Feline frenzy

Kimara Silvana Sebastian is set to arrive in Melbourne at 5.30am this coming Saturday so today I have been involved in a feline frenzy in preparation for his arrival. He's travelling light, with just the clothes on his back, so I have to make sure that he has everything he needs for when he gets here.

First stop on the list was to buy some magical cat-getting-along potion. Feliway is a diffuser that releases a chemical that mimics a cat's facial pheromones, making them feel happy and relaxed. My vet is a big advocate for Feliway and we've used it with Pepper at various times in the past to great affect. I've plugged it in this afternoon so Peppy gets a good 48 hours relaxation time before little kit arrives.

Of course a hungry kitten also needs something to eat, and something to eat it out of:

Something to eat...

...and drink

Lastly, after a long cross-country flight, a little cat needs somewhere to curl up and sleep off the jet lag. Big brother Peppy has kindly donated one of the special beds he does not sleep in, and I bought a brand new blanket to cosy it up a little.

I've left it all in plain sight and Peppy has had a sniff around it all. I wouldn't be surprised if he now decides he does want to sleep in this deluxe heated bed after all. 

I'm fully aware as I write this that at this time, with only 3 weeks or so to go before Max's expected birth, I should be doing an entirely different sort of preparation. Nappies instead of kitty litter. Cots instead of lambswool clamshells. Though this kitten is not in any way in my mind a substitute for my son, or a consolation prize, as some would perhaps say, it is something for me to love and care every day, which I think I really need. I have felt so empty, not just because Max has died, but also because all of my plans for the foreseeable future died with him. Little kit, as I've been calling him, will be a new source of joy and laughter, and looking after him will bring a new sense of purpose to my days, at least initially. I can't wait to meet him and give him a cuddle. Safe flying little kit!

Introducing Kimara Silvana Sebastian

Introducing Kimara Silvana Sebastian - soon to be the newest member of our household!

Look at my beautiful face and my tiny little mouth!

This little guy is coming to us all the way from Kimara Russian Blues in Perth, Western Australia. He will get on a plane on Friday evening and be here for us to pick up at Tullamarine at 6am this coming Saturday morning - an intrepid traveller at such an early age!

I mentioned last week that I had sent off an enquiry to the breeder after talking to our vet who had recently bought a kitten from these guys, claiming that it is the "best cat in the world!" That's quite a recommendation from a feline specialist, so we thought if a Kimara kitten was good enough for Richard then it was good enough for us! Our little guy is the half-brother of Richard's kitten, sharing the same mother but a different father.

Lucy from Kimara emailed me back to say that they had just the kitten for us. This little fellow who was born on 29th November, just a few days after Max. That makes him even more special in my eyes. She says that he is extremely affectionate and playful. We made the final decision to get him last night after taking a family vote. Pepper dissented to start with, but on the third time we asked him he seemed to have no vocal objection, so we took that as a positive sign. 

We are not sure what to call our little bundle of kitten on a day-to-day basis yet. His pedigree name will always be Kimara Silvana Sebastian, but that's a bit of a mouthful to yell in the middle of the night when he's scratching at your face. In typical Leslie style, Leslie made a spreadsheet of potential name choices last night. He is favouring something Russian, but I think that's a little too obvious. I'm in favour of Theo or Felix or Ernest, Leslie wants something like Igor or Boris! We might settle for something in between and call him Mikhail - Mickey or Mikey for short. The best Russian boys name - Sacha - is already taken by my little poppet! 

Since I found out he was to be ours I've felt happier than I have in months - truly excited and hopeful. I am also worried about how he will adjust to his new home, and importantly, how Pepper will adjust to him. Richard has given us lots of tips on how to make the introduction go as smoothly as possible. Little kitty will stay in his own room for the first 48 hours so he and Peppy can get used to each other's smells. I'll also be investing in some Feliway, the magical cat happy hormone that has got Peppy through some of the other changes in his life, such as when we went to Europe for two months and moved into this house. After this, we will leave it to Peppy to show little Kit the ropes and ascertain who is boss!

Special thanks to the ATO whose income tax refund cheque will be paying for this little beauty's purchase price and flight over!

Here are some more pictures. I hope you'll agree he a pretty cute cat!

Kicking back on his executive leather lounge like
a true Russian mafia boss!

A profile-view of our little silver prince

1-Million-Kilo-Challenge Update

It's been a while since I've given an update on our 1-Million-Kilo-Challenge progress. To date, we have raised $3627, and we've reason to believe there's at least another couple of hundred dollars coming. Our initial goal was $1000, so to reach this four times over is truly astounding. I can't wait to send a letter to my obstetrician at The Royal Women's Hospital to tell her how much money we have raised for her programs in memory of Max.

I'd like to take a moment to express my sincerest gratitude to all of my family and friends who are either participating in the challenge with us, or have raised money amongst their own friends and networks for us. My dear cousin, Kristy, has been the most passionate participant of all. So far she has lost 10kg towards her goal of becoming fitter and healthier and almost every day she has contacted me to tell me what she has achieved that day and how much closer she is to her target. I've looked forward to those updates with a smile each and every time. She has three small children, including a newborn baby of her own, and I'd like her to know how immensely proud I am of what she has done, and what I know she will continue to do to improve her life in Max's honour. I know that she, and every one else in my family, are thinking of Max each and every day, and I feel so very happy that he is inspiring them to make changes in their lives, as he has also inspired me.

I have lost 2kg, which sounds terribly insufficient when you compare it with 10kg. When, in another life. I was a participant in Weight Watchers, though, the leader told me that it is usual for someone of my size to only lose up to 250 grams per week. It's hard to stay motivated when you're not really seeing any benefits and I think I have not been trying as hard as I could. But there are still five weeks left of the challenge and many other chances for me to achieve my goal. Leslie has lost a significant amount of weight already (I'm not sure of exactly how much) and is already getting comments on how much thinner he looks. He is very proud of the dent in his stomach where his gut used to be!

I'd really love to get our fundraising total to $4000, so please, if you can, remind your people that there's still time to donate! You can point them to this blog, and the widget on the left hand side of the page, or forward them our fundraising page. We are still the number one fundraising team!!

Taking cover from the storm

It's a beautiful, rainy, stormy day outside. After days of stinking late-summer heat, when the thunder and lightening came through last night it brought with it a sense of blissful relief. I was at work, and some of the girls were so excited to see the cool change that they ran outside and lay on the driveway so the rain could pelt them all over; so they could really feel it. It's an important decision to make: whether you shelter inside or confront the storm head on, and the right answer often depends on where you are placed when the storm hits - whether you have an umbrella or raincoat to give you some protection, or whether the rain's hitting so fast and hard that you're wasting your time and energy and might as well just stand drenched and let it wash over you until the storm has ended.

