the word “Improver” was obviously not germane to the fact that we’d probably finished last…  At dinner I sat with the Bridge players. Then it was time for drinks in the bar and a pianist who played old chestnuts and music hall stuff. No traditional Irish music. When the sing-song finished, I went to bed, hoping that my room in the old part of the hotel wasn’t in the area rumoured to be haunted. I had the heebie-jeebies already… However, the exhaustion not to mention the drinks put me out like a light.

Next morning, showered, dressed and ready for breakfast, I searched for the room key. Searched everywhere. Every drawer, every bag, every crevice of my handbag. Decided to just pull the door behind me and inform Reception that I had mislaid the key. I had indeed. I’d left it in the door. All night.

After a solitary breakfast, I went to Reception to book a ticket for the ferry to the island of Inishbofin. A conversation with two older ladies ensued when they overheard my request. It seemed they’d never been to the island and would love to go. There was no day trip to the island organized as part of their Bridge holiday…Run and get ready, I’ll get your ferry tickets, hurry, I have to leave in 10 minutes to make the ferry, I said. So three went to the island.  The entrance to the little harbour is difficult but the ferry was high-tech; when we were virtually on the rocks and myself and the foreign tourists were looking round for the  lifejackets and bracing ourselves against the rails, the deckhand was hanging over the prow and shouting up to the bridge; “You’re grand, Paddy, you’re grand!” By some miracle we were. Once landed, I walked the little paths, climbed stiles and drank in the beauty of the place. I had to beat a hasty retreat when a ram threw shapes at me.  At the other side of the island, for the first time in my life, I heard a corncrake. I knew immediately what it was. What a privilege.  The two ladies had a lovely time, and thanked me profusely for bringing them to the island.  Why wouldn’t I? I was going anyway and they had no other way of getting there. Isn’t that what life is about?  

Back at the hotel, it was dinner and a play about emigration staged in the bar. A two-hander based on true testimonies. It is true; the west of Ireland has been repeatedly emptied. But enough remain to keep the fire lit and the Irish spoken. We owe the people of the Gaeltacht a great debt. At least I feel I do.

Driving home, I was glad I’d gone. No burden had been lifted, but I’d heard a corncrake. And been advised to take Improver Lessons. And the ghost had not manifested.

Promises

I will post, and soon. I'm just having difficulty getting my head around it all.

I'll post the aftermath tomorrrow...

D Day...

D  DAY

It seemed appropriate that on D Day the skies were November Grey instead of June Bright. The rain was torrential as we left the house separately; he in his car and me in a taxi. I picked up my best friend and went to the Court Building. All the small private rooms were taken, so we took seats in one of the rows in the lobby area. Myself and my friend sat, not speaking. I wasn’t capable of it. All the time the tears threatened to spill.
There was a call for a particular courtroom and dozens of people rushed into that room. Around us solicitors and barristers argued and to- and -fro’d between their clients. A woman said “Ask him about the secret bank account I know he has”. One solicitor said to another “He can’t spring that on us now, the agreement has already been made”. Strange, strange, atmosphere. There was a call for Court 31; our designated room. Lots of people rushed in there. Puzzled, I asked the person in uniform if I should go in? Oh yes, I most certainly should.. I stepped into a court room for the first time. There was a Registrar seated at a long bench which had a digital clock like an electronic ribbon running along the top of it.  The Judge sat behind the Registrar at a higher bench. In the body of the courtroom, a rail, two benches and chairs. A witness box on the left hand side of the Judge’s bench.

The Court Register began calling cases using initials; AB and CB. MOR and AOR and so on. As each pair were called, they stepped forward and confirmed their presence. When our initials were called, I stepped forward. The Judge asked was he present. Oh, yes, I said, he’s outside. His name was then called out in full and in he came. Her Honour didn’t look too impressed. On went the roll call. On some occasions a solicitor or barrister stepped up and asked if the case could be deferred as there was a dispute regarding assets between the parties. On one occasion a woman dressed in leopard print top and leggings and tons of jewellery stepped up and was asked was her husband there. “No, he isn’t, he’s in a mental hospital, does it matter?” she said. Apparently it did matter, quite a lot, at least to the judge…

At 11.30 it was over.  I made it to the Ladies Room before collapsing in tears. Afterwards, my friend and I walked through the rain and sat in a pub, drinking. Got a taxi home.

Do I feel different? No. Do I feel devastated? Yes. Do I feel let down? Yes, majorly. Plus; the judge decided that the info re pensions was not conclusive/blah/blah so that’s to be heard in July? So the agony is not over yet…

The clock ticks on...

Time and tides ebb and flow and move us on...inevitably and  inexorably...I am conscious of time passing, the clock ticking down to D Day moment by moment. I am at the same time consumed both  by what if, what if.. and how will I get through it...I am frozen in some sort of unnameable terror and at the same time repeating madly positive mantras as if I can force things, force events, to turn out positive by just doing that. Always at the back of it is this mad hope, mad dream, that life can be different; that dreams can come true in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. Now I am beginning to wonder if this makes me a fantasist, a dreamer, an "unrealistic" person. In the words of the Beatles, all you need is love. Well, no, you need oxygen, food, shelter to survive. What  you need to thrive is love.
Parental love. Sibling love. The love of friends.Romantic love (if you get really, really lucky).  Love. That's what matters. That's what gets you through.  I have family. I have friends. I am loved. But somehow it doesn't make up for the lack of romantic love. Somehow it doesn't. Maybe some time in the future it will.

Stress and sea levels...rising...

As always when I am stressed, the west of Ireland calls me. I need fresh air blowing in from the Atlantic and to swim in water so clear you can see the tracks of crabs and sea snails on the sand below. I need the tranquillity of landscapes that wrap themselves around your soul. Seafood and home baked brown bread. Country pubs and céilí music. Somewhere, anywhere to take me out of myself, away from myself and my situation.

