tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52393532024-03-13T02:17:44.360+01:00Revelations of a Traveller"Censor the body and you censor breath and speech at the same time. Write yourself. Your body must be heard."
— Hélène CixousUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger904125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-18521872992162177312023-12-20T06:19:00.000+01:002023-12-20T06:19:39.966+01:00My Christmas Card<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfBc9FgVo87_Ij-R2hWX2jYX1e2qXzTZSZ__-qC157gIBe8IKzPg_f0TVbXjRCJTIFT8_FJyaIwMwU0r2PmJofTHAIvClqB53VNu-UMUuw3ParQnnAUgE6xIJAYj1nY8-Lokgi-bL5ECZwQ523bbzUzaS0WvGuNxpayDNDCQ-vTy663UHuk3P/s1254/Christmas%202023_000001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="1240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfBc9FgVo87_Ij-R2hWX2jYX1e2qXzTZSZ__-qC157gIBe8IKzPg_f0TVbXjRCJTIFT8_FJyaIwMwU0r2PmJofTHAIvClqB53VNu-UMUuw3ParQnnAUgE6xIJAYj1nY8-Lokgi-bL5ECZwQ523bbzUzaS0WvGuNxpayDNDCQ-vTy663UHuk3P/w395-h400/Christmas%202023_000001.jpg" width="395" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-240265747204531852023-12-11T15:47:00.000+01:002023-12-11T15:47:12.932+01:00It's been Six Months<p> Time does not bring relief; you all have lied </p><p>Who told me time would ease me of my pain! </p><p>I miss him in the weeping of the rain; </p><p>I want him at the shrinking of the tide;</p><p>The old snows melt from every mountain-side, </p><p>And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane; </p><p>But last year’s bitter loving must remain</p><p>Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. </p><p>There are a hundred places where I fear </p><p>To go,—so with his memory they brim. </p><p>And entering with relief some quiet place </p><p>Where never fell his foot or shone his face </p><p>I say, “There is no memory of him here!” </p><p>And so stand stricken, so remembering him.</p><p>~ Edna St. Vincent Millay</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxzfBTGMI1nhIAqQiBIfavNybEu899FFlHTedYM7SxVUVb49bfSbqFaOtuNJVlzt2TRFY-W2Xme6kxrgHhNR9kxMzIKleLDzpkTU8mvoVWurX7_EermHM6lKeXeT1LDQ5dE7HdTF31TeYDy8QjqvAF5ekXYDICHOKzQA-hSiMhEpXE8XA-Vwu/s1080/IMG_8472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1080" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxzfBTGMI1nhIAqQiBIfavNybEu899FFlHTedYM7SxVUVb49bfSbqFaOtuNJVlzt2TRFY-W2Xme6kxrgHhNR9kxMzIKleLDzpkTU8mvoVWurX7_EermHM6lKeXeT1LDQ5dE7HdTF31TeYDy8QjqvAF5ekXYDICHOKzQA-hSiMhEpXE8XA-Vwu/s320/IMG_8472.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-87386353425646016652023-11-21T08:24:00.000+01:002023-11-21T08:24:02.003+01:00"Grief"<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">"</span>Grief’s a bastard. </p><p>Turns up no notice on the doorstep whenever </p><p>moves in doesn’t shower doesn’t shave </p><p>won’t do dishes </p><p>dirty laundry </p><p>eats badly spends hours in the bathroom </p><p>keeps you awake half the night </p><p>shows no consideration </p><p>puts a filter on all the views </p><p>no matter how sunny it gets </p><p>the place still looks like shit. </p><p><br /></p><p>Grief’s a bastard. </p><p>Talks long distance drinks too much overmedicates can’t finish a book </p><p>keeps flipping channels mutes the sound </p><p>turns down the colour </p><p>’til it’s all washed out </p><p>faded away. </p><p><br /></p><p>Grief will travel anywhere in the world to be with you </p><p>nothing too extravagant for Grief </p><p>can take the whole sky </p><p>paint it bloodred demolish cities </p><p>call down storms </p><p>turn forests to sawdust </p><p>punch holes in mountain ranges </p><p>bedroom doors. </p><p><br /></p><p>Speaks for you </p><p>whether you like it or not </p><p>even though there’s nothing left to say </p><p>and no words left to say it with </p><p>roars furious flails around </p><p>when you ask him how things are the fucker tells you </p><p>trails along behind on walks </p><p>dead-eyed pathetic shuffles </p><p>’til you wait up and turn </p><p>taking a deep breath </p><p>knowing what’s coming. </p><p><br /></p><p>Gets old acts distant suddenly doesn’t call for weeks </p><p>then comes over with too much whiskey and a bag of crappy </p><p>skunkweed just to keep you on your toes. </p><p>Jumps you in an alley after a movie </p><p>and while he’s beating you says </p><p>we must keep working on this relationship."