Taking clothes off with one arm

I have always been hard wearing on my clothes - like most people I wear the same stuff over and over again.  Jeans and t shirts fall to pieces within 3 or 4 years.  Being able to use only my left arm means that the stress on clothes is quite specific.  My jumpers have little holes just below the label on the back where the threads have worn thin.  This is the place my left hand grabs to yank jumpers over my head.

Shirts and jumpers end up with a patch on the left elbow.  I often steady my hand by resting my elbow on flat surfaces.  The newest area of weakness is on the seam at the back of my knickers.  I had a look through my undies draw this morning and found 4 pairs had suffered the same fate.  The seam has detached itself from the rest of the material.  I thought it was a manufacturing fault until 10 minutes ago.  I stood up from the sofa and my jeans were sagging slightly so I hooked my fingers under the waist band at the small of my back and hitched them up.  This rather unsophisticated and slovenly adjustment was accompanied by the sound of ripping material.  Another pair bites the dust.

Guilt

Richard Wilson (Wiz)

As a young girl, when I broke my brother's intricately constructed lego space rocket or 'borrowed' 50p from my mum's dressing table to buy sweets, I felt the pit of my stomach roll around like a tiny boat on huge waves  and with it headed onto guilt's well furrowed path.  For children emotions tend to be black and white.  Enter the murky waters of adulthood and guilt doesn't stand alone but gets clever and joins forces.

In December 2000 when Wiz and I crashed head on into another motorbike, he and the other rider died at the scene.  I have some flashes of recollection in my mind like 10 second, chaotic home videos but I can't remember feeling or thinking much over the first couple of days.  I do remember though the start of the guilt.  I was horrified that I hadn't got up and tried to help Wiz.  I felt ashamed at my selfishness that I hadn't even thought about him.  My rational self knows that my brain was in shock and I hadn't made the connection that I had been on a motorbike, that I had been with Wiz or indeed where I was, as well as the more logistical problem of my inability to walk.  It doesn't matter, though.  Guilt, insidious and toxic, had started to weave a nauseous gait through my system and emulsify with hundreds of other emotions, ready to further blacken a sad day or prick a hissing leak into joy.

I know there was nothing I could have done to prevent Wiz's death and as the years passed I began to look at the guilt in a more detached way.  I hope it has made me feel more empathy with others who feel guilty about things over which they have absolutely no control.  Instead of being told 'it isn't your fault he died, you have nothing to feel guilty about' I think I would have preferred someone to say 'I understand why you feel guilty even though it wasn't your fault.'

Please don't think, reading this and my last post that my life is a seething mass of shame and guilt.  On the contrary, I am lucky to have parents who raised me to feel proud of who I am.  I have just been pondering emotions this week and how they shape our behaviour.

All change

I looked at the clock above me. The light overhead hummed in tune with the vending machine stuffed with chocolate and crisps. I reshuffled a pile of order forms in case anyone was watching and tapped away in what I hoped was an industrious fashion. 4.30pm finally ticked over. I tripped over the bin in my rush to leave the brown office.

Looking back I have a strong memory of driving home from Blackburn after work. My little Ford Fiesta hurtled towards Lytham in the rainy dark of a November afternoon and I turned up the volume to sing along with Rui da Silva. I was filled with glee and excitement at the thought of leaping up and down in a dark club to the warm bass and moving vocals on the coming weekend.

Pulling into our driveway I saw Rachel admiring Wiz's new motorbike. Having only passed his test a week earlier Wiz was keen to show it off. In the warmth of our terraced house he gave Rachel and I a mug each which he had bought on an excursion during the day. We were touched. He put Becky's up on the sideboard for her return from work then presented me with a spare helmet. "Come on, let's go for a ride before dinner."

I put on the brand new jacket my mum had bought me for next week's skiing holiday. It was bloody freezing out and motorbikes are not known for their cosiness. Rachel watched from the living room window as I wiggled the helmet on. She came outside and readjusted the strap as I couldn't work out how to tighten it properly. It felt odd, sitting on the back of the bike with my arms wrapped round my friend. I wondered why we were doing this if we didn't need to go anywhere.