Instead I am sitting on a bench beside the river, in the Botanic Gardens in Dublin. The sound of brown water tumbling over the weir is soothing, calming, even if only for a little while. Every day is now spent between trying (and frequently failing) to do my job well and praying that I am doing the right thing. Still the tears spill; still my nights are fractured by dreams of loss, of being lost, of white knights, of chasing I don’t know what, seeking in the dream world what I can’t find in the real world. Then I wake drenched, heart pounding in my throat and I don’t remember what it is that has chased me through the night while I sought badly needed rest.

Years of total professionalism went out the window today; I burst into tears in the office. All my long years of working, my calm, caring, collegial and utterly professional demeanour... We are all human. I’ve tried to be superwoman and today it just didn’t work. In the workplace I find that anger, shouting, all that kind of behaviour is acceptable but just let something feminine like tears occur …and it’s an absolute no no.  Why not? People are people and when they are going through a personal crucifixion well maybe it’s time to change attitudes – and the sexism that underlies them.

Later that evening I burst into tears at the Writing Circle when it was my turn to read.  Sobbed. Couldn’t read the piece I’d written. Mortified.com. I gestured to P who was sitting next to me, who read it as though he had written it himself. As indeed he might well have, as anyone might have. I’m still going to writing things, trying to do all sorts of things, even though I feel the good has gone out of everything.

Q. When do the tears stop? (Me)

A. When they’re finished. (Counsellor)

By now I must have raised the sea level around Ireland by metres, re-salted the Irish Sea and am probably posing a threat to the Antarctic Ice Mass. D Day is a fortnight away. 

Stings of outrageous jellyfish...

Stings of outrageous jellyfish…

The tension, the stress… We did something which we both always enjoyed…we went to the beach. Together. Motoring along in the water, arms gripping my body board I am lost in wonder at how the sea and sky are paling gently. Times and tides move on, and summer days and summer years are gone before you know it.

A frond of seaweed slithers round my legs. Suddenly I’m scalded.  I’ve been stung. I make for shore as quickly as possible and hobble up to the Sun Worshipper asleep on his sun lounger. “I’ve been stung by a Portuguese man-of-war” I whimper as I dance around the place splashing Ballygowan Sparkling over my thighs. “You haven’t been stung, don’t be ridiculous” he narks. Then he notices the puffy weals snaking like whip marks round my legs. “Oh” he says. Why does he always contradict me? Surely you know whether you have been stung or not? This attitude of immediate denial of anything I say annoys the hell out of me. My legs are on fire. Let’s go. I might need hospital treatment.

Half an hour later the cream the Pharmacy sold me seems to be working. Maybe I won’t need to go to A & E after all. I’d look a funny sight there anyway, what with the sand and the sunblock caked onto me like stucco.  We drive in silence. I am not speaking to the driver. Anyone who says to a suffering person “Sympathy my arse” does not deserve to be spoken to.

He pulls into the car park of the pub. I cannot object as I am not speaking to him. Otherwise of course I would be going home.  I sit at the bar having a brandy to counteract the shock to my system and explaining my sanded/sun creamed/antihistamine - lotioned appearance to anyone who asks, and they are many. The Beer Buddha ensconced in the Corner-beside-the-television decides to educate me; apparently the relief of jellyfish stings entails the application of half a cut tomato to the affected parts. “Why didn’t you just rub half a tomato on?” he loudly demands. “It’s acidic so it counteracts the acidity”. Well pardon me for being stupid, I must remember to pack tomatoes and a knife with the body board in future. The fact that I would have looked even more bizarre covered in tomato pips doesn’t strike me till later. Then I can’t stop laughing. Life is mad. My life is officially getting madder by the day.

The time it is a comin'

Less than a month to D Day now; and still I inhabit two parallel universes.  I am reciting affirmations as if they are gospel, la la la la la  la, and the other bit of me is clinging to 25 years of familiarity and saying no. I would like him to say no: to say the things I always wanted him to say; we'll sort it out. But that hasn't happened. I don't know what will happen. I'm sure I'm not thinking straight, not thinking rationally. Maybe there's no way to think rationally about this. It's a nightmare. I'm still reciting mantras, still believing in happy ever after , still believing in ...fairies? psychics? You can be with someone for twenty five years and still not know them, because that is their way of being and in the face of that  you are powerless. Powerless because you have been raised to be nice, to be understanding, to be sensitive, to put others before yourself, always. I wish I had been raised to put myself  first, to stand up for myself, to be as sensitive to my own needs as I have been to others. But I wasn't. Now I need to find  myself. And I am so lost and full of fear that I have no idea who "I" am. I am getting closer to the brink, and wondering how I will get through D Day.

Flash floods and hugs

Flash Floods and Hugs

A different weekend, altogether. This one involved religion, hot penning and no drink.   The type of thing the counsellor recommended, in fact, when I mentioned to her that I had seen an advertisement in the newspaper for Healing Weekends, so to speak, for the divorced, the separated and the widowed. I rang the organization and it sounded good. So off I went.

Check in time at the Retreat Centre was 5 pm Friday.  Bed at eleven pm, up for 8 am breakfast each day.  I slung my case into my single ensuite bedroom, unpacked the travel kettle, the herbal tea, chocolate and fruit, bottled mineral water. So far so good.

First event; the organizers introduced themselves individually. Then half an hour of “getting to know you” games. We were broken up into small groups of three and assigned a mentor. Given notebooks and pens. In our small group, three of us, all women and a male mentor. We began the first session of discussion, and then it was off to our rooms to write whatever came into our minds.  This was to be the pattern for the weekend.  Talks given to the larger group, then breaking into our foursomes for further talk, then race to the rooms to pour out tears and words. There were group ceremonies, a religious service on Sunday morning. After that, a healing service. So many tears flowed over the weekend, I thought we would all be washed out of the Centre, down the grounds to the river and out to sea...  Over the weekend I wrote and wrote and wrote, cried and cried and cried.  In the small chapel where the closing ceremony was held, the air was so heavy with sorrow and anguish that I felt it lying across my shoulders and bowing down my head  like a blanket. When the hugging took place, I was enfolded in the arms of lovely men and nearly came unhinged altogether.