</p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Geoff Inverarity</span> </p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-34515170620110567332023-11-20T08:50:00.000+01:002023-11-20T08:50:23.632+01:00"Death, be not proud"<p> A few nights ago I had a dream. Rob wanted to watch a film and I was running around the house like a madwoman. The toilet was leaking. There were all kinds of things falling apart. Why wasn’t he helping me? I woke suddenly and saw the bathroom light was on and the door was slightly ajar and my first thought was that Rob was in the bathroom and I called out to him and then realized it couldn’t be Rob. What do I do with all the questions I want to ask him? </p><p>I am obsessed with death but I am not frozen. I did go to Paris - the second show. I saw a couple of my favourite designers and I was able to focus and send good notes and pictures to the store. I made a quick trip to Vancouver and saw the lawyer working on Rob’s estate and the bank who are dragging their heels and not transferring money from Rob’s retirement fund to me because of my name. I signed Barbara Yvonne Young and they asked me to change it to Barbara Y Young and still they stumbled. Finally a few weeks ago, they asked me to take out the Y… and still they haven't transferred the funds. This is my life right now - erasing Rob’s name from all our joint possessions. How I hate it. </p><p>I didn’t expect to be in such pain over the grouchy old man with whom I’ve lived with since I was 19 years old. I didn’t expect the hell I’d experience in a Casablanca hospital and then in Albi. Brendan flew over and then Michael and finally Gilly so I was never alone. We were with Rob every day, holding his hands, exercising his arms and legs, hoping for a miracle. We didn’t get one. In the end, he died alone at 10:30 at night. I sent a message to the hospital doctor last week, asking how he died. He responded almost immediately: </p><p>"I don't have precise information about his last hours but on the last nurse's visit, he was breathing the same way as in the afternoon (without warning signs). His death was very sudden, maybe by the way of a cardiac trouble or a pulmonary embolism but we can't be sure. The night nurse found him already dead. I'm pretty sure he didn't suffer at least."</p><p>Gill and I heard that he had died the next morning. We dressed quickly and went to the hospital. I went in first and touched his cold body - I was shocked at how icy cold it was in the warm room. I kissed his cheek. I talked a little and said good-bye. My only thought was that Rob wasn’t there. </p><p>On a happier note, I am flying to San Francisco and then catching a shuttle to Carmel on the first of December for a month to be with Gill and family. Brendan with his family will join us on December 22nd. I might go to Mexico in February for a birthday party for the friend whom I’ve known the longest and then I must spend a little time with my family in Ontario. I can only plan one trip at a time as my thoughts are foggy and come out in bursts, staccato, and not always coherently. I am scared, sometimes, that I’ve lost my ability to think clearly, to write, to live my final act with grace. In the lawyer’s office, she asked me what I was going to do now and, from somewhere deep inside me, I said “I want to do something extraordinary”. I have no idea what that is.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-21491831813820375332023-09-14T13:02:00.000+02:002023-09-14T13:02:53.333+02:00Tragic Head<p>I have washed two jackets of Rob’s and the murdering shoes he wore when he fell. I’m putting them in the charity bin. (I am moving very slowly even though I feel the need to get everything in order.) I have also decided to do the last Paris market at the end of the month but with a much reduced load. I am taking along a younger friend. She will hopefully stop me from doing something stupid. I am doing stupid things all the time and, according to Didion, that’s normal during this year of magical thinking. Still I don’t like it. </p><p>Oh a happier note, for the past few weeks I’ve been doing Tai Chi on the Esplanade at 7:30 every morning. This is a discipline or rather martial art that I’ve always wanted to learn. Some kindly spirit must have decided that I've suffered enough and so sent an American artist teaching at a school in the village who is also an advanced student of Tai Chi. He kindly allowed me to join a number of his art students. The damn shingles refuse to vacate my head so I am struggling to keep up and balance on one leg but still I persevere. At the very least, it gets me up and dressed in the morning. (The art teacher is taking a week off between classes and so I am trying to memorize the moves with the help of a YouTube video.)</p><p>Everyone seems to be dying or complaining about the ailments of old age. How I hate it but am I any better? I went for a picnic and to an art gallery last Sunday with Susan (who just turned 95) and David (13 years younger) and the picnic in the rose garden was pleasant enough but after, wandering through the halls and rooms of the old abby (Beaulieu-en-Rouergue), the only painting I noticed was one nicknamed by the artist’s wife “Tragic Head”, a watercolour executed with long quick brushstrokes with, what appears to me, hollow eye sockets and a dissolving mouth. Death, fucking death, takes whoever it damn well pleases.