Mirrors

As a rule I expect a mirror to reflect, accurately, that which is facing it. It's simple. However, my mirror, my inner mirror, that is,quite often reflects that which I would wish to see reflected in it. For instance, the other day I was on a bus. I had taken a seat near the front which displayed a sign giving priority to those "less able to stand".  The bus was very full and presently a lady boarded who was using two sticks. Dear Reader, my legs were about to lift me to my feet to accommodate her when the irony struck and I sat back hoping some real forty-year-old would have the grace to offer a seat. She did. During a recent snowy spell, I picked up the phone to see if an elderly friend was safe and to offer to clear her steps for her. This impulse and image dispersed only after she answered the phone and instantly asked me if I were mobile and if my steps were clear.  I have been more than forty for nearly as long ago as I was forty so it really is time I saw the world as it is not as my wish/instinct would want it to be.

A few days ago I went with one of my young to an exhibition. I don't do this often because my legs and back get tired before I have seen even a tenth of that for which I had come in the first place. Spying a wheelchair and being nothing if not practical he suggested we use it. The bullet was duly bitten and I clambered in." It's not that long", said I, with some rue, "since I was pushing you around". The pleasure of enjoying the exhibits without the habitual grinding pain of standing and walking too far did outweigh the intrinsic embarrassment of the situation, though. It only needed someone to speak of me in the third person, as in " Can she see from down there in that chair?" to highlight the dichotomy. "Why don't you ask her" quoth my pusher, at which the 'concerned' onlooker melted swiftly away in to the crowd. There is no rehearsal for old age. One can hope only that the sense of humour that saw one through the middle years will continue to serve one well in the final ones. I really don't see myself as someone who needs a wheelchair in a Museum, nor needing someone else to clear the snow. However, I do recognise my image in an actual mirror.  I have learned that that is also distorted and that what I see in front of me has not quite the same alignment as that which is seen by people  beside me in the same dimension .  Someone close to me caught sight of herself in a mirror the other day. Regarding her image she struggled to recognise the self it portrayed. Having spent her youth exquisitely beautiful she was not easily reconciled to the current reflection. No good to persuade her that, as it happened, that reflection was not an accurate representation of the  face the rest of us saw. The loss of the beauty she had enjoyed before would not be easily mollified by a sort of its-not-as-bad-as-you -think, however helpfully intended.
 I see there is some relationship between the mis-alignment in a looking glass and the perception of oneself as a person who gives her seat to others less able to stand whilst resting on her stick herself. "Between the idea and the reality, falls the shadow". : no doubt. Nos da

Jigsaws

My self and I are beginning to win the struggle with the Black Dog. As it happens, a friend introduced me to an idea. It was not really a new idea, but new as a formal philosophy in the context in which she put it. The idea is to make a friend of misfortune. In variouis shapes and forms, I have thought of and heard of this before. For many years I have been talking to parts of me that were in pain and getting them on side, so to speak. I have talked to dilemmas and analysed them in to reason. I can't ascribe the author of this particular exposition because I've forgotten it, but I was attracted to the notion of "hallowing misfortune" which is how it was put on this occasion. It doesn't feel so very different from making friends;  moves it in to a realm of sanctity, perhaps. Anyway, that's what I hope I've achieved with the Black Dog.
One outcome is that I have had to examine the phenomenon pretty minutely. Familiarity makes friendship more possible.With this exercise I found, to my puzzlement, that my inner world is like a jigsaw. One aspect of the Black Dog is that pieces of my inner jigsaw have become dislodged and realigned themselves in the wrong place. Patience for instance: patience has moved to where panic used to be. To expand: any annoying thing  I have been used to putting up with became impossible to manage. Down to six packets of cat food, and not yet able to carry much, I panicked. I had to give myself a good talking to, unravelling the strands until I was able to see that I could take a mini-cab, ask the driver to wait and bring me back for not much more than the delivery- to- door charge I normally pay for an order of too-heavy-to-carry groceries. (Cat litter, washing powder and the like if you must know). Forbearance is not unlike patience.  As it happens it has changed places with impatience. If someone speaks to me discourteously or sharply  a negative riposte springs too quickly to mind. Peace of mind and the belief in the general alrightness of things have swapped with anxiety. As a child I loved doing jigsaws. The trick was to put all the straight edged pieces together first so that one had a frame on to which to fit all the rest. I am at the stage, currently, where I have just about finished such a frame and am beginning to place random pieces where they should be. An added difficulty is that I don't have a picture on a box to guide me. There are at least two options. One is of an elderly lady, rather more than three score and ten, shorter than was,  peering uncertainly at a threatening landscape. The other is of a woman in early middle age, eager to get up and go,remembering her height gave her a great advantage putting a ball in a net, directing her world with confidence and aplomb. It feels scary to  see the mass of pieces in front of me, muddled and overlapping. Some days it's hard to see how they will ever make a cogent whole again. Perhaps, I have to forget any picture I have known before and locate them where they seem to want to go. How about an elderly lady, eager to get up and go who directs her world with confidence and aplomb. I like that picture. I shall make the jigsaw fit it. Nos da.

