My sister is bloody brilliant.
I don't say this often. Not often enough.
Monday, 20 February 2017
It's Difficult
It's difficult watching your very favourite person dying.
It's difficult to believe that it's real.
It's difficult to see them in pain.
It's difficult when they don't seem like themselves.
It's difficult to know if drugs are helping or making things worse.
It's difficult to know what to say.
It's difficult not to laugh when they get cross with you.
It's difficult to not ask too many questions.
It's difficult to be nice to all the doctors and nurses.
It's just fucking difficult.
It's difficult to believe that it's real.
It's difficult to see them in pain.
It's difficult when they don't seem like themselves.
It's difficult to know if drugs are helping or making things worse.
It's difficult to know what to say.
It's difficult not to laugh when they get cross with you.
It's difficult to not ask too many questions.
It's difficult to be nice to all the doctors and nurses.
It's just fucking difficult.
How do you know?
There are so many questions to be answered. When I was a child I was constantly asking, "Why?" "How does that work?" and "How do you know?"
There are questions that I remember puzzling over. I remember asking, "If God made people, who made God?" and "Why isn't it the same time in Australia?" There were other questions that I never really asked but still thought about often. When my mum was having my sister I remember wondering how much having a baby must hurt, having just done a rather large poo.
Wouldn't it be nice if you could learn everything when you are a child and you wouldn't have to keep asking these questions? Would you be content if you knew everything? There I go again, another question. Sometimes I think my brain is going to explode with all the questions I have. In fact, it might be happening as we speak, as there is a throbbing vein on my temple, that the Long Suffering Husband thinks is where my brain is escaping from the gap in my skull that I made when I dropped a Le Cruset casserole dish lid on it a few years ago.
It's half term and so I have even more time to think than normal. I'm reading books and listening to radio 4 (which is brilliant but makes me ask more questions) and spending time with my Dad, who has always encouraged the asking of difficult questions. He never got cross, no matter how much I went on. Mum's eyes would glaze over, her brow would knit together and secretly wish she had a pram that faced in the opposite direction but Dad always discussed the possibilities. When I was a bit older than the, "Why are bananas yellow?" stage we would tackle the big questions, as we walked the dog around Lake Meadows lake. The philosophical questions that nobody will ever really know the answer to batted back and forth like the tennis balls on the court next to the bowling green.
These are the questions that are filling my night waking moments.
Questions like, "How do you know if you're asleep?", "Why is the process of dying so individual?", "Why can't you choose when you die?", "How do you know if something is a hallucination or not?", "How do I know if I'm really here and not just a figment of someone else's imagination?"
These are the questions that troubled the great philosophers, probably without keeping them up at night. Descartes said, "I think therefore I am." Not so great philosophers like me can only conclude, "I think therefore I am knackered."
There are questions that I remember puzzling over. I remember asking, "If God made people, who made God?" and "Why isn't it the same time in Australia?" There were other questions that I never really asked but still thought about often. When my mum was having my sister I remember wondering how much having a baby must hurt, having just done a rather large poo.
Wouldn't it be nice if you could learn everything when you are a child and you wouldn't have to keep asking these questions? Would you be content if you knew everything? There I go again, another question. Sometimes I think my brain is going to explode with all the questions I have. In fact, it might be happening as we speak, as there is a throbbing vein on my temple, that the Long Suffering Husband thinks is where my brain is escaping from the gap in my skull that I made when I dropped a Le Cruset casserole dish lid on it a few years ago.
It's half term and so I have even more time to think than normal. I'm reading books and listening to radio 4 (which is brilliant but makes me ask more questions) and spending time with my Dad, who has always encouraged the asking of difficult questions. He never got cross, no matter how much I went on. Mum's eyes would glaze over, her brow would knit together and secretly wish she had a pram that faced in the opposite direction but Dad always discussed the possibilities. When I was a bit older than the, "Why are bananas yellow?" stage we would tackle the big questions, as we walked the dog around Lake Meadows lake. The philosophical questions that nobody will ever really know the answer to batted back and forth like the tennis balls on the court next to the bowling green.
These are the questions that are filling my night waking moments.
Questions like, "How do you know if you're asleep?", "Why is the process of dying so individual?", "Why can't you choose when you die?", "How do you know if something is a hallucination or not?", "How do I know if I'm really here and not just a figment of someone else's imagination?"
These are the questions that troubled the great philosophers, probably without keeping them up at night. Descartes said, "I think therefore I am." Not so great philosophers like me can only conclude, "I think therefore I am knackered."