"Put your feet on there. Make sure they don't go here. Loosen your grip round my waist." My heartbeat sped up as we rolled out of our driveway.

"You won't go too fast, will you?"

"Dont worry I won't. Don't be nervous. I won't do anything to make you frightened."

At the end of our road Wiz put his foot down on the road to steady the bike while we waited for a gap to pull out into the moving traffic. I fiddled around trying to make sure my feet weren't in the 'make sure they don't go here' place.

The night air was fuzzily orange with drizzle and street lights. We followed the headlights in front as the queue of cars snaked their way towards the outskirts of Lytham. We started to chat but I gave up as the helmet and noise took up too much valuable concentration. A mini roundabout gave way to a stretch of road where Wiz indicated right to overtake the car in front of us. As the middle of the road widened into an empty lane he pulled out. As we curved round the car into the lane another bike did the same thing coming towards us.

"Oh shit" said my sweet, handsome, cheeky nineteen year old friend ten years ago today.

Aah, sweet mystery of life

Last week I went to see a medium. Nearly 10 years ago I was riding pillion on my friend's motorbike. We had a head on collision with another motorbike and both my friend and the other young driver died. Ever since then I have wanted to talk to Wiz. It was as if our conversation stopped midway and I was left, slack jawed, waiting for someone to press play so we could continue. For months after he died I would get a taxi to the graveyard in his pretty little village, sit by his grave in the cold, grey air and chatter to him. At first it was just a mound of freshly dug earth. After a while his gravestone was added (Richard Wilson, Wiz, truly a star). Flowers came and went, new graves were dug, the earth settled, the weather grew warmer and I continued to visit. I loved it. In the loneliness which followed the accident, I felt comfortable and less hollow sitting on the gravel and wet grass by his body. Sometimes I just sat and listened to Harry Potter stories on my walkman (the big bang to my nut had affected my ability to read - the words wouldn't sit still on the page for a good year). When the cold had seeped into my bones and made me stiff I would amble over to the pub adjoining the graveyard and drink a hot chocolate in the corner, studiously ignoring the interested stares from locals who were all in sad shock at losing Wiz.

The medium said "There's a young man here who'd like to talk to you". She asked me if there was anything I'd like to ask him. For 10 years I've been having a one way conversation with Wiz. I have whiled away a great many hours fantasising about talking to him, playing out scenes in my mind where were would talk about what had happened and the affect it has had on our families. I looked at the floor and could feel an enormous surge of energy billowing through my organs and blood. It felt like some of Wiz's soul was inside my body. I couldn't articulate even one word in response.

Welcome to the world

A few of my close friends back in the UK have just had or are expecting their first child. Talking to them has taken me back to being pregnant and having the lad. We were living in London in Queen's Park at the time. I wanted to have a homebirth as the motorbike accident I had had all those years ago made it hard to be in hospitals. Unbidden, the minute I walked in the doors and entered the place I could feel a hollow, toxic darkness drift down and settle inside my brain. Some of the thoughts I had had after the accident would replay and I would always start thinking of my sweet, funny friend who had so sadly died along with the other person we crashed into. Although I was riding pillion I have often felt a crushing sense of guilt about my friend's death which is common with any kind of trauma. Guilt snuffs out confidence and happiness quickly. It is viral in its ability to steal into all aspects of your thoughts and suck positivity and hope into its dark and gaping mouth. So we planned a homebirth which was to take place in our little house in Queen's Park. I read Ina May Gaskin's Spiritual Midwifery which is beautifully uplifting, very happy clappy (it's packed to the rafters with birth stories from God loving hippies living in buses in America during the seventies) and nearly all the births take place at home. It was great to read positive stories and pretty entertaining "I knew that Esther was ready to give birth because her aura glowed as we swam in the creek that morning." I love it!