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-67464959502106444672023-09-03T15:01:00.000+02:002023-09-03T15:01:04.711+02:00Literally Crazy<p><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;">“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death.... We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe their husband is about to return and need his shoes.” </span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;">― </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="authorOrTitle" face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-weight: bold;">Joan Didion, </span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"></span><span id="quote_book_link_7815" style="caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1659905" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">The Year of Magical Thinking</a></span></span></p><p>I have had a couple of bad days. No, I have had a lot of bad days. I cannot write. I cannot sort myself out. Today, Fauci caught a little bird and put her under the dining room table. At first, I thought the bird was dead and then it flew to the window and Fauci flew after it. I screamed at the damn cat to leave the bird alone. I ran to the window and opened it and the little bird flew away. A sigh of relief. I usually yell for Rob to come to the rescue but he is not at home. If he were, he'd be proud of me. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-22665922357856066082023-08-21T09:43:00.002+02:002023-08-22T06:38:38.494+02:00"Brief Glimpses of Beauty"<p>Brendan gave me the article below to read when we were in Casablanca. At first I found it annoying because of the constant repetition and then I fell into it and began to like it as it forced me to slow down and absorb the writer's "masterpiece of nothing". And yet this "nothing" essay allows me to catch "brief glimpses of beauty" in the horrible images that plaque me from the past few months. For instance, I untied Rob's left wrist, tied so tightly it left red welts, and he slowly raised his arm to his forehead, palm upward - a true Rob gesture - his release was a glimpse of beauty. And when I untied his other arm and he raised it and placed his hand over his heart - another Rob gesture - especially when his fingers started moving to the beat of the music that Brendan or Michael or I played near his ear. - that was another brief but exquisite glimpse of beauty. </p><p>I have been alone in our house for a week. I listen for Rob to awake in the morning. My head pounds. (The shingles are still playing havoc with the nerve endings in my head.) I know he is not coming back but I cannot touch his stuff. His shoes still sit by the door. His clothes sit on shelves and hang in his closet. All his electronic gear rests in his office. His ashes sit on my bookshelf in my office. </p><p><b><a href="http://www.ocec.eu/cinemacomparativecinema/pdf/ccc03/ccc03_documentos_mekas_eng.pdf" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666;">As I was moving ahead... (magazine article by Jonas Mekas)</span></a></b></p><p>If this link doesn't work, please copy and paste: http://www.ocec.eu/cinemacomparativecinema/pdf/ccc03/ccc03_documentos_mekas_eng.pdf</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-1840078885233702542023-08-01T18:22:00.000+02:002023-08-01T18:22:36.342+02:00Grief<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgj6zH97NaPcFnqWqvECcI4sF42NwROlRNHHgmRPrs1oZvJWX9FbuDDKDDkgbjSJVntU6bAPzEhCV3N6aUBNlrmCE34EpepPrE_jusysb97VGqr_s13HTn_O30rIUzILittgXC0gZoxBUdQsFKo74GDxeqe1J84T8rLApa4uh36Sv3Jj_0pvZfi" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2481" data-original-width="1754" height="565" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgj6zH97NaPcFnqWqvECcI4sF42NwROlRNHHgmRPrs1oZvJWX9FbuDDKDDkgbjSJVntU6bAPzEhCV3N6aUBNlrmCE34EpepPrE_jusysb97VGqr_s13HTn_O30rIUzILittgXC0gZoxBUdQsFKo74GDxeqe1J84T8rLApa4uh36Sv3Jj_0pvZfi=w400-h565" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I wake up every morning with a headache and I am incapable of doing anything until I take a pain killer. My brother-in-law Bill says that it's the shingles working their way out of my system and not to worry if my head feels as if it is exploding. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, Brendan, Jane and Seb flew home and left me all alone. I wrote the above thank-you and then ate cold sausage and cheese. Food does not inspire me. Nothing inspires me. I keep seeing images of Rob in a hospital bed and try to think what I could have done differently. If I'd known that he would die no matter what I/we did, could I have made his passage less painful? </div><div><br /></div><div>At the Love Fest or what I call his wake, I spoke of our meeting and early days and there was much laughter. This surprised me. I didn't think I was funny.