Friday, 17 February 2017
Brexit Persued by a Blair
Shakespeare used, "Exit persued by a bear," as stage directional code for the death of Antigonus in a Winter's Tale. When Tony Blair's speech to a carefully chosen audience in London about Brexit was reported in the press it became clear that it had backfired spectacularly.
I'm sure that they were hoping that the perusing Blair would signal the end of Brexit. They thought that his charisma and carefully chosen words would have people slapping their foreheads in a resounding thunderclap of understanding, saying, "Silly me, fancy not knowing this, of course we can stop Brexit."
Some of the words made sense. The referendum was held without us having any idea of the details we were voting for. We know what we hoped but neither of us, on either side know exactly what it would mean. We still don't know the details. It is true that the process of Brexit will be an all consuming process for government, putting some of the things that we really care about on the back burner. I worry that there won't be a NHS to give the saved membership fee to if it is completely neglected for the next two (or more) years.
Some of the words, however, appeared patronising. They sounded like a big brother telling his little sister that he knew best because he'd been on the planet twice as long as her and that worms really would be delicious things for lunch. He suggested that all big brothers could ignore their little sisters because brothers always know best.
The timing of the speech seems odd. Why didn't he say these things before we voted? Why not when we have some detail? Waiting for a period of limbo feels like pissing in the wind.
Far from signalling the death of Brexit, pursuit by this particular Blair has strengthened it. What were his people thinking? Had they forgotten that the public wants him strung up by his testicles for the Iraq war? Had they forgotten that people have had enough of his smarmy face? Had they forgotten that he is blamed for the conditions that caused the Brexit vote: allowing an uncontrolled flow of Eastern European workers to flood the country and causing the Syrian crisis (Iraq war)? Had they forgotten that he's had his time and he's no Churchill?
The only thing that might have been killed by this backstage Blair is any chance of people listening, staying aware and challenging any decisions about leaving the EU that might be wrong or detrimental. Boris Johnsons response was a call to arms, to rise up and turn off the TV any time the Blair tries to kill the Brexit, to stop listening and thinking. I can't imagine anything more terrifying.
I'm sure that they were hoping that the perusing Blair would signal the end of Brexit. They thought that his charisma and carefully chosen words would have people slapping their foreheads in a resounding thunderclap of understanding, saying, "Silly me, fancy not knowing this, of course we can stop Brexit."
Some of the words made sense. The referendum was held without us having any idea of the details we were voting for. We know what we hoped but neither of us, on either side know exactly what it would mean. We still don't know the details. It is true that the process of Brexit will be an all consuming process for government, putting some of the things that we really care about on the back burner. I worry that there won't be a NHS to give the saved membership fee to if it is completely neglected for the next two (or more) years.
Some of the words, however, appeared patronising. They sounded like a big brother telling his little sister that he knew best because he'd been on the planet twice as long as her and that worms really would be delicious things for lunch. He suggested that all big brothers could ignore their little sisters because brothers always know best.
The timing of the speech seems odd. Why didn't he say these things before we voted? Why not when we have some detail? Waiting for a period of limbo feels like pissing in the wind.
Far from signalling the death of Brexit, pursuit by this particular Blair has strengthened it. What were his people thinking? Had they forgotten that the public wants him strung up by his testicles for the Iraq war? Had they forgotten that people have had enough of his smarmy face? Had they forgotten that he is blamed for the conditions that caused the Brexit vote: allowing an uncontrolled flow of Eastern European workers to flood the country and causing the Syrian crisis (Iraq war)? Had they forgotten that he's had his time and he's no Churchill?
The only thing that might have been killed by this backstage Blair is any chance of people listening, staying aware and challenging any decisions about leaving the EU that might be wrong or detrimental. Boris Johnsons response was a call to arms, to rise up and turn off the TV any time the Blair tries to kill the Brexit, to stop listening and thinking. I can't imagine anything more terrifying.
Tuesday, 14 February 2017
We might be family
Today, I heard a conversation that could only be heard in a town like mine.
Two boys were walking their scooters along the road. They looked similar, in the way that ten year old boys often do; round-faced, impossibly blond hair in a smooth schoolboy cut, with eyes that look permanently confused.
"We could be family," one said to the other who grunted in response.
"Yeah, I'm related to George Brown."
"But George Brown is my cousin," he replied, emphasising the 'my' and stamping his foot.
"Yeah, but he's my Mum's Sister's Daughter's Son."
They both scratched their heads.
"Second cousins?"
"First cousins once removed, my dad said."