Double Trouble

Those of you kind enough to keep up may remember, from a post or so back, that I crashed my car. In fact, that turned out to be the trigger which let in the black dog. Not only did I have to deal with the stupidity and the loss, but with the ensuing hassle. All this was just before the Christmas period, a significant factor because there was pressure - self imposed - to have wheels for the holiday period. Following a family pow-wow it was decided I should go for an automatic. I do see the logic of this since most of my driving is done in heavy traffic but I have never found changing gear a problem in the past. What problem there was started with provenance. Where was I to source a suitable replacement? Picture it: there was I, ashamed to admit I mourned my twelve-year old car, not at full physical strength and, as it turned out, emotionally challenged, too. That arithmetic added up to my going to the dealer who had furnished and serviced the crashed car. It seemed an easy option. A vehicle was found, at another branch so some delay in seeing it. You can imagine, festivities looming, wheeless and low on bother, that I put pressure on them to hurry things up. Several fraught days went by but we got there eventually and I took delivery of a cheeky little car, electric blue and automatic. I had not test driven it. Dear Reader, when I did sit behind the wheel  of this car I now owned and went to start off, I found I could not squeeze the gear-shift to move it in to 'drive'. Surely my hand was not that arthritic. It was. A comparatively short version of the story is that I presently found myself behind the wheel of a manual car that lacked the spirit of the other but was conventionally co-operative. A deal was struck  and I went off leaving the skin of my teeth behind in the hope it would be ready for Christmas. It was.

Here enters the 'you-couldn't-have-made-it-up' element. It transpired that the car I had tried was actually already sold to someone else. An identical was available so all seemed well that ended well. It didn't: end well, that is. The twin car was duly delivered, without having been driven by me, so test free, as it were. I sat, for the first time, behind the wheel of my second attempt, wrong colour, wrong gear system but acceptable enough, to find - deep breath - that I couldn't turn the key in the ignition. You have correctly understood. I had bought a second car which I couldn't start. No, not test driven neither because it seemed self-evidently identical to the one I had actually driven. There was apparently no explanation as to why it should be different. The dealer agreed the key was seriously stiff but he could turn it. As I tell you this, I begin to see why my only recourse was to the black dog. I had bought and paid for two cars I couldn't start. Since the humour in the situation is a bit hard to hold on to as I unfold my tale to you, I think I may have to leave it there. However, for those of you who, like myself, would always like to know what happened next, I can say that a new system for starting the car was installed, at a further stringent cost. It operates by pressing a button which starts the engine from outside the car: not only from outside but from inside the house when the car is parked in the street some distance away. Enough! I am using public transport and avoiding those areas which require more than one change of bus or more than half a mile walk. When the black dog and I are on much better terms I may find the mojo to drive again. Bore da

Double Trouble

Canine lore

Happy New Year! Liz is back, aware that five weeks have passed since the last post. And there's the irony: the last post does have quite another association, one that comes rather nearer to explaining why so many weeks have gone by since I was last at the computer. Liz has been suffering from what Winston Churchill used to call the "Black Dog".  This was an entirely new experience and I hold myself very blessed that I have gone well passed three score and ten without it.  Depression: a very extreme form of 'can't be bothered'. There will be so many of you out there - at least, I hope there are so many who have waited, faithfully, for the silence to end - who know only too well what I mean. That having been said, I'm not sure I know, myself, what I mean.  The manifestation was in a difficulty, amounting to impossssibility, to get up. Having forced that step, courage and energy had to be found to get dressed. Liz got round this by wearing the same jumper and over-jumper every day. (Don't worry, the well part of her did keep changing the things that went under them.) Thereafter, finding something to do that was do-able occupied rather a lot of the remaining day. The aim was to reach a time when it was realistic to retire back to bed and watch television mindlessly. All confidence, all self-belief disappeared.  When I sought help to understand and withstand this phenomenon, I was told that it was a direct result of the near-death experience I underwent in the summer. This makes sense. The body is ravaged by such happenings and, ultimately, the mind must work through it.

You can imagine what piled up on the desk during those weeks. If I count the cost in money, the fines for not paying bills on time would make a tidy sum. What a dilemma! The less you can be bothered, the more things are waiting to be bothered about. One nasty chore a day became the aim and once actually sitting at the desk, it gradually became possible to do a bit more. I am left with some clarity I should  have come to sooner. I have begun to understand the reality of old age. The body, the mind begin to give up, to lose elasticity. Some things can never been regained, can never be replaced. There is more loss than gain out there. Time is reversed, There is more what was than what will be. But there is love and music and humour and that's not bad to be going on with.  There hasn't been much space for the 'going on 40' year old in these last weeks but she is still very much there.There are now four parts to Liz's life,the more than 75, the 40, the cat and the black dog. There is much to learn from the latter, but learn accept and respect we will. Prynhawn da; a funny car story next time. PS Yes, I have noticed the swing between first person and third. Anyone care to suggest what Liz/I was up to?

