It's cold outside.
The last couple of weeks:
After the fairly mediocre head cold and the course of antibiotics and the subsequent restoration of gut health, something else hit me that required a ten day crash course of oral cortisone with the full array of side effects regarding sleep and mood and digestion - again - and still not much better, although, in the words of the doctor, at least not worse. Some of it is very familiar, which means I am hopeful that with all the fucking rest I am taking my body will miraculously realign itself into a shape of recognisable physical fitness. And I am not talking marathon running fitness here, just making it up the stairs at a brisk pace.
It's a shitty symptom, this lack of energy. You simply cannot get anything done, no matter how trivial and believe me, I do try. But the man watches me like a hawk and has raised his voice in alarm more than once. Bless him.
Anyway, in ordinary times, I would lean back, listen to some decent audiobooks, read some decent novels, watch some decent movies and let myself be expertly looked after and otherwise entertained by the man in my life. I am retired, I can take my time. Been there, done it before etc.
Only, I am booked to fly halfway across the planet in a few days. Obviously, not possible, also because I am scheduled for a minor invasive cardiac exam in ten days. Every morning I log into the Singapore Airlines app ready to press the buttons for "change flight dates" and then I stop myself. One of these days I'll have to. We are insured to the hilt, it's not about money, it's just about self confidence and limitations and regret and the weeks of preparing and expectations. And the fact that I am holding on like mad to the hope that I'll be able to travel and be healthy enough to be a real granny for a couple of months, eating ice cream while looking across the South Pacific.
In other news, we are celebrating xmas in the ususal fashion, ie not at all. I can recommend it wholeheartedly. However, there is an expensive Veronese pandoro - not pannetone - waiting in the kitchen. We also watched the live stream of the winter solstice sunlight beam snaking its way into the chamber of the megalithic tomb in Newgrange, Co. Meath, Ireland, and the dedication of the people artists who imagined and built this structure a good five thousand years ago put a sense of perspective back into my muddled brain. It also means that soon there will be a good stretch in the evenings, as the saying goes.
Codex: First of all please let me know about your dad Stat.
ReplyDeleteNot the same but I'm still fatigued so I understand the frustration.
I'd cancel or delay it, but that's me.
Pic at the end. So funny.
Should have clarified that my father is dead, died in his sleep two years ago. Still very present though.
ReplyDeleteCodex: why the comment?
DeleteI'm guessing that is your beautiful river and hoping that your granny visit can be re-scheduled when your energy returns, as it will. Bless R. Bless you. Bless your daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter. Thank you so much for the reminder of the timeless wonder of Newgrange.
ReplyDeleteWell all of that sucks.
ReplyDeleteI am so sorry you may not make it right now to see your grandchild. That is the worst. But you CAN change dates, right?
I am thinking of you.
That all fucking sucks, even worse when you've been looking forward to it for so long. Sigh. I found something that might make you smile.
ReplyDeletehttps://www.thecuriouspancake.co.uk/collections/cards-for-people-who-hate-christmas?srsltid=AfmBOopkcJKXJn_WbeCKR-7BRymQoUinxvy1WmHs5Fz_e8fkoU5rbRn9
I hope you're feeling better soon. Happy belated Solstice:)
So sorry to hear of the current health problems. We celebrate this day the same way you do, not at all and yeah I highly recommend it too. I thought about bringing in a cedar branch, putting candles and fruit and nuts alongside but in the end, nope. Enough to know the longest night is over. It amazes me that we in this day marvel at the accomplishments of those thousands of years ago forgetting that they too were modern humans with skills we have forgotten with our labor machines.
ReplyDeleteSo I suppose your plan was/is to escape the winter for the South Seas and indulge the grandgirl. As you should. I'd hold out for the last possible moment to cancel/reschedule. I was/am fortunate to be a constant presence in my grandkids' and now great grandkids' lives.
Be well Sabine. I command it.
It's been ages, I know, and you were always one of my favourite correspondents. But deteriorating bad health with my nearest and dearest has stepped in and blogging has had to play second fiddle as I (now aged 90) laboriously attempt to meet the demands of intimate patient care. I won't elaborate because that's her story not mine.
ReplyDeleteAnd here you are, being stoic in that laconic way I've recognised since Day One of our exchanges. And it seems we're marching in step on one matter at least: that's lack of energy. Ah yes. Once I rock-climbed, then I ski-ed, then I regularly swam a mile twice a week. And now? I should, of course, be grateful that I've lasted this long, something that wouldn't have happened had we we remained in the carbon-monoxide-ridden atmosphere of Kingston-upon-Thames, in effect a London suburb. Oh those wheezy precursors. But there are things about very old age that arrive unexpectedly. Notably, an inability to bear stress at immeasurably small levels. One has staggered through the washing-up and finally reached the cutlery. A spoon drops and instead of picking it up one curses, futilely, tears only moments away. Never mind about terror in a grain of sand, the recumbent spoon signals a world that offers no comfort.
OK, away with moaning. Why might I have lasted so long? My explanation may well offer you comfort as I scrabble among the runes of your sharp writing style. We tend to see physical failings in terms of physical work. Which I shouldn't do despite the sports I've listed. Journalism is not, after all, a healthy life. But underlying journalism has been an urge to write, dating back to age 11 when I wrote my first short story. Funnily enough journalism is less about writing (with all its intellectual trappings) and more about asking sarky questions.
As the years passed the targets got bigger. Post National Service, which included time spent in Malaya,I sought to convert this abrupt, if brief, change of life style into a novel. But journalism held me tight. At 7 pm, I went upstairs, hammered out 2000 unconsidered words, and then went on to other things. America was different; but resulted in another equally threadbare MS. Eventually I retired from journalism (which I enjoyed) and I was free in the intervening 26 years to feed my urge. Four novels plus one now at 72,000 words, thirty short stories, about the same number of Shakespearean-format sonnets, the blog.
Am I any good? that's up to others. All I can say with some confidence is that my structural skills have improved. But here's the point, lengthily arrived at. Writing requires concentration, an interest in things other than oneself, fierce wrestling with that pythonestic creature known as language, and a special form of alertness. All exercises for the brain and who knows? Perhaps a prescription for longevity. Your blog suggests to me that your brain is regularly taken out for a trot. At the very least this should be a contemporary comfort but it may help in other ways despite chronic troubles. I'd end with an apophthegm in German but I'd probably misplace an umlaut and you'd be on me like a ton of bricks. Hope you make it to the other side of the world.
What a lovely surprise to get a comment from you after such a long time! Yes, we have to take our brains out for a trot regularly, you and your work and work ethic are proof of it. Thank you, keep it coming.
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