This is a question I am confronting each and every day, except the storm threatening to ravage me is grief. Most often since Max died I've been running around gathering equipment to help me weather it; creating shelters to provide some relief from its onslaught. I guess you could say I have been very active in 'storm management' techniques. I'm not one of those carefree people who run outside to embrace the chaos of the storm when it hits. I like my environment rather more calm and ordered - temperature controlled and adjustable when needed. I am overwhelmed by the feelings I have for Max, for his life and mine, and so I've been trying my best not to stifle them, but to mitigate them. Instead of sitting on the floor and crying all the time, I write this blog. I source him the best photo album I can find and spend a few days carefully putting it together. I write him poems. I read books about grief and loss, lots and lots of books. I research potential causes of his early birth. I write thank you letters to those who were there for us when our storm so unexpectedly hit. I photograph all of his things. I tend to his plants. There is plenty of grieving going on amongst these things - my days are rarely tear-free and every night as I try to go to sleep I replay over and over and over again the moments of his birth and death. This amount of pain is almost too much to bear. But I've recently found that there's even more that I'd been using these things to shut out, and when it began to seep through I completely collapsed under its weight. That is what happened last Saturday, when I wrote this post, and it happened again this Saturday. It's like I use up all my energy getting through the week and when I've nothing left to control its flow it comes in a deluge.

The worst part? Realising that the only way out of this grief is through. (Who said that? I thought it was Dr. Suess, but Google seems to think it was Robert Frost. Never mind). I cannot filter it, and I cannot decide when it will come and in what form, I cannot rush it, I cannot turn it into something 'positive', which I have an inkling is what I've been trying to do. Mel talked to me about this in our session on Friday and I knew she was right when she said that I had to stop trying so hard to make it stop, because as soon as I heard the words the big, fat tears of realisation hit. She told me that she thinks in being such an active manager of my grief I have been able to cope extremely well for someone of my usually fragile disposition. Everyone has been surprised how to a certain extent I've been able to pick myself up and carry on. The flip side of this is that the enormity of my feelings surrounding Max's death is still to come. Mel thinks that it's no surprise that it's coming now that I have run out of things to do for him and  as his due date approaches and I have to realise that he's gone forever, never to be cradled again in my arms.

Whether it is real or imagined, I feel a great pressure to be OK, when in truth I want permission to not be OK for a while. Holding it together means I don't have to feel guilty for making my friends and family worry about me. It means that Leslie does not have to put his own pain aside to look after me. It means I can continue to go to work and feel like I am not wasting day after day of my life. It means that I can keep earning money and feel like I am contributing my fair share. It means I can get up and go out to breakfast with Kate on the weekends or talk to my Anika on the phone as we used to, about the random things that punctuate our days. But it means I'm exhausted and that at the slightest scratch on the surface the real state of things comes through despite all this. If I'm honest, what I really want is someone to tell me I can take a rest and recuperate like an ailing convalescent. I want to stay in my pyjamas and have people bring me food and blankets and cuddles. I want to cry without trying to stop the tears so that I don't look frightful before I have to go and supervise after school shenanigans at the boarding house. I want space and time, but I feel that I don't deserve, or can't have, either. Melanie has tried to give me that permission. Her treatment plan consists not of prescribing more medication to numb my pain but to advise me to stay at home, or walk around cemeteries and cry and cry and cry as much as I can. To stay home when I don't feel up to going to work. To cancel outings when I don't feel like going. To watch TV all day even when the sun is shining outside and I feel like I should do 'something'. It's certainly not my preferred prescription but I know it to be the right one.

I am very scared to sit out in the storm because I do not know what form it will take - heavy rains, biting winds, stinging hail - and I do not know when or if it will end. I could be out there for months; for years. I do not yet know the depths of my feelings for my baby as they are feelings I've never had before. They are the feelings of a loving mother, of a bereft widow, a shell-shocked victim and a terrified child all at once. I feel that I am all of these things; as if I'm wearing a patchwork coat with a square from the body of each of these people. I feel like I have not accepted that my grief is unlikely ever to end, but that it might one day be accompanied by nicer feelings of joy and excitement and gratitude for other things that my life will bring. I don't want it to be that way, but today, as the weather is dark and wet and contemplative, I sit on the couch with a cup of tea and imagine what it will mean for me to own this grief for a good reason. Because it comes from my never-ending love for Max I have to try and find a way to make room for it and to care for it as I would for him. This week I will try to be kinder to myself and try not to be afraid to ask for the kindness I need from others.

I am remembering Max today as he was three months and two days ago: in my arms; not yet cold to the touch; deep inside his dream world. I am remembering his adorable little mouth, his tiny gums, his soft, soft skin, his kissable hands and feet and his perfect little ears that I spent so long running my fingers over and around. I had only one long moment to drink my child in and commit to memory every molecule of his being. It was a tough ask. If you only had one moment left with your child do you think you could adequately gather all of who they were so as it would never disappear? It's an impossible task, especially when you're in shock and distress and have no appreciation of what is really happening. Today I have given myself permission to cry over all of the things I have forgotten - his chin, I don't remember his chin. I don't remember what his little bare head looked like before the midwives put his hat on. I don't remember his delicate wrists or ankles. I don't think I looked at his cute little bum. I wish I'd put a little nappy on him like I would have done if he'd been mine to keep. I should have filmed a video, played him a song, read him a story. I should have brought him home to sleep before his funeral.   If you were to analyse my tears today they'd be filled of amazement, guilt, joy, fear, love and regret. They'd be filled with Max and everything he was to me. My little, my only, son.

Things-I-Love-Thursday: 30 Rock

I don't just love 30 Rock on Thursdays, I love it every day! The only problem is that there is not a new episode every day, no matter how often I check!

I first heard of 30 Rock when an old boss of mine used to come into work after he'd watched it late at night every week and tell me that I reminded him so much of Liz Lemon, the main character. I didn't ever think much of this, as I wasn't into watching TV at the time, but a couple of years later when I finally got around to watching a couple of episodes I suddenly knew exactly what he meant. So will you if you've watched it...

Liz Lemon, played by the woman who is now my hero, Tina Fey, is a calamitous, geeky television writer for whom everything always goes wrong. That's over simplifying the premise of the show, but really, you just have to watch it. As I keep telling Kate, 30 Rock is the absolute cleverest, funniest, wittiest show you will ever have the pleasure of watching.

Here is a preview of some of Liz Lemon's finest moments!

 

And some of Jack's!



No matter how low I am feeling, I cannot help but laugh out loud at 30 Rock. It is my absolute favourite TV show of all time and no matter how many times you watch an episode, there's always some fast joke you missed that you get the next time round!

Max's name in the sand

A little while ago I requested for Max's name to be written in the sand at Christian's Beach. Since 2008, a woman called Carly Marie has written over 14,500 names in the sand to recognise children who have died, and whose families have few memories of them to treasure. She began to do so after her little boy, Christian, was stillborn.