I don’t feel much different, if at all. I don’t feel any major shift, any major Zen.  I’ve learned that there are many people going through changes they hoped would never happen to them, never envisaged happening to them. But that’s life, isn’t it.   I didn’t experience any eureka moments. I met good people, very good people. I learned a lot. Hell, we even had some fun, what with the jokes and poems and dancing on the last night.

Goodbyes and hugs on Sunday afternoon. Back to reality. I can’t say that much has changed.  Back at home in my own bedroom, I re-read my scribblings. Then shredded the anger, the hurt, and the fear. Hoped that this intense weekend will somehow start something in me that has not yet been apparent; a feeling that I am doing the right thing, and that the future holds the promise of a new beginning.

Stand up - and be counted...

Stand up and be counted…

Probably because I find it difficult to say no, I agreed to do something for a literary event to celebrate a bike show coming to Dublin. Which is how I came to be standing in front of a lunch time  audience yesterday, with a 4-Solpadeine hangover,  dressed in cycling gear, wondering what the hell I was doing there and hoping I would remember my lines. Miraculously, I did (well most of them) and it went very well. Very well indeed. In other words, the audience laughed.  Afterwards as I was running out the door to the day job, the Director of the event ran after me – to congratulate me. Said  I was brilliant…Then a woman I know approached me- to tell me how well I did, how low she was, how she was on medication, how she appeared all jolly on the outside but inside was a different matter. I know that mask. I wear it too, at times. I knew her to be widowed 2 ½ years, have children and grandchildren, her situation completely different to mine. She needed to make changes in her life, she said, has yearned to move back to Dublin from the crystal chandeliered mini palace down the country. But she won’t settle for what I know I will have to; a small terraced house somewhere, I don’t yet know where… I know her to be a tough cookie, a very tough cookie who upset a lot of people, including me.  Sometimes we are our own worst enemies. Regardless of previous behaviour, my heart went out to her.  She said she’d be up in Dublin again in a week and would like to come to the writing circle...

I went  to work. Realized I’d forgotten to bring office clothes. Explained the situation to the powers that be, and spent the rest of the day in fluorescent orange and pink cycling shorts and pink sneakers…Luckily I remembered to take the bicycle lamp off my head.

Supper was non-alcoholic cocoa and toast. I think I finally fell asleep in a cocoa-induced haze at 4 a.m. That’s ok. Today put another brick in the self-esteem wall. What could be better than making people smile, laugh, feel better, even for a moment? Don’t we all love that, need that sometimes?  I’m giving myself an A for today and not dwelling on the mistakes I’ve made in life. J

Of men and white horses...

I should get out more. With men. That was the counsellor’s advice this week. Go out and meet men, she said. In her opinion, I am perfectly justified, and indeed morally entitled to enter into relationships with other men. Other than the one I married, that is.

Yes, she said. Get out and about and meet men. Do stuff with them. Precisely what stuff and how much stuff, she didn’t say. She didn’t go as far as the Merry Widow had; she didn’t say “The way to get over a man is to get under another one” but I got the drift.

Certainly, I would like nothing better than to have Prince Charming’s (older) brother rock up on a white horse and bedazzle me with wit and flowers.  I do go out, a lot.  But somehow never seem to meet men who appeal as a romantic partner.  And you never see one trotting up the road  on a white horse, either. The guys who do ride horses round town - well let’s just say, they couldn’t be more unsuitable. Might be better to change the white horse requirement – better yet, delete it.

There are people who have a list of requirements; i.e. he must have x, y, z, live in A, B, C. All very practical. All about materiality. I can’t be that prescriptive. I know we all have types we are subconsciously attracted to or something like that. But for me it’s very simple. I just want Prince Charming.  Some one who is kind, gentle, smart, fun and doesn't take class A drugs. See? Simple.

The counsellor asked what I was doing about moving on and meeting someone else. The trouble is, I haven’t moved on. Nor can I until the divorce, really. I’ve always behaved honourably; when I was single and when married. Never sought solace outside the relationship. Never broke my vows, never cheated, never crossed the line.  You’re either single/divorced (therefore unattached and free) or you’re married /separated (attached and semi-detached).  I don’t believe you can ever achieve your happiness at the expense of someone else’s. I think it’s wrong.

There have been times over the long years when I thought I would actually die from loneliness; that my body would physically turn to stone. W.B. Yeats in his poem says it best; “Too long a period of mourning can make a stone of the heart.”   I’ve had my heart broken; twice. That’s more than enough times. So I’m torn; one part of me wishes, really wishes, to meet someone with whom to have a loving relationship of affection and companionship, a supportive and encouraging partner. The other part fears that that will never happen, that too much time has passed. A gremlin sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear- mutters something about getting older, lacking confidence, too much to ask, what if… But – one of the reasons I am getting divorced is to make a clean break, to leave myself free and open to the possibility of a new relationship, yes?  I silence the gremlin with the words of the counsellor; “You’re very smart, very attractive, you have a figure a nineteen year old would envy and you’re full of fun. Why wouldn’t you meet someone?”  So I shall ask the Universe to send me the right one, and hope that I will be able to dismantle the barricades I built around myself when I meet him. Since he won’t be on a white horse or wearing a suit of armour, it would be difficult for him to jump the walls otherwise…

How are y'all?

I don't know what anyone else thinks, but I think that divorce is  something that you crawl through, fall through, feel like an alien through and anything else besides. It's not something I wanted or ever envisaged happening to me. I got married in a church, felt it was a spiritual commitment, serious stuff,  all the rest. I dislike the word divorce; consider it an  ugly word, an ugly thing. Which is not to say that there are situations which need to be sorted out, fast.