"Oh, maybe we are then but you've only just moved here. We've lived here for ever. My mum and dad and both sets of grandparents were born here."
"Yeah, I know. I wasn't born here but my mum and dad were. I really think we might be family."
"Like second cousins or something?"
"Yeah."
This week I became a great Auntie
Great Aunt Julia.
It has a certain ring to it and should be said with a plumy accent, so that you imagine a tall, elegant woman who wears black and pokes at the baby with boney fingers. In this fictionalised version of myself, the Long Suffering Husband died years ago and my own children wouldn't exist, leaving me a lonely and self-righteous old woman with nothing better to do than change my will in favour of the the new sprog until he is old enough to upset me. I could give unwanted parenting advice on leaving babies to cry or swaddling them, so that they don't grow up with deformed limbs, while feeding a non-weaned child a Werther's Original, or a thimbleful of brandy. I could sniff at their choice of name and insist that his first name should be his Grandfather's, rather than his middle name, which coupled with their 'modern' choice of first name makes him sound like a round on Only Connect, where the category is American rivers.
I am not that Great Aunt, though. I'm just excited to be able to buy baby clothes and sing nursery rhymes. In truth, I will probably see very little of this little boy, as he is the LSH's nephew's son and he hardly ever sees his sister (mainly because the LSH looks like his dad and his face makes his sister cry).
My children are first cousins once removed to the baby, so maybe one day their children could be pushing a scooter along with this little boy suggesting that they might be family. Although, without the town connection they'll probably conclude that they are not related after all.
Two boys were walking their scooters along the road. They looked similar, in the way that ten year old boys often do; round-faced, impossibly blond hair in a smooth schoolboy cut, with eyes that look permanently confused.
"We could be family," one said to the other who grunted in response.
"Yeah, I'm related to George Brown."
"But George Brown is my cousin," he replied, emphasising the 'my' and stamping his foot.
"Yeah, but he's my Mum's Sister's Daughter's Son."
They both scratched their heads.
"Second cousins?"
"First cousins once removed, my dad said."
"Oh, maybe we are then but you've only just moved here. We've lived here for ever. My mum and dad and both sets of grandparents were born here."
"Yeah, I know. I wasn't born here but my mum and dad were. I really think we might be family."
"Like second cousins or something?"
"Yeah."
This week I became a great Auntie
Great Aunt Julia.
It has a certain ring to it and should be said with a plumy accent, so that you imagine a tall, elegant woman who wears black and pokes at the baby with boney fingers. In this fictionalised version of myself, the Long Suffering Husband died years ago and my own children wouldn't exist, leaving me a lonely and self-righteous old woman with nothing better to do than change my will in favour of the the new sprog until he is old enough to upset me. I could give unwanted parenting advice on leaving babies to cry or swaddling them, so that they don't grow up with deformed limbs, while feeding a non-weaned child a Werther's Original, or a thimbleful of brandy. I could sniff at their choice of name and insist that his first name should be his Grandfather's, rather than his middle name, which coupled with their 'modern' choice of first name makes him sound like a round on Only Connect, where the category is American rivers.
I am not that Great Aunt, though. I'm just excited to be able to buy baby clothes and sing nursery rhymes. In truth, I will probably see very little of this little boy, as he is the LSH's nephew's son and he hardly ever sees his sister (mainly because the LSH looks like his dad and his face makes his sister cry).
My children are first cousins once removed to the baby, so maybe one day their children could be pushing a scooter along with this little boy suggesting that they might be family. Although, without the town connection they'll probably conclude that they are not related after all.
Monday, 6 February 2017
Funeral Songs
"So, what songs would you have at your funeral?"The Long Suffering Husband was eyeing me suspiciously from the other side of the sofa, "I know!" he said, "It would be, 'Always look on the bright side of life,' or 'Don't worry, be happy."
It could be an important question but I was surprised, as he has always insisted that he is going to die first, probably from a badminton or getting out of the car kind of accident. So, I checked my brakes before setting off today.
I didn't tell him that I have a playlist on my computer called "Julia's Funeral." I don't know when I did it but even I think it's a weird thing to have done. I checked it today and it does have both of his suggestions in.
Hospital radio is a little bit like a collective funeral playlist. There were some great tunes on today. They go around and ask each patient for their request on a Monday and that becomes the week's playlist. There were all the old favourites: The Rose, Angels, Wind Beneath My Wings, You Raise Me Up, True Colours, Unforgettable, We'll Meet Again, Stairway To Heaven. There were the less obvious but beautiful songs like Every Time We Say Goodbye by Cole Porter, Humans and the brilliant Sarah Vaughan singing I Cried For You. There was loads of show tunes and Disney.