The beach where Carly Marie photographs the beautiful Western Australian sunsets is in Mullaloo, just north of Perth.

You can read more about her, and find lots of resources for people whose babies have died, here. I think you'll agree she is a very generous and special person to bring people from all over the world a little bit of comfort.

For now, I'd like to show you Max's special photo in the sand. Carly Marie does not charge to write a child's name in the sand, but asks that if you would like a copy of the photo you purchase one for $25 from the website, which I have just done. I will then have a digital file of the photo and can reproduce copies for anyone who would like one.

Here is Max's photo and online tribute:

http://namesinthesand.blogspot.com.au/2012/02/maxwell-alexander-pogson-moran.html

A compromise

I was not able to go to work today. The last few days have been so hard on me that I find myself almost unable to even make the trip to another room of the house. I'm heavy, sore and wishing it were another season entirely since the only thing I feel capable of doing is resting under a blanket on the couch. As the sun has come out shining this afternoon this has kind of spoiled my plans.

I desperately did not feel like going for a walk, though I know I had to. I am really concerned with being able to say that I am trying my absolute best at the moment, and that if I fall, I have done everything I can to prevent it. I don't want anyone to think that I am weak or that I have given up. I have never battled so hard against myself in my entire life. So, instead of just not going for a walk, I made a compromise with my morbid brain. I would go for a walk so long as I walked around the cemetery near here.

That might sound weird, but I don't see why it has to be. Cemeteries are public spaces like any other, and in fact that are very interesting public places as they are full of stories. When you are a very sensitive person like me you can pick up on the moods and feelings of a place and, if you know how to listen, they tell you things.

I'll admit that my reason for wanting to go was to look for children's graves. Ok, maybe that is a bit problematic, but surely not that unusual? I certainly wasn't the only one there. There were a few people even kissing their loved one's graves. I only found one grave of a baby, though - a little girl I felt sad for as her little grave was surrounded by these huge, imposing mausoleums housing really old people whose stories probably bored her to tears and made her wish there really was still a limbo where she could at least be surrounded by people her own age.

Most of the graves from the past century were of Greek or Eastern European people who had died in very old age. They mostly all had photos of the deceased and were definitely intended to be a physical display of how much the person was loved and respected. I wanted to take some photos of the more elaborate ones, but it felt a bit inappropriate when there were other people around. Hell, maybe it is inappropriate all the time, but I would have done it anyway if I were the only one there!

I got the unavoidable impression that bigger was better, and this kind of disturbed me as I know how much those big lumps of carved stone cost. How much of that money could have gone towards researching cures for the things that killed those people?

I know that many cultures grieve differently, though. I don't really know how we Australians do it, I only know what I have observed over the last couple of months as I've been thinking of it. It seems that we are much more comfortable with cremation for one thing. Perhaps we are comforted by keeping the remains of our loved one's nearby, or scattered in a place we know they loved. I don't think we are big on ritual. We don't want to go and sit in a cemetery for hours every weekend to remember our loved one, and I think that we are move private in our grieving than at any other time in our history.

As a scholar of nineteenth century literature and history, I know quite a bit about the mourning practices of the Victorians, and for them mourning was a very public event. This had a lot to do with the fact that Queen Victoria mourned so visibly and for so long after the death of her husband. Her constituents, especially those from the upper classes, began to ascribe to very distinct rules about what clothes you could wear and for how long you had to wear them, for example. Certain colours and fabrics came to represent how much time had elapsed since the death - you can read a little summary of these customs here or here. Mourning portraits and mourning jewellery were also very popular.

This practice of wearing special jewellery is perhaps one of the few to survive into our age - there are now quite a few companies that specialise in the manufacture of lockets which can hold a portion of cremation ashes as well as a photo keepsake. I have been thinking of having one made for myself.

Though I would not wish to be marked entirely by my bereavement, and to have my choice of expression limited to what social conventions dictate, I have spent a lot of time thinking about how invisible I feel because there is no outward way to mark what I have experienced. I almost feel like I need a battle scar.

In the days immediately after Max's birth and death I was a woman who had just had a baby, except I had no evidence of that baby when I went down the street like all the other new mothers I saw did. I desperately wanted people to know and acknowledge that I was also a mother. This was horrible. I wanted everyone to know. I still do. I sometimes wished there was a sign that I could wear around my neck so that people would ask me about my little boy and want to talk about him, or so that they might tread more carefully when they saw me coming. Would impatient drivers still have honked me at the traffic lights when I took too long to cross if I was kitted out on mourning garb? Well, maybe they would if they were bastards, but if they were ordinary people who just didn't know any better maybe they'd have been more understanding.

I don't find thinking about death in these ways to be morbid or distressing. I am actually far more comfortable talking about death at the moment than I am talking about the petty concerns of the living. I've now seen it and touched it, and a result I have rid myself of much of its fear and mystery.

Max's story

Not long after Max died I sat down and wrote his story. It was intended for Leslie, as a special Christmas present, but it turned out it was for me, too. We don't have many memories of Max, so the things I have been able to do in his honour since he was born have been really meaningful in helping me forge a connection with him, even in his absence.

It was very hard to write. Everything felt so raw. But this makes it a more beautiful read, I think. I can see that the beauty of his story came from my pain, as does everything I have written or achieved since then.

As I didn't have the time, energy or resources to turn it into an actual book at that stage, I decided to make it a photo book, like what you make on the internet these days instead of compiling actual photo albums.

I cried a lot whilst I was making it, and as I was hiding it from Leslie, this became rather difficult to pull off.

Still, though, I finished, and everyone I've showed it to has agreed that it is indeed the story of a very special little boy. As I'm not super skilled with those photo sites it doesn't look as good as I would have liked, but I do intend to have his story published professionally at some stage.

For now, here is what the book looks like, and I've now included the story as part of this blog, under Max's Story, which I would love to share with you.

Max's story, by his loving Mummy. 

Some sample pages of the book.

Kittens? Why, of course!

What do you do when you're in need of a reminder that there are still some good things in the world worth hanging around for? If you're me, you think immediately of kittens.

How can you cry when you are looking at these little treasures? 

Anyone who is anyone knows that a house with only one feline is a very sad house. Things that come in multiples are always better, like vodkas, paycheques, best friends, and orgasms. 

I have wanted to get another cat for a very long time, but have always resisted out of fear that Peppy would feel slighted or unloved, or that he might leave home in protest. Now that we have our own house, though, we are at least not limited by things such as having to hide all evidence of the presence of companion animals from spying real estate agents and nosy neighbours. 