A church annulment is an option; an expensive, other option. I'd have to do that on my own, pay for it myself.  It ain't cheap, although it leaves one free to marry again in a Catholic church, should one wish to do so. Not on the radar at the moment...if ever.

I met someone I hadn't seen in years. He was divorced. Well, he said, have you gotten over the shame of being  the first person in your family to get divorced? I was floored.  I don't know why, I couldn't reply. There should be  no shame or guilt, surely?  For my part, I know I did everything I could, but yes, I hate to say the D word. I really do.

Some  bit of me still believes in love, romance and happy ever after. Maybe that's foolish, romantic. Unrealistic. You'll think I should have copped on by now. But  I still think what we all  need is someone who is there. Just there, but absolutely there. With proper, man size hugs. That's an important part of men's work.  No agendas, just the proper application of man size, wrap around hugs.

 So now that the big stuff is getting sorted, allegedly,  where do I go from here? I don't know. I wish that I could say that I had it all sorted out but I don't. I have no idea.

Tempus doesn't fugit...it comes and goes like the tide.

Tempus doesn’t fugit…

It’s not easy to try and live each day as it comes, be always in the mindful moment, when inside you feel you exist in a state of suspension. Waiting out waiting time. Wondering how you will feel when D Day finally comes. It’s an awful feeling, this perception forcing itself on you that you are living a split life in two dimensions. One dimension of ordinariness, work, shopping, ironing, the daily tasks that make up so much of time.  A second dimension of frozen terror, wondering what the future has in store and how everything will turn out. Never, ever sure that any action is the right one, exactly the right thing to do. Hoping for the best, reciting mantras, prayers and mindful exhortations morning till night, lying in bed still reciting them while the worm of worry uncoils itself in your gut again and you know you face another sleepless night. In those circumstances it’s easy to add wine to supper, to find yourself with the chardonnay and crisps rather than the cocoa and toast. Surfing the web, the social media, seeing if there is anyone up and on Facebook at two in the morning. The only friend up at that time is a new father, preparing the 2 am feed, and he’s in no condition to chat!

Mentally climbing up one wall, crossing the ceiling and coming back down another wall is not conducive to restful sleep. Camomile tea, orange blossom tea, cocoa and wine are not cutting it. Some one suggested relaxing in a hot bath, surrounded by candles, so…

Bringing the sea back home….

One of my birthday presents was a large fancy jar of seaweed powder which allegedly had magical soothing, relaxing and rejuvenating properties. According to the label, you could make a paste of it with almond or grape oil and that would work wonders for your face. Or you could tip it into the bath and after a minimum soak time of 15-20 minutes you would arise like Venus from the waves, only more relaxed. Probably more wrinkled as well.

Not having grape, almond or any other kind of fruit oil, I opted for the latter.  Poured it liberally into the hot water – and started coughing from the cloud of greeny grey dust that arose. Never mind, in I climbed and lay back. The water was not green, as I had anticipated.  It was bog brown.  Not having my watch on in the bath, I wouldn’t know when 15 minutes would have elapsed so I had to count the time in my head. On, two, three, four seconds…When my mind wandered and I lost my count, I gave up.

Wrapped in a fluffy bath towel, I pulled the plug and watched the water gurgle down the drain. The bath itself looked like the Liffey at low tide, except without the rusty bicycles and supermarket trollies. Rivulets of clear water streaked the boggy brown residue on the bottom. The sides of the bath carried a high tide mark. The bathroom smelled like Galway Bay with the tide out. Oh my. Still, it must have done me no end of good.

Later, at a session of my Writing Circle, I took off my jacket and sat bare armed in the warm room. One of my writing colleagues asked if I’d been away on holiday. “You’ve a great colour” she said.

“No, I haven’t been away since last summer, plus I always wear Factor 50 as I just burn”, I said. Mystified, I glanced down at my arms; they were a fetching shade of light mahogany.  The penny dropped; it wasn’t just the bath that had been dyed brown.  All I could hope for was that at least I didn’t smell like Galway Bay when the tide is out.

Good Relations...

In the interests of maintaining good relations despite gritted teeth and howling gales, myself and He who shall be nameless played Bridge together. Nothing untoward was said during the evening, but as we left I was handed  two pages of Bridge "homework"... They are now filed behind the microwave, along side the cook book my sister gave me as a Christmas present. I  wouldn't dream of reading that either.

Frequent Breaks are good for you...

“The only way to cope with ongoing stress is to take frequent breaks”

(Divorce-directed Selfie Book#11)

“Let’s cycle the greenway” the Sister said. “It’ll do us good. Peace and quiet, nice hotel, fresh air”- and before I could say “bicycle clip” she’d booked us a few days in a Co. Mayo hotel conveniently positioned right beside the greenway. I borrowed rainproof leggings from my brother-in-law; we booked bicycles on the internet and drove west. The hotel was lovely, one of those old fashioned hotels which had catered for travelling salesmen in the days before online purchasing. Consequently, they had single rooms which were indeed single; mine was a small attic room which looked out over the latticed roof of the hotel and on out across the Atlantic. I stood at the window admiring the sea view, and watching the considerate farmer who appeared to be taking his cows for a stroll along the beach. Some of the cows were paddling in the sea. Cows chilling out…

Down to Reception I waddled, dressed for the weather; Tee-shirt, cardigan, fleece, gilet, rain jacket. Tracksuit bottoms, the brother-in-law’s rainproof trousers, sneakers. Bike helmet. Wool gloves under waterproof mittens. Bottle of water. Camera. Mobile ‘phone in case of emergencies.