Dad told me that he'd requested Too Much Too Little Too Late by Johnny Mathis and Deniece Williams.
One of my flute pupils is learning Smoke Gets in Your Eyes and I suggested that it would be a good tune for a funeral.
She was horrified, "You couldn't. Not for a cremation. 'When your heart's on fire, smoke gets in your eyes.' It would be wrong. Just wrong."
A friend told me about her grandfather's funeral and how her actress aunt had offered to sing one of the songs from her show. The family gave each other sideways looks, wondering who was going to ask which particular song she was going to sing. They were ticking them off in their heads: Something Bad, Popular, One Short Day, I'm Not That Girl, No Good Dead, For Good, A Sentimental Man, Thank Goodness, Defying Gravity.
"Oh, not Wicked, the other show," she said when she fell in. You might have heard the sigh from wherever you were.
Possibly, most of the tunes on my playlist are what people might consider inappropriate. I have Another One Bites The Dust, Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead, The Vicar of Dibley theme tune, Cold As Ice (by Foreigner) and the work song from Les Miserables, "Look down, look down, your feet are in your grave." I'm thinking of adding the Countdown theme tune, which would be perfect as the curtains close on the coffin. However, I will change the label of the playlist to read in brackets, "this is a joke, choose whatever songs you like."
I didn't tell him that I have a playlist on my computer called "Julia's Funeral." I don't know when I did it but even I think it's a weird thing to have done. I checked it today and it does have both of his suggestions in.
Hospital radio is a little bit like a collective funeral playlist. There were some great tunes on today. They go around and ask each patient for their request on a Monday and that becomes the week's playlist. There were all the old favourites: The Rose, Angels, Wind Beneath My Wings, You Raise Me Up, True Colours, Unforgettable, We'll Meet Again, Stairway To Heaven. There were the less obvious but beautiful songs like Every Time We Say Goodbye by Cole Porter, Humans and the brilliant Sarah Vaughan singing I Cried For You. There was loads of show tunes and Disney.
Dad told me that he'd requested Too Much Too Little Too Late by Johnny Mathis and Deniece Williams.
One of my flute pupils is learning Smoke Gets in Your Eyes and I suggested that it would be a good tune for a funeral.
She was horrified, "You couldn't. Not for a cremation. 'When your heart's on fire, smoke gets in your eyes.' It would be wrong. Just wrong."
A friend told me about her grandfather's funeral and how her actress aunt had offered to sing one of the songs from her show. The family gave each other sideways looks, wondering who was going to ask which particular song she was going to sing. They were ticking them off in their heads: Something Bad, Popular, One Short Day, I'm Not That Girl, No Good Dead, For Good, A Sentimental Man, Thank Goodness, Defying Gravity.
"Oh, not Wicked, the other show," she said when she fell in. You might have heard the sigh from wherever you were.
Possibly, most of the tunes on my playlist are what people might consider inappropriate. I have Another One Bites The Dust, Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead, The Vicar of Dibley theme tune, Cold As Ice (by Foreigner) and the work song from Les Miserables, "Look down, look down, your feet are in your grave." I'm thinking of adding the Countdown theme tune, which would be perfect as the curtains close on the coffin. However, I will change the label of the playlist to read in brackets, "this is a joke, choose whatever songs you like."
Sunday, 5 February 2017
Professional Ignorer
I know there is no such word as ignorer but bear with me.
When I was doing my A levels I wanted to be a doctor. I liked science and puzzle solving. I was interested in people and somehow it made sense but I was far too lazy and a bit squeamish, so it never happened. I've visited people in hospital more often than I would like recently and I have never been so grateful for my laziness.
Everything moves so slowly in hospital: a doctor can order a test on Wednesday and it still hasn't happened by Sunday. Patients are annoying and their relatives are worse. Hospitals are huge, easy to get lost in and full of sick people. There's never any space in the car park and parking costs a fortune. Joking is banned in hospital, even though they are weirdly funny places. And the food....the food is.....indescribable.
If you work in hospital the only cure for all of this annoyance is to block it all out. You can stand in the middle of a ward, loudly discussing a patient and his left-sided paralysis without even noticing that he has fallen further onto his left side, almost out of bed. The sound of bleeping machines and their blaring alarms fall on deaf ears. When patients press their call buttons you keep your focus on your screen: chances are they are only going to ask for something that you don't have, like a pillow, or a chair for their visitors to sit on.