I have often brought up the subject with Pepper's vet - the amazing Dr Richard Gowan from The Cat Clinic. He is always in favour of multiple cats. I emailed him this morning saying that whilst I had often expressed interest in another cat, this time I meant it, and could he please give me his honest opinion on whether it would be a good idea in our situation. He said, and I quote, "getting another cat is always a good idea, just some are more successful than others." This is difficult for me to interpret. He said that he thinks Peppy would go OK, but that of course he could never be 100% sure. 

Why is there never such thing as certainty? I am finding this intensely problematic in all areas of my life. 

Dr Richard has long recommended as a companion for Peppy a Russian Blue cat, like the ones in the picture. They certainly are stunning to look at, but apparently they are also amazingly loyal, easy going and happy-go-lucky cats that would be unlikely to cause any confrontational issues with other feline residents. Richard recommended a cattery in Perth, where he obtained one of his four or five (!) cats. They are called Kimara and I've just emailed them for more information about their little beauties.

Leslie is quite in favour of filling the house with felines. For someone that was not a huge cat fan when we first met, he has come a long way.

Whilst I am at home with not a lot going on, it may be the perfect time to look after a little kitten. But of course we must discuss it with Peppy first. We've tentatively mentioned it a few times and he hasn't outrightly said no, so there's hope that he will come around to the idea.

All in favour of the new kitten idea, please record your 'aye' in the comments section below, and be assured that this is not a 'fly by night' idea hatched from within the depths of a depressive episode, but even if it was, that might still not be a bad idea. Melanie once told me that she once saved a patient's life by prescribing for him a dog, which got him out of his house every day and gave him a reason for living which he did not previously have. You can't argue with that. Now, I just have to look up the Medicare website to see if you can claim the cost back of a prescription animal. . .

Falling

This last week I have fallen and I am not sure I have the will or the way to get back up. As always, it has come as a shock to me. 'But I've been trying so hard,' has been my repeated refrain throughout hours and hours of heaving sobs; the kind that come from some unimaginable deep place that I never before knew existed. And I have. I've never tried so hard to endure in all my life.  I've walked, exercised, supplemented my diet with expensive vitamins, I've meditated, read books, joined support groups, dutifully attended weekly meetings with my psychiatrist, I've gotten daily doses of sunlight, I've raised money for research into premature birth, I've cross-stitched, knitted and taken up gardening as therapy, and for the first time ever I've been truly kind to myself, washing my tears away with warm showers and fresh air and the company of good friends. I've done all of these things for two months, three weeks and three days, which seems like the longest time. On the one hand I know that it is a very long time to have been treading water like I have, trying desperately not to drown. On the other is the dawning realisation that this is just the beginning. That I must live with this pain not only for a finite period, but forever.

As the days have passed by I think I've been counting them down like days in a school term, you know, when you're so tired that the only way you can get through another week is to say to yourself "Fifteen more days...I just have to get through fifteen more days" and then I get a break. Except I'm beginning to realise that I am not going to get a break; that I must keep going in the absence of any conceivable reprieve or end to my suffering. I can't bear it. I simply can no longer bear it.

I'm exhausted in a way I can guarantee not many of you have experienced, in a way that sleep cannot restore. I survived attending my baby's funeral but to go to work, as I have had to do the last few weeks, has taken from me any emotional reserves I had left. My work used to be a place I liked. The people I work with used to bring me out of myself and I'd always leave in a better mood than I'd arrived. Now, it is all I can do to get through a shift without running outside to my car and driving off, leaving 50 teenage girls to fend for themselves in the nasty wilds of Toorak (sarcasm is the only kind of humour the depressed have left). I don’t know how much this return to responsibility has affected the way I am coping, but it seems to have had at least some impact. I don’t have the patience I need to deal with the hundreds of things that require my attention in such a job, and I am certainly losing my tolerance for the kinds of problems that are considered ‘urgent’ and ‘important’, when sometimes I want to say to those parents can’t you just be happy that your child is alive?

 I had a particularly unhelpful meeting with HR on Thursday, which really took all the reserves of energy and patience I had, and it is from this event that the next few days took their depressive cue. I’d asked for clarification of the parental leave policy, whose clauses were unclear as to whether someone in my situation should be eligible for it. Instead of a response in writing, which is what I expected, I was asked to attend a meeting at the school to discuss it. This turned out to not be so much of a discussion as a circus. The HR representative could not have bamboozled me more if she tried. How she’s been permitted to remain in her job despite having absolutely no communication skills was in itself a baffling enough question for me to consider. She went around and around and around in her explanations, and when I asked for further clarification, revealed herself to be one of those people that thinks you just need to speak louder and throw yourself around a bit more when someone doesn’t know what you’re talking about, which I found both offensive and confronting. In short, she gave me a lot of reasons why I did not get the leave, without actually that my eligibility was one of them. I’ve send the policy to a very experienced workplace lawyer friend of mine in the hope that she can give me some clarity.

My frustration with this situation has gone beyond whether or not I was eligible for the leave and/or payment and instead to questions of just why so many people are such fucking wastes of space on the planet, a planet that apparently did not have room for my little innocent son. Every time I meet someone who has nothing to add to society, or no ability to empathise or care for others, I feel personally affronted that they are breathing and Max is not. As previous empirical studies have revealed that there are more fuck faces in the world than there are non-fuck faces, this happens all the time. Every where you go. This is yet another problem that I have no way of fixing, or of even alleviating, except to stay indoors, and even then they’re on the TV and the radio, and they’re especially all over the internet. I’ve removed myself from Facebook in an attempt to get some peace and quiet from the din of the masses. I feel this can only be a good thing as I need all the energy I can muster to focus on me right now, and I can’t risk having it leached away by people I don’t even care for, but whose life sagas nonetheless fall onto my screen every hour of every day.

What else can I do? I wish I knew. My only wish is that the world stop for a while and let me take a breather. Its constancy is distressing, its expectations of me are so high that I’ve no chance of meeting them, which makes me feel that I am worthless and broken. Tonight I’ve laid on my bed and cried until I was just numb, with only a vacant expression left on my face. ‘I need someone to help me’ is all I can say, over and over again. But help me with what? I don’t even know where to begin.

All the while poor Leslie looks at me from underneath his poor, furrowed eyebrows. He’s not well himself, and here I am asking him for help when he’s least able to provide it. He does not want to watch me suffer so but he does not know what to do. He decides to call my psychiatrist or to take me to the hospital. I protest about the first, but not for long, as I definitely don’t want to take the second option. Hours waiting in an emergency ward for mental health help you’re not likely to get would only have made things worst.

My psychiatrist has given me her private number just for times like this, but I still felt so guilty calling her, like I wasn’t sick enough, or I was making it up. I always think those things, but luckily Leslie does not. He spoke to Mel and got some initial advice - which was to put me out of my misery with an Ativan and reassess things tomorrow. I ended up sleeping like the dead for almost twelve hours. Mel rang me today and we discussed increasing my medication again for a little while, to give me some extra support. If I still feel like this over the next couple of days I will go to see her early this week and see what other things she can do to help me. I don’t know what I would do without this monitoring and support. She is truly a lifesaver.