The Bike Man was waiting in drizzling rain outside the hotel. Yaay!! The start of two days freewheeling along the converted railway track, with only the voices of the birds, cows and sheep breaking the silence. We signed the contracts taking full responsibility for the behaviour of the bikes, took possession of them and wheeled them through the gate and onto the track. “Let’s head west, let’s do the leg from Mulrany to Achill today. That bit of the Greenway runs along the coast” said the Sister. Oh I do love to be beside the seaside; this was going to be blissful. Tranquil. Nerve-mending. Up on the bikes and off we pedalled. Five minutes later I was lying on the track, tangled up in the bicycle and the brother-in-law’s trousers, crying. We had come to the first of the gates intended to keep humans and bovines safely apart. While I was trying to negotiate it, an overlong (for me) trouser leg became caught in the spokes, the bike stopped with a jerk and I went flying off it. The unforgiving cinder track cut my left shin, knee, hip and wrist to ribbons. Blood was seeping through the layers of clothing. Every bit of me was hurting.  We weren’t ten minutes out and I was already a mess. There really was blood on the track. Sis patiently untangled it all and helped me up. “We’ll go on” I said. “I’m all right”. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to spoil her day. On we went, while the sea curled in on our right and farmland and heather were dewed by the soft rain on our left.  Every movement caused the cuts to abrade over and over again, rubbed by the torn lining of my tracksuit bottoms while my hip was rubbed raw by the waistband.  I began to wonder if I’d broken my wrist, not just sprained it. Eventually the pain got the better of me and we turned back before reaching Achill.

Back at the hotel, I enquired if there were a pharmacy nearby; showed some of my wounds to the Receptionist. Before I could sink into one of the comfortable sofas dotted about the foyer, there was an offer of tea and a chef appeared with the hotel’s First Aid Kit, kept in the kitchen apparently. It was the size of a small suitcase, leading me to wonder if cooking is a terribly dangerous occupation. I chose dressings and antiseptic, limped up to my attic room and dressed my wounds.

We met for dinner; I had brought a white lace dress for our formal dining. I hadn’t intended to accessorise it with cuts and bruises but, well, never mind. After dinner we wandered down the one street in the village. We found a little pub all right, where over the course of the evening an entente cordiale was established with some of the locals-the few remaining locals who hadn’t been forced to emigrate due to the recession, that is.  A retired engineer informed me that he owned one of the offshore islands and four hundred acres locally. Plus a lovely house.  “That’s lovely” I said, “what a beautiful part of the country you live in”. Ah, but it turned out he was lonely…the Sister was in fits.

Back at the hotel the two of us sat in front of a log fire and had a few nightcaps. Such a lovely, cosy hotel…I slept well in my little room, worn out by fresh air, extreme cycling and lots of food and drink. Stiff, bruised and bandaged, I saddled up on Day 2 and we headed east. A much harder cycle today but rewarded with beautiful views, rivers and bridges, weak sunshine with only the chattering of the birds and the nattering of the Sister disturbing the silence. I walked the bike through the gates and stiles. I walked part of the track as well, vowing to hire an electric bike next time…We got as far as Newport before surrendering and taxiing back to Mulrany. A dip in the hotel pool and a session in the hot tub worked wonders. All that was needed now was a nap before dinner. More lovely seafood, more drinks in front of the open fire and our last night ended.

Morning came knocking at the attic window. Banging, in fact. The bruises were now turning lovely autumnal colours. The left knee was bending a little bit. Time to go home. We headed for Dublin, the Sister clutching the hotel’s recipe for scones and homemade jam. I’m not a tea and scones person, more Chardonnay and crisps, but the afternoon teas in the hotel had been historic and I knew the Sister would be well able to replicate the stuff.

Back in work, the boss asked how I’d enjoyed my trip.  It was wonderful, I said, apart from the scars and sure, maybe they’ll fade with time.

Yes, frequent breaks…but preferably not bones.

 So off I go. ..to distraction heigh ho...

I have a stalker. Or do I? What do you do or think when a person from your writing group wants to know every detail of your life,such as "Why are you taking an  antibiotic? Where do you live? What's your address?

Distraction- very good-if you don't mind the injury...

Post tomorrow. Regardless.


.

Distraction...

I was advised that the only way to deal with chronic stress is distraction.....days away...frequent breaks from the same-old-same-old...

Come on baby light my fire...we're roasting Shakespeare...

Come on baby light my fire – we’re roasting Shakespeare tonight…

Being a lover of words and of all things Shakespearian, where better for a weekend than Stratford-upon-Avon? Accordingly Sisters #2 and #3, Nieces #2 and #3 and myself boarded a flight to Birmingham.  Our flight was uneventful; bugles sounded when we landed and for a minute I thought it was a heavenly accompaniment to my fervent prayer of thanks for being on terra firma once more. Before long we were ensconced in our pretty little B & B, thrilled at being in the village and among the houses so familiar from the pages of books and the screens of TV and cinema. All set for a weekend of history and culture, tea and cream scones, and walking in the footsteps of the Bard.

That’s what we did. We walked the village and its environs, we visited Shakespeare’s house, the Town Hall, walked to Anne Hathaway’s cottage, the Globe Theatre, walked by the river, did it all. Interspersed with frequent stops for refreshments of every kind. By Saturday evening we were all walked out. We’d seen everything, gone everywhere any of us wanted to go. We'd had a wonderful time.  On one of our forays into shops, Niece #3 bought me a little hedgehog. Christened Snedgespeare, he starred in all my photos from then on.

Saturday evening- what to do? It was too early to go back to the B & B and we had no tickets for the play. One of the Tudor townhouses, now a hotel, caught our eye. We could have a quiet drink there, it wouldn’t be heaving with noise and disco-goers like the other places we’d passed.