Botherdom

Liz has been rather under the weather with a bad case of 'cant-be-bothered'. This meant that the distance from bed to computer became rather a challenge so that the gap between posts began to feel like a challenge, too. It seems that 'cant-be-botherdism', in the elderly, very often follows a brush with severe illness. Now, most of my life I have not been elderly, nor severely ill, so this situation was merely hearsay. However, I am here to tell you that it is so. Amongst you kind followers there must be some who have suffered, equally. You know, the sort of mood where, were it not for the calls of nature, the temptation would be to stay in bed for ever. I was having difficulty to decide whether I wanted toast or bread or whether I could manage without bothering to eat at all. The bother-factor now seems to me to be just about the best yard-stick there is to measure mental health. Reflecting, as you would expect, on the state of the bother-factor now and its remembered state when the whole of me - other than just my inner world - was forty, I began to wonder how I managed. The daughter of a dear friend visited yesterday with her little girl and littler baby. There was not one nano second when her attention moved, fully, from one or both of them to her Mother, to herself or to me. That is to say, in spite of impeccable manners, there was no way this young woman could un-bother with regard to her young. I had three of them. For about nine months they were all under six. I once heard the mother of six children who had been under six years of age all at the same time, answer, when asked however she managed, that she missed a whole war: quite. To-day, the phenomenon is beginning to lift and I am devoutedly grateful. There seems to be no sure way out of it, other than time and optimism. Time one has no control over. Optimism is a poor bedfellow of depression.

Do you know, this young lady found herself making free of my kitchen because I had not had the bother- quota to organise for my visitors a cup of tea nor produce the chocolate specially-acquired biscuits. And very grateful I was thinking that she must feel very easy in her skin to be able to that. To-day, I could have  made a better fist of hospitality. What I am less good at is electronic-based gifting. Not that this is a surprise to anyone, but I feel I must confess the most recent betisse.  The Father of My Children professed an interest in a book he thought he would find on my shelves. This was not the case but I made a note of it for a Christmas gift for him. To-day, I duly found the bother to use the search engine to track it down. There were several paragraphs of entry and offers of sale and I trawled through to find what I thought would be best. I made my choice and began the interminable 'page' after 'page' of filling in, keeping an eye out for delayed delivery because of the Festive Season. There was no reference nor warning about this so I ploughed on, proffering my card details for about £20. I was so pleased with myself and waiting to tell the Guru how clever I had been, or,even plotting something rather more 'by-the-way' and casual, when the notice came up:"Your book is ready to read". Oh Dear.I have bought a book in which I have no interest, to read  on-line, which  I have not the slightest idea how to do and, in the bargain, I  lost £20 in the mists of cyberspace and was helpless to go back and cancel the transaction . A concatenation of generational botherdom if ever there were one.(At least I've kept my subjunctives) Prynhawn da

Crash

The astute among you may have noticed two things: there has been a collection , an alliteration of  C's in recent titles/ Conmference, Chaos, Crash, coincidence, I assure you, or, anyway, as far as I know. (Yes, I did see, 'coincidence', too). The crash, howver, was real, and explains why Liz has been a day or so off schedule with posting. Dear Readers, I made the cardinal sin of the driver, I drove in to the back of another car. Given the number of years I have been driving without such an indulgence, it was a bit of a wake-up call. The vehicle two ahead of me stopped suddenly, the car behind went in to him and I in to that car. They were scarcely touched. My car, being elderly, like its owner, was not worth repairing and now I find myself carless, shameful and more familiar with local 'bus routes than I would have wanted. Interestingly, when we drivers were exchanging details, it ocurred to me that the driver of the first vehicle seemed to be taking rather more interest and care of the middle driver than he was of me. So I wasn't all that surprised when my Insurers rang to ask me if I thought they may have known one another. Apparently, there is a current scam where two people agree to stage this kind of incident in order to claim for whiplash. Whiplash is invisible and has to be taken on trust. Well, I have very little trust but totally zero proof. Nor do I  have whiplash but neither do I have a car. Due to its age, as I said, it proved uneconomic to repair so I have a forlorn cheque about the value of a nice bicycle and a worn-out 'bus pass. I have waited a few weeks to confess to you in which time I have walked miles and bussed miles and lost many hours doing the above. Time more or less completely wasted. What do you think. Should I replace the car or should I continue to endure motion sickness doing the crossword on the 'bus? On top of this, I have to go to the shops three times for every one car load because this old lady finds it hard to carry much.

And there's the rub: did I fail to stop in time because there really wasn't time on the busy crowded road I was driving along, because I was dealing with a sneeze or because my driving has deteriorated? I love writing this blog. I really do find it endlessly interesting to accommodate the sprightly young woman inside this doddery old lady but it is decidedly different when the doddery old lady takes control of the srightly young lady and behaves like cliched elderly people are reputed to do. Liz has always found the fun in the dichotomy and tried to pass it on to you. This is not only lacking in fun, it is also potentially expensive. I know, I know. No one was hurt and, as the Father of my children put it, it's just a lump of metal to replace when all's said and done. It's more the crash of my secret way of being in the world, secret even from me, that the inner forty-year old will always win the day. Somewhere, it seems I actually believe that, if I chose so to do, I could run for that 'bus and, what's more, catch it. The 'going on forty' watches the play that is my life and is sure to intervene? I don't think so. Nos da