The lad ended up arriving 17 days after my due date and the labour was long and slow. At one point I went into hospital to have them listen to the baby's heart rate on a monitor which I had been doing every morning for the preceding week and the midwives suggested I stay in hospital to have the baby as he was overdue. Very teary and upset I checked into hospital and the husband's brother who lives in London was sent to our house to pack a few things for me (he chose remarkably well actually). After a couple of hours of watching the lad's heart rate tick away perfectly well, I started to feel like the baby would not come if we stayed in hospital. At 6cm dilated and with the waters having been artificially ruptured (ostensibly to check for meconium which may signal distress in the baby) and been found to be clear I checked out of St Mary's in Paddington, went outside and hailed a black cab with the husband. The ride home over many bumps and potholes will forever stay etched in my memory as one of excruciating discomfort but a few hours later at 6.30pm the lad was born in our bedroom. Three hours after that both midwives left and my exhausted husband and his no longer pregnant wife began life as a family. I was completely and utterly fucked. Having had no sleep for 2 days and 2 nights and not much to eat for a long time there was just nothing left in the tank. The baby started to cry and we just looked at him in horror. Now what?

"What's wrong with him? Why is he crying?" the husband spluttered. I was clueless so the husband made me call the hospital.

hosp: Hello, maternity ward

me: Hi, erm, I've just had a baby and he's crying. What should I do?

hosp: What do you mean 'you have just had a baby?'

me: I had a homebirth

hosp: Well he is probably hungry you'll need to feed him

me: (rather chirpily) OK thanks, bye!

I attempted to breast feed him . The pain was shocking, I was way too tired and disinterested and just wanted to be left along. The first night of the lad's life was spent wrapped up in a blanket over his Daddy's shoulder being rocked on a rocking chair while I slept upstairs. The husband had played a starring role in his birth and immediately turned into the best Daddy in the world. Because he is self employed, 36 hours after the baby was born he was back to work. Those first few days were a blur of exhaustion, confusion and fear of the scarily new, tiny, screaming thing. When the lad was 10 days old my mum (who was staying with us to help) and husband suggested I go up to stay at my parents' house with the lad. A week of rest, help, love and support from my mum and dad and we were back on track. We were lucky that he necked bottles of milk easily and slept well but the adjustment to caring for a newborn is massive. It is such a unique time in your life as by the time you have another baby you are deeply ensconced in motherhood and it's not such a shock to the system. I loved the feeling of being bonded together with the husband as a family by our tiny baby.

The lad has converted masses of powdered formula and spaghetti bolognese into more lad and is now a happy, confident little boy. What a miracle it is to grow a baby in your tummy and watch the baby grow into a person. How cool to watch this miracle unfold before your very eyes each and every day. It's well lush innit?

This one works but the other doesn't

Just recently my son (3) has started to notice that one of my arms doesn't work. As I fought the daily battle of buckling him and his sisters into the car he chirruped " this arm works Mummy but the other one doesn't."
I was quite surprised. Although our family talk easily about my arm being buggered and the reason why (that's a whole new post but the shortened version is I was riding pillion on a mororbike, we collided head on with another bike and both drivers lost their lives) this is the first time he has ever really mentioned it.
This evening when he got out of the shower, he complained of a scratch on his hand and then told me had had done it in a motorbike accident.
Clearly there are a few discussions ahead. The strange thing is that I rarely think about my arm but a week on Monday sees the 9th anniversary of the death of my lovely friend who was riding the motorbike. This time of year is quite heavy with nostalgia. He would have been 28 years old. That's an adult by anyone's standards. He may have had children. He may have travelled the world. He would certainly have laughed an awful lot. He would certainly have had lots of friends.
Everyone who knows someone who died young says they were special and kind but really, really there was none kinder, more special, more cheeky and full of deeply auspicious promise than my friend.

This afternoon was the kind of afternoon that makes me so grateful for our life here at the beach in New Zealand. By 5pm four of us were sitting my kitchen guzzling Sauvignon Blanc and eating crisps. Our 10 children leapt off the sofa, watched Kung Fu Panda, jumped on the trampoline and popped in and out of the kitchen to top up with crisps. I find Mums fascinating conversationalists. They can tell extremely funny stories about the vile things their children get up to, happily gossip and have clever fingers on all sorts of pulses.
There's a freedom about New Zealand which is so liberating and happy. Roll on tomorrow for more of the same I say.