The hotel bar was full; the Function Room was hosting a small wedding party, so we settled in at the side of Reception, in a lobby containing chairs, sofas and an open fireplace stacked with twigs, logs, papers and cones. Low tables held flower arrangements and candles. All very nice.  We were sipping our drinks and relaxing when a gentleman in shirtsleeves approached from the back of the hotel. With a smile and what sounded like an East European accent, he asked if we would like the fire lit. Oh yes, Sister#2 exclaimed; we’d love it! Us Irish love an open fire! With that he took a strip of paper from the fireplace, lit it from one the candles and touched it to the kindling. I thought it a strange way for an employee to light a fire, and even stranger, he continued on through the lobby  and walked out through the front door of the hotel.

The fire took light all right. It roared up. Within seconds a black waterfall of smoke was cascading down the chimney. Oh my god, the chimney must be blocked up, someone said. Better go and tell Reception what’s happening. Niece#3 got up and ran round the corner to alert the staff. By now smoke was billowing along the lobby. Next thing the smoke alarm went off.  Now the staff were evacuating the guests from the bar, next thing the wedding party were streaming out of the Function Room. No problem, just smoke from the fireplace, no problem, please leave the building. Oh my God, said Niece #2. I myself was beginning to worry in case we got blamed – this was a Tudor building, listed, priceless.  As we stood outside in the cold hoping we wouldn’t get arrested the Fire Brigade Tender arrived, sirens blazing, and firemen charged into the historical, irreplaceable building…. Eventually order was restored and guests and wedding party were shepherded back in. Our little group of unintentional near-arsonists meekly followed. The fire was a rosy glow now. The smoke had dissipated; the wedding disco was in full swing, the bar full of drinkers. We got fresh drinks, including a whiskey for Niece#3, a non-drinker who felt she needed something to get her over the humiliation of being related to me and her other aunt... Niece#2 was blaming her mother and me, insisting that we egged on whoever he was. He certainly had not been an employee of Shakespeare’s local Travelodge.

What to say? Well it has to be a quotation from the man himself; “All’s well that ends well”. It did all end well... We weren’t arrested, the hotel didn’t burn down, and Nieces# 2 and 3 still speak to me. While Snedgespeare is sitting on my desk, smiling a big hedgehog grin at me as I type.

Don't look back, don't look down...

I've slept better, now that I feel I have some small control over my life. Food no longer turns to cardboard in my mouth. The chainsaw has stopped reefing up my insides, at least during night time. Maybe I won't lose more than the one and a half stone I've lost so far. (I think that's what I've lost. I never weigh myself, don't have a scales,  it's just that my jeans are falling off me and I wasn't a hefty hoochie to begin with.) Keep on keeping on...trudging through the blizzard, trying to count my blessings, my distractions..trying to meditate... I've lost my mojo, majorly. But...didn't I lose myself a long time ago...?  Isn't that the problem, what the divorce is about? ...In a blizzard, keep trudging on, even if you feel you have been trudging for an effing millenium.... Next weekend, a break.

The sequence of events...

The sequence of events;

Late last year I had signed a document agreeing to joint carriage of sale of the house by the 2 solicitors and an estate agent to be appointed by them. The agreement finally arrived back at the house via snail mail/carrier pigeon/ slow boat to China addressed to himself. He refused to sign it. Doesn’t see why on earth, when there is no dispute whatsoever, two solicitors should be given the power to sell our house for whatever they deem fit, or an estate agent appointed by them, sees fit.  He sees costs ratcheting up between the 2 +1 and us losing all control over our situation. He’s right. He told his solicitor he wasn’t signing it. His solicitor informed my solicitor. My solicitor got on to me stating that proceedings would now be issued to force him into court over this.  No, I said, there are to be no proceedings issued whosoever. I agree with him. Well, you were happy to sign it, I was told. No I wasn’t happy, I signed it because I thought I had to, because I thought I was obliged to, that this must be the way the Court works.  

He wanted me to take back the deeds of the house from my solicitor, who had requested that I give them to her to check the title etc. and hold them in trust. I know he’s thinking of all the rogue solicitors who abused their clients’ trust and played merry hell with the deeds of their clients’ properties, to say the least. It’s not that he thinks our legal representatives are not ok, just that he doesn’t trust the profession. Nor does he see any reason why we can’t just keep the damn things at home as we have always done. The stress of all this was now getting to me big time. The insecurity of not having the house documents/sale proposal under my control was shredding my nerves. I was waking every day feeling as if there was a chainsaw tearing up my intestines.

The solicitors were not happy to hear that the agreement to have them jointly sell the house was not going to be signed... Stalemate. We discussed the fact that it is now nearly a year since the process started and we as yet have no Court date, no Terms of Settlement, and in the meanwhile every email, call or letter is sending the costs skyward.

The misery is dragging on, and we have no certainty about anything. So we called a halt.

I made an appointment and went out to my solicitor to retrieve the deeds of the house. I left clutching the manila folder as if it were a baby.   I found out I had to formally instruct the solicitor to cancel the proceedings. Only my solicitor could cancel the court application, apparently.  In the meanwhile, the bills arrived. Stunned is not the word... My solicitor had felt that we were nearly there, the process was almost complete. The bill included a reference to  proceedings to force the Respondent into court re the sale of the house. That hadn’t happened, and we weren’t nearly there.  The paperwork wasn’t completed, we had no court date, and as far as we were concerned we weren’t nearly there, by a mile. The solicitors had done nothing wrong, they followed their methodology but as we were to discover, there was more than one way of obtaining what was needed.

Someone advised that we go to a sort of DIY divorce service. So we did. In a small, well worn house in a little estate, we sat and were told that all could be done via their service once my solicitor had cancelled the first application. I found this hard to believe; No solicitors required by law to do this work and attend on the day? No requirement to have a barrister draws up one particular document and attend the court hearing? Was she sure about all this? Yes, she was. They had helped hundreds of people through the process already. The cost? €500.00, €250.00 now and €250.00 when the divorce proceedings were finished.  We had paid the two legal practitioners many multiples of this…The paperwork arrived via email two days later to be printed off, signed and lodged in court.   There was apparently no problem with it; we have a court date; June.