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><i>Toronto with Rob</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Rob and I met, in 1968, at Ryerson in the Radio and Television Arts program. There were 27 guys in our class. 2 girls. It was not love at first sight.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Between classes, six or seven of us would hang out in the cafeteria, often joined by Scott MacDonald a journalism student who must have found us RTA students more fun than his fellow journalists.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Rob was just one of the guys - fun to banter with, good for a laugh, and always easy to be around. But I did not recognize him as the one with whom I would share my life.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>And then one day, I spied him on the subway. He was half way down the car, standing, shirt sleeves rolled up and one hand gripping an upper bar to steady himself. I found myself staring at his naked forearm, softly furred, and a shiver ran through my body. I was too naive to recognize that shiver for what it was.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Rob, a number of years later, wrote a story about our first days. At first, he called me "a pretty girl without attitude". When he asked if I wanted to hang out at the cafeteria, I often responded,:"sorry I have to go home and wash my hair" or "I have a dance class to teach". He thought that I was way too speedy for him; and yet, he wrote: "Think I'm falling for her."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>When I told him one day that I had to go and practice my typing. He said he would come with me as he had to practice his. I didn't know that he took typing in high school and technical school and worked for six months as a typist.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>When finally I agreed to go on a date with him, he wrote:</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Honest Ed's. I need a shirt. This is a decent one and it's only 99 cents. Getting ready for the play. Christ, it has no buttons on the cuffs. It's a fucking cuff link shirt. Almost time to leave, I'll just roll up the sleeves. A play and then a meal. More money that I've spent in six weeks! But it's worth it. Can't believe she is going out with me!!!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>At the end of the evening, he kissed me and I was hooked. A few months later, Rob wrote: She has sort of moved in with me on Sudan St. A commune that doesn't really work. Do any of them? </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Finally our own place on Earle St. We are reading Leonard Cohen and one thing led to another. Sue has come to pick her up but we're making love. We can't stop. Sue keeps knocking but we don't care.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Maitland Street is more like a home. When I ask her to marry me, she breaks out laughing. But she does say yes. Yeah!!!!!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Rob didn't know that for three days after his proposal, I agonized. Having read Simone de Beauvoirs "Memoire of a Dutiful Daughter, I had sworn that I would never marry. And then something curious happened - something that has only happened a few times in my life - on the third day, I was overcome with such calm, such peace that I knew marrying this man was good. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>We married in my parents' back garden. My mother planned the wedding as neither Rob nor I cared about the ceremony itself. He was still a struggling student at Ryerson so he borrowed a suit and bought an orange shirt. By that time, I had switched to York University into their new theatre and dance program, and my mother insisted on making me a dress - she was afraid that I'd go to the church in my usual attire - leotards and jeans. At my mother's insistence, we had three bridesmaids - my sister in law, my third sister and a university friend. Bev, at six years old, was our flower girl. In the evening, Rob and I caught an overnight train to Montreal, a gift from Rob's boss.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Rob was working part-time at Spence Thomas Productions. Patrick, not only gifted him with a solid knowledge of sound, he taught Rob how to handle the most difficult situations with grace. He was a gentleman. Every night when Rob left work, Patick would thank him. Later Rob credited him with his success although he noted that the Welshman was not a good business man: he often forgot to bill his poorer clients. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>When Rob began working as a location sound mixer for W5, we moved to Garnock Street. Rob was worried that he travelled too much and so we got a dog called Manny to keep me company.