I'm not sure I could have been a professional ignorer.
I can see why you would have to, though, to survive. When you have heard a story twenty one times, you do begin to switch off.
"Yeah, mate, it was all very sudden. You know me, I never take a single pill and now I've got hundreds to take every day......I think they're putting bromide in my tea too, cause I can't get it up."
I had to keep listening because I wanted one of his phone-a-friends to ask him why he needed to 'get it up' on an Emergency Assessment Ward. If that was a standard test I became even more grateful I had given up any idea of being a doctor.
I would snub lots of relatives too. Probably not the ones they look right through. I would talk to the smiling ones who make jokes and ask politely for a chair but I would tell those who insist on a nurse sitting with them and feeding their relative (who is perfectly capable of doing it himself) to .... (Alright,I'd probably be sacked). I would tell the relatives that insist that the nurse showers and feed their relative before they'll take him home that they and people like them are solely responsible for the collapse of the NHS and physically escort them down the long corridor to wander aimlessly until they work out where the exit is.
I also have some sympathy for the eye-rolling medics whose patients haven't understood a word they've said. As a musician, I also speak a different language to the general population. I can sympathise with both the medic and the man standing outside the toilet being berated, "You need to do the sample again there was no volume on it. We need to know how much you voided." When you've asked a pupil to play a passage 'piano' eleven times you sometimes forget that they might have forgotten that it means quietly and are not annoying you on purpose. Patients ask their doctors to tell them the same thing over and over again because they haven't understood. I hope that's not the reason doctors ask patients to repeat the story too.
The current crop of professional ignorers that I've been watching are extremely skilled. They can talk to relatives without looking up from a screen, find out everything they need to know about a patient from an i-pad and I am so glad they have the job and not me.
When I was doing my A levels I wanted to be a doctor. I liked science and puzzle solving. I was interested in people and somehow it made sense but I was far too lazy and a bit squeamish, so it never happened. I've visited people in hospital more often than I would like recently and I have never been so grateful for my laziness.
Everything moves so slowly in hospital: a doctor can order a test on Wednesday and it still hasn't happened by Sunday. Patients are annoying and their relatives are worse. Hospitals are huge, easy to get lost in and full of sick people. There's never any space in the car park and parking costs a fortune. Joking is banned in hospital, even though they are weirdly funny places. And the food....the food is.....indescribable.
If you work in hospital the only cure for all of this annoyance is to block it all out. You can stand in the middle of a ward, loudly discussing a patient and his left-sided paralysis without even noticing that he has fallen further onto his left side, almost out of bed. The sound of bleeping machines and their blaring alarms fall on deaf ears. When patients press their call buttons you keep your focus on your screen: chances are they are only going to ask for something that you don't have, like a pillow, or a chair for their visitors to sit on.
I'm not sure I could have been a professional ignorer.
I can see why you would have to, though, to survive. When you have heard a story twenty one times, you do begin to switch off.
"Yeah, mate, it was all very sudden. You know me, I never take a single pill and now I've got hundreds to take every day......I think they're putting bromide in my tea too, cause I can't get it up."
I had to keep listening because I wanted one of his phone-a-friends to ask him why he needed to 'get it up' on an Emergency Assessment Ward. If that was a standard test I became even more grateful I had given up any idea of being a doctor.
I would snub lots of relatives too. Probably not the ones they look right through. I would talk to the smiling ones who make jokes and ask politely for a chair but I would tell those who insist on a nurse sitting with them and feeding their relative (who is perfectly capable of doing it himself) to .... (Alright,I'd probably be sacked). I would tell the relatives that insist that the nurse showers and feed their relative before they'll take him home that they and people like them are solely responsible for the collapse of the NHS and physically escort them down the long corridor to wander aimlessly until they work out where the exit is.
I also have some sympathy for the eye-rolling medics whose patients haven't understood a word they've said. As a musician, I also speak a different language to the general population. I can sympathise with both the medic and the man standing outside the toilet being berated, "You need to do the sample again there was no volume on it. We need to know how much you voided." When you've asked a pupil to play a passage 'piano' eleven times you sometimes forget that they might have forgotten that it means quietly and are not annoying you on purpose. Patients ask their doctors to tell them the same thing over and over again because they haven't understood. I hope that's not the reason doctors ask patients to repeat the story too.
The current crop of professional ignorers that I've been watching are extremely skilled. They can talk to relatives without looking up from a screen, find out everything they need to know about a patient from an i-pad and I am so glad they have the job and not me.
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