Hard lessons, for both of us. I’m on the floor mentally, physically and emotionally.  There’s only one way of dealing with this; try and put it all behind me.

New Mantra; Don’t look back. Don’t look down.

Cultural Differences...

A person from Canada wrote to me and said, basically; thought there was no divorce in Ireland? Is this a new thing? And other stuff about pigs in the parlour.. My teeth will be ground to nothing if this continues.Yes, I replied,  there has been divorce in Ireland for the last twenty years. No, it's not what you would want, but what can you say, stuff happens.I hope your life is good. But I don't think there will be a romance between us. We are too far apart geographically and I don't know how far I am from a  relationship with men-or the right man.

Hand me the bricks...or whatever else is to hand...

Sorry. I am having extreme difficulty handling the rage...I WILL calm down, even  if I have to literally chew thousands of camomile teabags and inhale enough lavender oil to give me asthma.

The story is coming...

I'm writing it. I will post as soon as I have finished. I'm trying not to edit the rage.

Things fall apart...even more than they have so far...

So...goodbye to two solicitors, goodbye to large amounts of money - hard earned, goodbye to progress (or lack of progress so far)...full story posted tomorrow

Relaxation Day...

Relaxation…

Morning snow caped the Wicklow mountains as I drove south  My best friend was taking herself and January Girl away to a 5 star hotel for an overnight spa-and-dinner break.  Like the ENT in Lord of the Rings, I love heading south.  As he says, “Somehow it always feels like heading home”.

The hotel was wall to wall marble and staff.  Checked in to our lovely double bedded marble room, we headed straight for the spa centre. Wall to wall marble, Swarovski crystals and lighting as soft and gentle as a peach. I could feel that cruel master Tension uncurl his talons from my shoulders as I changed into a peach robe... Lunch was a bento box, every  bit of it delicious. Next, two hours of aromatic massage, facial, the lot. When it ended I had practically melted, ready to flow out of the therapy room under the door in a river of peach.

To complete the day of relaxation, I was led to the Serenity Room to relax until dinner. The Serenity Room had a sign on the door requesting Silence. Inside, a table bearing a selection of herbal teas and juices, a water cooler.  Two rows of loungers piled with white blankets, all facing the ceiling-to-floor windows and the panoramic views of the mountains.  White dividers separated the couches, gave privacy. Heaps of magazines lay beside each lounger; I selected my couch, filled a beaker with water, and poured myself a cup of orange blossom tea. Selected a few magazines and climbed onto my plinth.  The backrest was at 90 degrees. Totally upright and uptight. No good -it was time to lay back, kick back. I pulled the lever to adjust the backrest. RAK RAK RAK went the hydraulics. The backrest went back a few degrees then stopped. Kept trying to go further. Kept failing. The backrest was trying its best to lie down. But it couldn’t. I tjust kept going RAK RAK RAK like a demented crow and didn’t move an inch. The noise in the silent room was deafening No matter how I pulled and pushed the lever back, RAK RAK RAK. I couldn’t shut it up. I ran out and called a member of staff. “We’ll get an engineer up straight away” she said. Right enough, five minutes later, he arrived. Silenced the crow. Suggested in a whisper that I choose another bed. So I did. Picked up my magazine, my water, my herbal tea.  Chose a new couch. Settled in.  Draped a white fluffy blanket across my legs. Leaned over to reach the lever and adjust the backrest - and knocked the cup of orange blossom tea and the glass of water over. In unison, half spilled all over the bed and floor and the other half emptied itself into the mechanism of the bed, poured down the little hydraulic hole. I leapt from the thing, afraid I’d be electrocuted. Ran into the Ladies Room, where I grabbed every bit of tissue and every paper towel I could find and raced back to the Serenity Room, where I set about mopping the floor and the bed of the plinth and tried to stuff tissues down into the mechanism to absorb the spill. Unfortunately all of the above entailed some noise. There was some movement from the other occupied beds, some rustling of magazines, some deep breathing…

Back into the Ladies to dispose of the sodden tissues and paper towels. Back onto my plinth. Fluffy white blanket draped over my legs, backrest at 45 degree angle.  Settled. Fresh glass of water beside me. I relaxed. Lay down. Turned over and pulled the blankets with me to settle down for a nice cosy nap. Unfortunately my right elbow caught the stand alone divider which must have been made of Japanese rice paper, very delicate, because it toppled over. Onto the bed next to mine. Luckily it was unoccupied. However it caught the next divider which went over onto the next bed and…It was like a game of dominoes and not in a good way. The second glass of water and cup of orange blossom tea…how can such small receptacles hold so much liquid? Is there a separate law of physics that governs spills? There’s always a spilt amount at least double the quantity the container held, I swear it.

Bottom line; I’ve trashed the “Serenity Room” in a five star hotel. I left before I got thrown out, went back to our room and ate the complimentary chocolates they’d left to say “Happy Birthday Gráinneog”.  Well if you’d had a shock, you need sugar.

We had a lovely dinner. Afterwards, we spent our joint annual income on a few gins and tonics in the bar. Fell into bed. Sleep eventually came to me as light crept in under the damask curtains and most especially, when my companion finally stopped snoring. If I’d realized at the time that the marble bathroom had under floor heating, I’d have slept there. Wrapped up in fluffy white blankets and peach towels.

Awake and in a gin induced depression, or maybe because we had to leave this marble palace, we headed to the self service breakfast buffet.  The staff were enquiring of us and many others if we were on “the package”. Yes, of course we were, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Most of the other clientele were on “the package” as well it seemed.

Having placed my orange juice and omelette on our table I went off to make toast. Inserted two pieces of bread and changed the setting on the 6-slice toaster to “maximum”, same as my own little toaster. One minute later   two charred, blackened slices popped up –and  a fire alarm went off.   WHEE WHEE WHEE it went, deafeningly, as an electronic voice calmly exhorted us all to please leave the building quietly by the nearest exit... God now I’ve set off the alarm. The bloody noise wasn’t going to help the hangovers either.