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>A year or so later we moved to Bonfield Street in the Beaches - our last home in Toronto. The day after our move, Rob took off to Chile for three weeks. We were both lonely.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Financially we were doing well. We bought a new Toyota Corolla but when, we asked a salesman to come to the house to demonstrate a [countertop] dishwasher, we looked at each other appalled. Even though we both hated doing dishes - we had sworn that we would not tie ourselves down with stuff, not become too materialistic. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The lease was up on our apartment and we were planning to drive across Canada and visit Rob's sister. Three weeks before our holiday to Vancouver, I said "Let's just quit our jobs and move there?" Rob agreed. So we left our well-paid jobs, crammed our Toyota with our personal stuff, a tent and camping gear, and drove across the country. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>… like a bird on the wire</i></div><div><i>Like a drunk in a midnight choir</i></div><div><i>[We] have tried in [our] way to be free</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Today, my sister Maggie arrives and we will hopefully be able to reach the right person and unravel more of our financial affairs. </div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-22530294776764742862023-06-30T06:30:00.001+02:002023-06-30T06:35:42.627+02:00How am I?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhudpt4gtHA48Kleu37cBtPKqwxSZaZjDuo0uEho-8wztwZgbTO2b_YEbCNJ7Y1ffujTpDs442wI7xy7vdnKPV1fr9VGqJ4lc-XIgrGt2Q0-UPL3-WU07JyTRM2Kz3v65DMw5s5AvrWiau_ufpbXCKFDNICLkTvNo9exy0I3qDJVfUpzdBCANYE/s2288/DSCN0091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1712" data-original-width="2288" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhudpt4gtHA48Kleu37cBtPKqwxSZaZjDuo0uEho-8wztwZgbTO2b_YEbCNJ7Y1ffujTpDs442wI7xy7vdnKPV1fr9VGqJ4lc-XIgrGt2Q0-UPL3-WU07JyTRM2Kz3v65DMw5s5AvrWiau_ufpbXCKFDNICLkTvNo9exy0I3qDJVfUpzdBCANYE/s320/DSCN0091.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> I still feel unreal as if this is a bad dream, a preparation for the future but not now. Thoughts of Rob keep invading my head. Good ones and not so good ones… and I will not deify him. Most of the time but not all the time, he was easy to live with. I’m sure he’d say the same of me. Once upon a time, I asked him why he loved me and he said because you are never boring. I took that as a great compliment. <p></p><p>Recently, we were on a plane together and we both liked aisle seats so we sat across from each other. I was watching some stupid comedy and laughed outloud and then realized where I was and covered my mouth. Rob looked over at me. Later, he told me that, when I laughed, he was overcome with love for me. He thought that’s my wife. I loved him for telling me. So many memories. We had a good life together on the whole. And now his ashes are in a cylinder and I hate it… fuck, fuck, fuck… There is a line in a poem by Irish writer, Paula Meehan - “I’d like to leave you in love’s blindness… never mentions how I stumble into the day,/ fucked up, penniless, on the verge of whining/ at my lot.” </p><p>I feel fragile. Of course, I do. I am managing to clean up papers, sort through his pills and ointments - he had a remedy for every small and large ailment - and take care of legalities. The car is now just my car. I hate that I am erasing him, tidying up his space… </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-63478682695818886662023-06-16T05:29:00.000+02:002023-06-16T05:29:27.947+02:00I cannot bear the pain...<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3aj5K1sn-J5odQkSLbDW2C8HStrj34iILKEuEgORa-Fk9yP6ZhFkkpUodbu2KYjiRtW9LEf_s6IKO1KY3kmQTJE0eoAWAUlCtkQbrcvxvp9ENpEiACBvwUhs04sqSDpO6qUeVtWKYPAqHFPttorYtGF_sy6yxMlXkBlURmHmcKanvUdGenw" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1260" data-original-width="1124" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3aj5K1sn-J5odQkSLbDW2C8HStrj34iILKEuEgORa-Fk9yP6ZhFkkpUodbu2KYjiRtW9LEf_s6IKO1KY3kmQTJE0eoAWAUlCtkQbrcvxvp9ENpEiACBvwUhs04sqSDpO6qUeVtWKYPAqHFPttorYtGF_sy6yxMlXkBlURmHmcKanvUdGenw" width="214" /></a></div><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As Rob lay in his hospital bed, he gave many signs that he knew his family were standing guard. He squeezed his sons' hands, he pulled at his daughter's hair, and one morning when he arrived in Albi, free of needles and tubes, he reached his arm up, drew Yvonne's face to his and kissed her on the lips. </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">This poem is by the Canadian poet, Alden Nolan, from a small town in New Brunswick, like Rob:</p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>This is What I Wanted to Sign Off With</b></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 21px;"><b></b><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You know what I<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>m<br />
