too much on my plate

I feel like a bit of a stranger here on my own page. I haven't felt able to write lately, too many worries and too much to do.

Last Saturday night I received a call from one of my sisters. When I saw her name on the screen at 9.32 pm I knew something was wrong. She sounded distressed - Mum had called her telling her Dad couldn't breathe.

My heart sank, the show I had been watching on my laptop was left playing, I strapped on my sandals as she was talking to me, she was already heading there as we spoke. I kissed my husband goodbye telling him my Dad can't breathe I have to go. My husband has lost both his parents in the last two years,and he has lost an Aunt and Grandfather and more recently a dear cousin with a young family. We've grieved too much recently. He kissed me hard as I left.

I got into my car and drove there faster than I would've. I imagined that this drive was one I would never forget. I was mentally preparing myself, repeating out loud please don't die now. When I arrived he was gasping for air sitting in the chair he always sits at: To eat dinner, to watch TV, to read the paper.

Every Christmas my brothers and sisters complain how we cannot all fit in that tiny living room anymore. That night with two paramedics and all of their things the space seemed suffocating.

I watched as the paramedics tore open syringes, tapes, bottles, things I didn't recognise. Wrappings everywhere. Their impatient requests for his medication, for room to be made, for the cat to be taken out, it was all frightening to me. They seemed as panicked as I felt, Mum seemed calm but when I held her she really wasn't. I told her everything would be OK, even though I didn't believe it.

I could hear them on the radio, they were trying to get an intensive care ambulance there and they were preparing for him to go into cardiac arrest. They pushed the table to the wall, careless with it, desperate for more space. The next thirty minutes were awful, my whole body was shaking. We stood in the road as they moved him from the one ambulance to the other, just watching. Then they shut the doors, and we couldn't even do that.

Again all I could think was please don't die now, there is too much that hasn't been said, time you haven't had to enjoy your life. I thought you have worked too hard, you thought you were stronger than anything. But I see now that you are just as vulnerable as all of us, then and there I realised we are just like machines we break down we fall apart, none of us are indestructible.

At least twenty of us waited in the Emergency room, grand-kids and nieces and partners and new boyfriends, only allowed in to see him two at at time. Desperate calls were made to missing siblings: At a wedding, at a river cruise. We all came together to support each other and be there for Mum and to let Dad know he was loved and that we were there rallying him to get better.

A week and a bit later and he has pulled through. Six days in the hospital, and he went back to work the night he was discharged. Against medical advice. He looks the same to me on Friday and seems like himself. My sister today tells me he says he doesn't feel like himself, that he is scared. This is more than I have ever heard him admit. Everyday I am afraid that he will have another heart attack.

I promise to be a little more lighthearted next time (no pun intended!) and show you some of our other goings on.

Something in the water

cautious, from the brenneman photo set.

This week has been a little reflective for me, somewhat sad and a little eye opening. I had a funeral to attend this week to pay respects to someone I will miss seeing and chatting to, a neighbour of mine and a relative of my Sister's. The funeral, her loss, the effect on my sister and her family, it's made me think again on the passing of my in-laws this last two years. I know how greatly that neighbour will be missed by her family, how much my family misses Aaron's parents.

The morning of the funeral I got reacquainted there with a neighbour from my childhood. I left that day feeling so grateful to have crossed paths with her again. She had so many insightful things to say on life and on death. I realised that someone's passing just makes you see this life you have , the past, the present and the future. It is a big pause button on your fast moving life, that unfortunately a funeral is what it takes to make one reflect. I wanted immediately to be home to hold my children, my husband, to take the time to be in the moment. We are all vulnerable, and we're only here for an indeterminate amount of time.

Time washes over us all, rich and poor young and old.

My eldest daughter's little world just got a little wider this week. On Friday she left for a holiday with her best friend and her family, without us, going to Tasmania for a week. How broadening an experience for her that will be! I remember taking them there two years ago: The children were younger, Eliza the exact age Circe is now. I am trying to remember was she talking, was she walking? How did I take three children on a plane on my own, I am also thinking, was I crazy? It was a time where I needed to be in the company of a friend where the kids could feel a little free away from the city. I treasure that experience, that time, and I keep my memories tangible and close by, in a jar.

They are all growing up. My son, too, is gone away for three nights from today, he will be camping with my neighbour and her son. I'm sure he will so benefit from this, but I will miss him terribly. With Bea I know she will be fine, she has been away to camp, but for Phoenix this is the first real long time from home. I see him as a bit less robust, he is the smallest in his grade. Tough in his own way, though.

I am glad I have an excuse to get to the beach again on Wednesday to pick him up. They grow so quickly and right before your eyes too. Life is short I am choosing to give them them opportunities to be independent, to wear mismatched shoes or paint their nails blue as Eliza does. To make their own mistakes to feel the vulnerability of their life so they can make the most of theirs. To open their eyes wider to the world but to maintain their closeness to home, to know that they are loved and accepted for who they are.

Coming home from the service, what a contrast I had at home for me. There I had seen this beautiful woman's life remembered in photographs and in home movies, and here at home I had a little life just taking on the world, new and fresh everyday something more than the day before. She's growing too, my little Circe has been making her presence hard to ignore, especially in the frenzy of my sewing.

She wants in on all the action, she wants to see what all that thread does what all those smells are, what is up there when I push a chair up. Her new found interest in her abilities led me to need to get out of the house, to bring the world to her. The day after the funeral I wanted to experience some life. What better way than to get to the beach, I mean WOW what must that be like for a 15-month old.

I know every summer when I see it again for the first time in months I am amazed, my kids love it. We even found starfish this time, my daughter wanted to go back and fetch her diary to draw them. My son thought it was the best day ever. He said those exact words, "Thank you Mum, this was my best day ever!" That was worth the sand I had to wash away from my kitchen sink, and the sand I am yet to vacuum from the car.

It's not just my children. Everything is growing, moving into the future. My garden this year provided me with impressive artichokes, well this week one that had kind of fallen behind had been left to flower. What a spectacularly gorgeous flower they produce. How could I not photograph this?

Time's passing is sometimes sad, sometimes even terribly sad. But it brings joy and beauty, too. My children, knowing my love of delicate things, bought in a gift for me this week, a tiny egg from our front garden. How special, how beautiful, they were bringing the world to me: A life had come from this egg. A reminder to me to tread carefully on this here planet, to stop and take notice or I will miss the beauty life has to offer.