Despite feeling like it was the worst idea on earth, I let Leslie talk me into going for a walk this morning, as is part of my prescription for wellness. I can’t say it made me feel any better, but it did not make me feel worse, so I guess it was worth the effort. We treated ourselves to breakfast at Miss Marie and just enjoyed spending some time together, or rather, looking at each other, as it was so busy and noisy there that we couldn’t hear a thing. Mel told me I should stay home from work, but I feel compelled to go, out of guilt as much as anything. I’ll see how I go, and if I’m ruined tomorrow as I have been after the last few shifts, I’ll re-assess then.

 Here’s hoping for a better week, huh?

Things-I-Love-Thursday: The New Yorker

I have to say, I've found it very hard to think of the things I love today as I'm feeling very upset, helpless, and more than a bit angry. Still, I made a promise that I would try to find something each Thursday, no matter how small, so here goes. 

I love my subscription to The New Yorker that arrives in my mail box with sometimes alarming regularity - often before I've finished reading the previous issue!

I subscribed not long after I got pregnant with Max at a time when I was feeling very depressed and had a lot of time on my hands. I was so depressed that I did not even have the energy to read a novel, which is pretty much the main thing I like to do with my spare time, so that started to become rather problematic! When I could get no pleasure from going to Readings to browse around was when everyone realised I was not doing so well!

So, when I could not read novels, I was looking for things to read that were a little more bite sized, but that I wouldn't be embarrassed to read in cafes. General magazines aren't really my thing. I hate celebrity gossip and don't have a lot of tolerance for the usual 'women's interest' titles. My previous magazine staple, Frankie, was also proving disappointing. I think, perhaps, I outgrew its demographic over the last year as what I used to love about it started to really irk me.

The New Yorker was a wonderful cure for all of these things. It strikes the exact right balance between scholarly and general interest, the literary and the political, and fiction and non-fiction pieces. It also has  poems as well as very witty cartoons. Sometimes they are so clever and witty that I don't even get them, but I continue to laugh anyway! Is there anything more you could ask for in a publication? I think not!

The only possible downside to subscribing to The New Yorker is that it is very disappointing when you put it down and are forced to realise that you are in Heidelberg Heights instead of downtown Manhattan, and that you have no real chance of attending the opening of Death of a Salesman playing on West 47th Street.

Some of the many things I love about the The New Yorker are:

The front covers
Every week you get a thrilling surprise when you first lay your eyes on the front of the issue and rush to figure out what this issue's cover image is responding to. This one, from the issue just after Steve Jobs' death, is one of my favourites!

Goings on About Town
I especially love the section 'Goings on About Town', precisely because it lets me, for a few pages, fantasise that I am in the big apple with nothing else to do except attend wonderful theatre openings and serious concerts at Carnegie Hall.

The cartoon caption contest
None of the captions I think of could possibly rival some the clever ones that win, but a girl can dream, can't she?

In short, The New Yorker is wonderful in so many ways, and it is most certainly a thing I love, especially because subscription prices are also very good value, with weekly delivery of your own piece of NewYork City for only $120 a year!

Growing and enduring

My commitment to gardening stepped up a notch this weekend when I attended a gardening workshop run by the Moonee Valley City Council. There's this thing called the Smart Gardening Program that Kate told me about. It teaches residents how to grow their own food and embrace the principles of permaculture, which sounds fancy, but really just means gardening that works with the environment instead of against it by growing the right plans in the right environment at the right time of year in order to reduce water usage, improve the soil, and make your garden more productive for less work. That all sounded good to me! We had to drive all the way to Seabrook for the occasion, which is pretty much in the opposite direction to anywhere you want to go.

We knew we'd reached a part of town where they do things differently when upon arrival in the carpark of the Seabrook Community Centre the first thing we saw was this sign:

We were very relieved when other workshop participants heeded the sign and brought their annoying children inside, where they proceeded to eat all of the tiny teddies that were supposed to be shared amongst the entire group. I'll refrain from saying anything more about that.

Instead, what made the trip worth it, was that I won the lucky door prize! It was a very handy set of gardening tools that were just my size!

To date, I haven't really been that interested in growing vegetables, apart from the odd cherry tomato plant and herbs that I've tried (and failed) to keep alive over the years. The guy that ran the seminar (from Very Edible Gardens) made it sound like an excellent idea, though, so I immediately determined that I wanted to design and grow my very own edible oasis. Or, rather, because I'm lazy and don't really trust my soil identification skills, I want him to come and implement one for me so I can just enjoy looking at it and tending to my rapid, abundant harvest. I want my garden to look as spectacular as some of the examples he showed us, but when I got home and priced his services on the internet, I realised that I can't afford to employ him and will probably have to resort to growing tomatoes and various tea-making herbs in a pot again. Sigh. If you had the spare money, though, I think it would be well worth getting these guys in!

Kate and I breakfasted in Yarraville beforehand, which is far out of usual zone, but it was very pleasant at Wee Jeanie's and not too overcrowded even though there was some kind of yippee festival going on (yippees are apparently what Mark calls rich hippies - hybrid creatures that are part yuppy, part hippy). At the yippee festival, however, I saw for the second time that week, a woman with my pram, except that hers had an actual baby in it and mine very obviously does not. Those little things really get to me and jolt unexpectedly right through my heart.

At breakfast, neither Kate nor I had our 3000 words to show, which should not have been that surprising as we both suck at sticking to things that are hard, even though they are often the things we want to do/achieve most of all. Kate was on the verge of giving up, having had a rough week where she'd fallen off the bandwagon of many of her newly-implemented good habits, such as rising at the same hour each day (very good for sleep hygiene) and riding her exercise bike, both of which had begun to make her feel happier and more energised. 

Kate and I are very similar in the way that we both have grand imaginations and can picture in every detail how we want our lives to be, except that reality very rarely matches those images. We are also both notoriously black and white thinkers and not fans of this thing people call moderation. Thereby, when we don't immediately reach our goals or encounter a problem, we tend to give up and walk away at the first warning that failure might be a possibility. As a result, we alternate between being gloriously happy and excited about the dawning of new endeavours and depressed, hopeless and irritable when we give up despite our best initial intentions. 

If our usual practice prevailed, that would be the end of our novels. But I've learned over the last couple of months the value of a quality called persistence - the practice of picking yourself up after a fall and setting about trying again. It's a quality you see all the time in young children, but one we (and probably lots of other people) seem to have lost as adults. I am a trained primary school teacher and in classrooms and in the playground you can learn a lot about how children persist in all manner of activities without even giving it a second thought. They expect failure, not mastery, when they try something for the first time, so it's not a big deal when they don't get things right. They just try to do it better next time. What a novel concept, huh?! Somewhere along the way we have developed the perception that we need to succeed the first time, no matter how daunting the undertaking we set ourselves. 