“No, no”” said the staff reassuringly as they moved among guests now standing at their tables in uncertainty, ready to abandon the fried eggs and muesli. “No need to go outside. It was just the toaster. The fire alarm system is very sensitive. “

First I’ve trashed the place now I’ve set off the fire alarm… Of course none of this was my actual fault.

We left and drove back to Dublin, back to January blues, back to reality.

“Well, do you feel the better of that?” asked my kind, good friend. “Oh yes, thank you, it was all lovely. Very relaxing” I said.  “Let’s do it again soon. Only...can we try  somewhere else for your birthday- it’s nice to see new places”.

Warning; Sad Reading

Warning; Sad Reading.

A cold January day, an ordinary day, a weekday, a dark post Christmas day.  Also a day of special significance for me... A message pings in on my ‘phone.  My niece was going for “The Scan” today. Here on my screen is a picture, a tiny creature curled up, long back, knees drawn up. Here is the Baba, she says.

Something smashes into me with the force of a punch in the guts, smashes down gates and walls.  A tidal wave of emotion rises somewhere within me and threatens to swallow me up, drown me.  I am struggling, really struggling to hold back the feelings, hold back the tears.

This very day, this very day, exactly eighteen years ago, I was the one in the maternity hospital. I was the one with “The Scan” scheduled for that exact January day and time. But I wasn’t having a scan. I was being wheeled into theatre. The baby was lost. There was no reason, the consultant had said. Sometimes these things just happen. You can have other children. There’s nothing wrong, no reason why you can’t. But we didn’t. That was the end of everything.

Now, exactly eighteen years later, I am engulfed, overcome, totally swamped by feelings that seem to have come from nowhere. I struggle through the day, thanking God that I have an appointment with the counsellor in the evening and hoping she can help me through this.

I stumble in the door of her consulting room, sobs tearing themselves from inside me. It’s as if someone else is crying. There is nothing I can do to stop this. I am bent nearly double in the chair. I struggle to get the words out.  “This is raw grief” she says. “This is completely raw. You haven’t dealt with this at all”.

An hour later I leave, drive home, worried that the sobs that are still ripping themselves from my gut and the tears that won’t stop flowing will affect my driving.  I try to be extra careful and avoid the motorway, the quickest way home.

At home I sit on the sofa and do what has been suggested; I take out my notebook and pen and write to my child. Feelings pour out on to the page along with the tears.

Himself comes in. I remind him what day it is; tell him what the counsellor said. “Wallow in it or get over it” I’m told.

I close my notebook and go to bed.   I will follow the other suggestions she made; place a little memorial somewhere, or plant a tree or flower. Go to a meeting of a specific organization she recommended, a support group for those who have suffered this kind of bereavement.

Once again I open the wonderful message from my beloved niece. The therapist had asked if I would be able to love this baby as I wished.  On the tiny screen of my ‘phone I trace with my finger the outline of the long back, the tiny feet.  I already do, little one. I already do.

In the days that followed, I went alone and placed a flowering shrub on my mother’s grave. Nestled among its leaves, a tiny porcelain angel a lovely friend had given me. I lit my little candle, said what I needed to say and placed my child in the care of his grandmother.

More tears flowed when I attended a meeting of the support group, not all of them mine. Women of all ages, healing the pain hidden for years. Some men. Such kindness, such goodness.

I’ve done everything the counsellor suggested. The intensity has abated. Emotions that lay buried for eighteen years have forced their way out. The volcano has stopped erupting. I am healing.

But there is one more thing I wish to do. For the Miscarriage Support Organization. I’ve decided that this year, I will do the Womens Mini Marathon.  I will raise as much money as I can for them, in memory of my own little one and in a small way, maybe I’ll be helping other people too. And if there is anyone reading this who has ever been in the same situation, I’m thinking of you today. 

The Interweb strikes again

I have been prevented from posting to my own blog, my own blog, by a gecko. That’s what the message said, the message that kept popping up in the middle of my screen like a demented meerkat. Something about compiling errors and 8 geckos…Certainly I have compiled plenty of errors in my life but geckos? So I was obliged to bring the machine to the Computer Clinic for Virally Transmitted Diseases and Geckos. 

The Doctor didn’t wear a white coat, was very colourful not to say floral in dress and was born in hotter climes than mine. “Your computah requires much, much healing” he said. (His exact words. He was obviously taking the doctor thing seriously.) I asked how long it would take to get sorted. I had to trust someone with the blog stuff, otherwise how could I get it fixed? Who better than a professional IT person…

 “Come back this afternoon aftah lunch Ma’am – about three o’clock” he said. (Ma’am?).  While I had waited for him to power up the machine and reach a diagnosis (10 bloody minutes) I looked at our surroundings; the Clinic was decorated with colourful Biblical drawings, and little framed sayings e.g. “The end is near.”  “Rejoice, the righteous shall see the face of God soon”. Well, hopefully not too soon. Or at least not till I get my laptop back. The place was giving me the heebie-jeebies, although the shopkeeper wasn’t. He seemed like a very nice man. He was obviously a man of deep religious conviction too. “How much?  I asked.  The price equalled four bottles of good wine or 8 ½ bottles of cheap stuff. Ok. I came back at the appointed hour to find the place shut and shuttered. Decided to wait for a while. After all, I use the laptop for work as well…This is important…Where is he…

As I stood outside the shop in uncertainty a workman who was painting the shop front next door stood up from his task and spoke to me. “I would not leave anything in there” he said. “That place is closing. The guy who runs the shop is leaving. I know the landlord of all these shops”.  Me laptop! Me secrets!

The ‘phone number was on the shop sign so I rang it. A few times. Eventually he answered. Eventually he turned up. We exchanged money and machine. So now I’m back in action. No geckos. The world hasn't ended yet either. Result.