From the day Max died I have had to learn to persist whether I've liked it or not. If I did not have some inner belief that I would feel better, or cope more easily the next day then I would not be able to put one  foot in front of the other to get through the last two months, two weeks and five days as I have. I would not have survived. I am enduring only because I realised that I don't have to be OK all the time, or any of the time. I don't have to get over this and I don't have to feel miraculously better. All I have to do is keep going, no matter how small the steps. 

That is what I said to Kate - you must persist! Except I made her cry! She said it was because she didn't like how ugly the word 'persist'  is, but I think it's because she's been feeling as fed up with the world and her place in it as I have. But Kate, when you're happy, I'm happy, so that's a good enough reason to try again, right?! The truth is that I've got no motivation to try and make things better if Kate gives up, so everyone who is reading this blog (all 2.3 of you) have got a vested interest in helping Kate achieve her goals and take action on her plans! 

You can begin by keeping your eye out for her burgeoning greeting card business on Etsy (details soon!) You will be able to stock up on clever cards and gather wit for all conceivable occasions for the rest of 2012 or for the rest of your life if you're into making advance orders!

Now, what, you maybe asking, am I doing this week to help myself keep trying? Well, three things, actually.

1. Walking for a little bit further each day. Today I went for a walk around the tan and kept going despite the fact that less than 500 metres in I realised I was the ugliest and whitest person on the circuit and that I was the only one wearing normal trackpants and not fancy lycra workout gear that wicks away sweat and soothes your muscles. Those things in themselves would be enough to send even a mildly self-conscious person power walking to the nearest botanical sculpture for camouflage. Far more affronting to my sensitive heart was the number of yummy mummies jogging around the track behind designer prams holding gorgeous sleeping babies (and I don't mean in the eternally sleeping kind of way). I walk the last half of the track with tears streaming down my face, but I made it to the end and felt like I'd achieved something positive despite the emotional breakdown I afterwards suffered on Domain Road. I thinking of going back, too, and doing this walk on Monday and Wednesday mornings after work, but next time I may borrow some blinkers from some of my horse friends to make the view a little easier to bear.


2. This week I will also finish revamping my website. I want to start building up my freelance work again as it's been a rough start to the year at my part time job and I've had fantasies of getting the hell out of there for good.


3. I will keep writing. Even if I only write 500 words a week instead of 3000. Remember the story of the hare and the tortoise? Yeah, that!

In short, giving up is not an option! For this week at least...

When the day does not go your way, take heart

If the only thing you did today was breathe, you're off to a good start. Forget the deadlines you missed, the phone calls you didn't make, the chapter of your novel you didn't write, or the walk that was forgotten. Just breathe, and if you practice enough, the rest will begin to take care of itself.

I've been using mindfulness meditation as a way of managing my depression and anxiety over the last couple of years. Since Max died, it's become an even more important tool to help me get through each day when each day feels like a battle I have no hope of winning. I've mentioned mindfulness a few times lately, and I thought I should take some time to explain what this is, and how it really helps you to learn to manage unhelpful thoughts and horrible feelings.

If you've read any self-help books, or your work has made you go on stress-relief retreats to learn how to calm the fuck down, you've probably heard that one of the key ways to do so is to alter your breathing - to breathe deeply and rhythmically, whilst possibly muttering some inane positive affirmations to yourself at the same time.

Mindfulness meditation is not this.

Thank god. Otherwise, I would definitely not have been able to stick with it for as long as I have.

Mindfulness is meditation for the chronically lazy. You don't have to actively work to change your breathing; to calm yourself down. In fact you do quite the opposite. You do nothing except notice your breath. The idea is for your breath to become the object of your most careful attention and to draw your mind away from the anxious restless, fearful or discomforting thoughts it might be having. Whenever your mind wanders, your aim is always to return your focus to your breath; to observe the variety of sensations it causes in your body, and to learn to sit with them, whether they are painful, uncomfortable, scary, or reassuring.

This sounds, on initial hearing, either pretty damn easy, or pretty damn bullshit, depending on how open minded or experienced you are in meditative practices. When my psychologist first started using these techniques with me years ago I used to spend 75% of the session when I was supposed to be listening to her guide the meditation thinking this is an absolute load of garbage.

"I can't believe every hour of this is costing me over 100 bucks..." - I so clearly remember being bitter that my time and money were being wasted on what seemed to be a useless practice. In the beginning, I was so unaware of my breathing that my psychologist had to take some remedial measures. I was not a switched on student. So, I was made to lie on the floor with a tissue box on my abdomen for session after session. The tissue box would rise and fall with each breath and help me to notice my breath. About all I noticed for a long time was how much of an idiot I felt.

Though I believed that my psychologist believed it would work, I thought I had every piece of evidence to the contrary that it would work for me. I'd always found it impossible to quieten my mind, which is why I'd never enjoyed or succeeded at yoga. Meditation was never something I pictured myself doing willingly.

But then, slowly, and over a period of months, it did begin to work. In fact, I eventually got so good at it that my psychologist sacked me because I didn't need her to guide me through it anymore - I could do it All. By. My. Self. No one was more surprised than I was...

It worked when I finally realised that the practice did not require of me the emptying of my mind, and that instead, the distractions I would often feel are in fact an inevitable part of the practice, and not signs of my meditative failure! When those intrusive thoughts, feelings, or sensations pop up, it is your job only to acknowledge and accept them, refrain from judging them as 'good' or 'bad', and to give them the space to come and go without molestation (i.e. you adding lots of baggage to them). The key to this whole thing is not to get involved with those thoughts and feelings. You don't follow them or build on them or listen to them. You just watch them, and in doing so you learn to exist more fully in the present moment.

The present moment is your best friend. Haven't you noticed that most of your bad feelings and upsetting emotions are tied to things that happened in the past, or that you fear will happen/will not happen in the future? If you can train your mind to stay in the present moment, I can tell you with great assuredness that most certainly experience more calm and less distress. But it's not easy. The more you practice mindfulness, the more aware you initially become of just how many messages your brain is sending to you every minute of every day. You start to realise it's no wonder you feel tense or down or constantly tired. Thoughts constantly intrude on us, and the truth is that only a handful of them are ever actually relevant or helpful at any given moment. Mindfulness is about screening out the din and creating for you some peace and quiet.

Do I sound like an evangelist? You betcha I do. I'm a terrible skeptic, usually, but this shit just works! It takes time and an annoying amount of practice, but it works! I know that people have also said that very same thing about chiropractors and homeopathy, but even actual doctors, and psychologists, and psychiatrists (i.e. people who require scientific evidence to prove things before they believe in them) believe in mindfulness therapy, and often use it in conjunction with CBT (cognitive behaviour therapy) or ACT (acceptance & commitment therapy). My psychiatrist currently has me ramping up my current practice, and whilst I'm always initially reluctant to engage with it (because it's hard and often boring), I once again soon find myself feeling better as a result, and I have to sign and hang my head in resignation and let her say 'I told you so'.

I've probably explained this all topsy turvy-like, as it is a difficult concept to explain to the uninitiated, but just remember one thing: mindfulness works, mmkay? Sometimes all you can do is breathe when the world gets too noisy and affronting, but that's OK. In fact, it's the very most important thing.

You could read this book if you're interested in finding out how to live more meaningfully in the present. It's a good start.

Mindfulness is hard work!

This reminds me of my mindfulness practice! It's hard work learning to live with unpleasant thoughts and feelings. Cookies are a necessary evil!

Things-I-Love-Thursday: Inaugural edition

As I mentioned in a previous post, Thursday is the arse-hat when it comes to days of the week. Thursdays are the day that my pregnancy with Max ticked over to the next 'week' and when Leslie would excitedly read me the latest baby update from his iPhone app.

As a way to make Thursdays suck just a little bit less, I've decided to implement a 'Things-I-Love-Thursday' segment on this blog - you guessed it, every THURSDAY! In it, I will post a picture or link or something (probably stupid) that I love and that gives me pleasure, even if it's just for 15 seconds a day, which is about as long as all of my happiest moods last these days. In case you are confused about the purpose of this blog, I am sorry to tell you that none of these things that give me pleasure will be sexual. At least until I start feeling loads better.

If you would like to participate in 'Things-I-Love-Thursday' by sharing some of the things that you love on Jupiter's day of the week, then I am happy to feature you and your thing on a guest post. Isn't that exciting? You could even write that you love 'Things-I-Love-Thursday' on your  'Things-I-Love-Thursday' post! That would be very cleverly meta!

In this inaugural post, I would like to draw your attention to something in my kitchen (the most domestic of spaces) that I love. In fact it is three things, as I tend to like things that come in a series.

THREE LITTLE LADIES WITH VARIED EXPRESSIONS

In case it is not immediately obvious to you, these little ladies are Japanese tea canisters which sit on my window-sill and cheer up my kitchen. The one on the left who has sleeping eyes and an open mouth looks after the decaf tea (see, she hasn't had any caffeine as therefore goes to sleep easily and peacefully! The one in the middle whose eyes are open but who looks pretty shitty with the world holds my favourite Twinings English Breakfast tea. She's awake because she likes to have a lot of caffeine, and she has a crabby expression because people keep telling her that caffeine is BAD. The one on the right has a decidedly more Asian expression* so she looks after the green tea, which I hardly ever drink as it also has caffeine but as well as this generally tastes Very Bad. I really just have it for show.

In case you are right now so jealous that you want to kill me in my sleep, I shall reveal to you that I bought these ceramic ladies at T2, and that furthermore, I got them on sale, as even though I love them, I probably would not have paid $90 for their collective ceramic little arses.

They make me happy because they are so different from the pedestrian canisters that hold all of my other household staples like pasta and flour. I don't really need a reason to want more tea, as I want it all of the time really, but they do add a little pizazz to the ritual. They also serve to make the neighbours jealous because they sit on the window-sill that people walk past all the time and make them think we are Very Interesting People who have probably Travelled to the Orient.

So there it is. Three little ladies with varied expressions; let's call them Momoko, Ivy and Therese. 

* I hope that doesn't sound racist...except that I know it does, but that was not my intention!

34 Weeks

Thursday has come around once more, as Thursdays seem to do, but I'm not feeling too bad today. I'm not sure if this has anything to do with the fact that the sun is out, which I always find encouraging, or whether because the last few days have felt so bad that this one can only feel better in comparison.

Today I would have been 34 weeks pregnant. I didn't really read any pregnancy books whilst I was in fact pregnant, but my friend did give me Kaz Cooke's Up the Duff, which is supposed to be the definitive guide to gestating for modern mums, even though I found it poorly written and the weekly 'diary' sections more than faintly nauseating. Her main character is called Hermoine for god's sake. Whatever I feel about its style, though, it has just the same information as any other pregnancy manual I've seen/heard of, which is this if you are 34 weeks:

"From now on your baby will hog all available space and squash up anything silly enough to get in the way, like your lungs. If you do get breathless, sitting or standing up straight will help. So will taking it easy."

[...]

"Your body is starting to put the finishing touches to the baby: it's the finishing-school stage. From now on your bub is pretty busy practicing sucking, breathing, blinking, turning the head, grabbing things (such as its other hand) and stretching out the legs - but there's not quite enough room to actually do that. Hence the jarring kicks you may feel. The baby's skin is becoming smoother and less translucent - more like the final skin colour. Weight: about 2.3 kilos."

I was interested to read about the change in skin colour. One of the things I did not expect when Max was born, and which initially frightened me, was that he was really red/dark skinned. I actually thought at the time that this discolouration was bruising because of how fragile he was, but I only found out later that a baby's skin actually always looks like that before their bodies have had time to develop the vernix, which protects and nourishes their skin. Apparently most pre-term infants will not have any. There's another fact that I thought I would never have to know.

It's not until 34 weeks in Kaz Cooke's bible that she talks about the signs of early labour, so even if I had been doing the suggested reading absolutely none of it would have been helpful in the least anyway. Under the section called 'when to go to hospital' it does not say 'when you are 23 weeks'. I can't help but feel that the early labour symptoms should have been mentioned earlier, if, as people keep saying, babies are born extremely premature more often than you'd think. Perhaps I will write to Ms. Cooke and tell her why I think she should shift that chapter for all those first time pregnant women like me who had no fucking idea they were in labour when in fact they had been for quite some time.

By the way, here are some photos of other lucky bitches who are 34 weeks pregnant.

Anyway, as Thursdays are probably going to keep being horrible for quite some time, I've decided to also implement a new weekly theme on this blog which is 'Things-I-Love-Thursday'. Each Thursday I will post something that I love, just to remind me that there are some simple things left to take small amounts of pleasure in, even if they are superficial and don't really mean all that much in the greater scheme of life. If you would like to share a 'Things-I-Love-Thursday' guest post, get in touch as I would enjoy seeing some of the things that you love.

Here is the inaugural 'Things-I-Love-Thursday' post.

Getting sane takes time

As March draws ever nearer my sorrow grows ever more profound. Though nothing can quite compare with the immediacy of death for gut-wrenching agony, what comes later actually causes a great deal more distress, which you don't see coming.

Time does not heal your wounds, rather it dresses them with a cheap bandage that falls off numerous times a day. Every time it does so you're shocked to find that underneath the dressing your wounds are still as raw and weeping as they ever were, and in fact, in the interim, may have even turned septic. My wound hasn't scabbed, but instead grown deeper as time has passed and I've come to realise the enormity of the scar I will wear for the rest of my life.

I'm acutely aware of the fact that the baby I gave birth to over two months ago should not even yet be ready to join the world. I have this awareness on the inside, where the weeks and milestones of pregnancy are still etched on my mind, and I have it on the outside too, particularly with my friend Sharon whose own baby boy will be born on Max's due date (she's having an elective c-section and has kindly told me the date so I can perhaps prepare myself). Witnessing her prepare for the arrival of her baby not only compounds my pain as I look upon the evidence of her better fortune - photos of the newly decorated nursery; the uncomfortable but reassuring symptoms of pregnancy that indicate her baby is alive and kicking - but the jealousy I feel also takes my breath away, suffocating me and leaving my dead, bloated face with the ugliest of expressions - bitter and tortured.

I don't bear my friend any real ill will - she is my oldest friend and appreciates, even if she can't understand, the confusion and irrationality I am experiencing. But I don't want to meet her baby. I absolutely dread the news of his birth. I feel, though, that I also can't expect to be sheltered from the assault that other people's happy lives are to me, no matter how understandable it is that I should wish to be so protected. It's one thing to take my vengeful fantasies out on women at the traffic lights or on adjoining tables at cafes, but when you begin to begrudge those who mean something to you their own happiness you begin to realise you've got a long way to go on your grief journey, and the enormity of the road you have ahead of you is enough to make you want to end it all right here. I haven't got the stamina, or the shoes, for that kind of track and am instead forced to walk it everyday anyway with blistering feet.

As my friend shared photos of her baby boy's new bedroom, freshly decorated and waiting for him with all of his things laid out, I spent what was perhaps the exact same afternoon packing my baby's things into archive boxes - relics of the past before that particular future had even begun. What I have left of my baby is two sky-blue boxes, packed tightly with all manner of tiny baby loveliness.

Strangely, Peppy has been keeping watch over the boxes. 

I've caught him investigating a few times now.

I cried so much over the little garments and toys as I packed them that I think much of the weight of the box is made up from the density of my tears. The boxes sit in his room alongside a brand new cot still in its box, and his pram, which I've filled with the most valuable possession I have left - my doll, Lulu, who has been with me since I was myself a little girl. She's seen everything I've seen, and helped comfort me through every one of the adversities I've experienced, so it seems fitting that she's there - her little body marking the space where Max's should have been.

On display around the areas of the house I spend the most time I have put as many of Max's keepsakes as I've been able to collect. This is my way of having him around - with his photos in constant sight, his birth certificate framed and displayed, fresh flowers from his special rose plant always in a vase next to the candle that burned during his funeral service. All of them, whilst reminding me of my precious son, point towards his unfathomable absence. I look at his picture on my bedside table when I awaken every morning and every morning I panic - where is my baby? I run my hand over my stomach and for the several hundredth time am forced to remember that he is not here. He's in none of the places he should be. I've had moments of madness where I've wanted to smash the glass on the photo frame to get him out, so strong and primal is my urge to touch him and hold him again.

I also find myself obsessed with death - Max's and my own. It is impossible to reconcile that I still live without the little baby who I feel was the best part of me. Would it not have been more natural for me to wither alongside him, the maker and the made, the captain going down amongst the passengers it was his job to protect from the ravages of the sea. That's how I feel - like the cowardly captain of the Costa Concordia who let his prized passengers drown and who saved himself by abandoning them for the safety of a life raft. If he'd known. as I now do, the recriminations he'd be haunted with for the rest of his life he'd have bloody well let go and drowned himself, I'm sure of it.

The story of Max and I is littered with the messiest mixed metaphors - the story of his life has described me as at once on the sea and nursing gangrenous sores, for example. It's not just my inability to find words to express my experience genuinely, although of course that is also a part, but my feelings truly are all of these things at once. I flit frantically from one feeling to another. They all appear in different colours and voices, through both my waking and sleeping hours. My grief is a truly schizophrenic experience.

I recently read the wonderful Jeanette Winterson's Why be Happy When You Could be Normal. In it she recounts her descent into madness and back out again. She writes that "going mad is the beginning of a process [...] a process that might lead somewhere." In my present state of emotional instability this sentiment really resonated with me. Winterson says that living with life is very hard; that our feelings can be unbearable, but that ultimately that the mind wants to heal itself so we should let it "manifest whatever is necessary to work on the job" - for her it was voices in her head.

I think I read this book at the right time, as I seemed to find in it permission to grieve deeply and startlingly, and to consider for the first time that though it's terrifying to be inside the disintegrating self, this process can be a good thing. As going mad takes time, Winterson observes, getting sane takes time too. Crucially, she writes that we must make time for it despite the fact that as a society we are less tolerant of such extremes now than at any period in history.

My thought for the week, also from Winterson's memoir, is about the power of creativity. Creativity "is the capacity in us that tries to save us from madness," she writes. In this bold hope I guess it's time to get cracking on my vogel-winning debut novel - which still only has a title and an opening line, despite the fact I promised to have 3000 words by this Saturday...

More beautiful memories from our afternoon at the park

Here are some more photos from my special Sunday summer afternoon in the park with Leslie, Anika and Sasha. I'm sure you'll agree that Bek from Little Red Photography has once again captured some beautiful images of me and my girls. This one, especially, is so dear to my heart:

It's one of the photos we took of Sasha with some of Max's special things. This is his little bunny that his Nanna bought for him. She gave bunny the biggest cuddle, and as you can see, lots of love. I will treasure this one forever, that's for sure. 

Here are a couple more photos from the day, and I think there'll be many more to come, which I'll post in due course!

My big, grown-up girl.

The three of us together again.

Thanks again, Bek, for everything. We are so lucky to know you and to count you as a friend. 

A sure-fire way to cheer up your day

I really needed cheering up this morning. Then there was this. The Cat Cafe, Japan.

I MUST GO THERE!



If only Australians weren't generally a nation of dog-lovers I would be immediately applying for a loan to open my very own kitty franchise, though I imagine the coffee would have to be pretty pricey to pay for the vet bills of over 50 felines.

Watching this reminded me of my trip to Amsterdam last year where I not only followed neighbourhood cats down side streets, but visited a very special floating cat haven - De Poezenboot. This boat, moored at the side of one of Amsterdam's beautiful canals, is a refuge for stray and abandoned cats. Despite what you may have heard about cats and water, the beauties at this sanctuary seem to love floating through their lives, many of them snoozing on the outside deck and watching the world go by. I've just fished out (pardon the pun) some of the photos I took while I was there (of which there were many). You won't be surprised to hear that it was one of the highlights of my trip, even when a really crabby cat swiped me across the face because I interrupted his nap!

De Poezenboot - amazing cats on the canal!

Visiting 

Being visited

Hoping the houseboat will float away with me on it