like when I`m sick: I<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>d sooner<br />
curse than cry. And people don<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>t often<br />
know what they<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>re saying in the end.<br />
Or I could die in my sleep.</p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So I<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>ll say it now. Here it is.<br />
Don<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>t pay any attention<br />
if I don<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>t get it right<br />
when it is for real. Blame that<br />
on terror and pain<br />
or the stuff they<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>re shooting<br />
into my veins. This is what I wanted to<br />
sign off with. Bend<br />
closer, listen, I love you.</p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Au revoir, my love</p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Brendan will read this for me at the Crematorium. I want to go but I cannot. The last month and a half have worn me down. I would dissolve and I selfishly do not want to share my grief for this man with whom I've shared around 55 years, a man who drove me round the bend and yet is the love of my life, a sound man. </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://vimeo.com/836608420/69bdf09120">https://vimeo.com/836608420/69bdf09120</a></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-38511425370784764612023-06-08T17:35:00.000+02:002023-06-08T17:35:21.849+02:00Yesterday/All my troubles seemed so far away<p>Yesterday, Brendan, Michael, Gillian and I were told to wait in the family room while two nurses removed Rob's respirator - a clear tube leading to his lungs with some sort of bulbous attachment deep down his throat. We waited and waited and waited some more. Finally the nurse came for us and we followed her into Rob's room. He was in a near sitting position, mouth open, his chest blessedly moving in and out! "He has to cough now," one nurse said. We all chanted "Cough, Rob. Cough" and showed him how. Finally, finally, he coughed loud and clear. We applauded! In the evening, we toasted him with champagne. </p><p>The pneumonia and sepsis have delayed Rob's healing. I am scared. He most often has a vacant look on his face. His eyes look through me. One day at a time. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-37697588081709205872023-06-05T19:23:00.000+02:002023-06-05T19:23:07.278+02:00June 5, 2023<p> I am finding it more and more difficult to write about Rob's trauma. At the end of May, he was sitting in a chair - the first time since his accident - and was beginning to communicate his discomfort and desire. I threw a sponge ball at him and he caught it and threw it back to me at least a dozen times with a pure Rob distainful expression. "Why are we playing this childish game?" </p><p>And then, at the beginning of June, the hospital called. They had taken Rob to intensive care as he was having difficulty breathing. He had a pulmonary infection and his blood pressure was low. When I went in the next day, they explained that they had induced a coma and inserted a respirator, a food tube up his nose, and a number of thin clear tubes disappearing under the sheet. The doctor said Rob had pneumonia that led to sepsis. He looked frozen, grey, almost dead. The following day, he had more colour and the doctor said that he was responding well to the antibiotics. They were slowly bringing him out of the coma and reducing the level of the respirator to make sure he could breathe without it. He was. </p><p>Bill told me that we sensibly could have a "guarded optimism" that Rob would return "whole". We cling to this but it is becoming more and more unlikely. </p><p>Yesterday, we were told that the longer the respirator aided Rob's breathing, the less likely he would be able to breathe on his own, and the longer it would take him to recover: it must be removed as soon as possible. There are two possible outcomes. First, ideally, he would be able to breathe and return to the rehabilitation floor. They noted this is unlikely and today they added that he could catch pneumonia again. Second, his breathing would be too slow to support himself. They'd do everything to ease the pain but would not resusitate. He is too old. </p><p>Michael is with me, Brendan flew in two days ago, and Gill arrived last night with Derek and Wilder. Tonight Jane and Sebastian fly in.</p><p><br /></p><p>💕 </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-28835605386171146952023-05-31T16:26:00.001+02:002023-05-31T16:26:43.287+02:00Preoccupied<p>Rob is trying to communicate though not verbally. Since, I wrote the last report, the hospital has him sitting, for a number of hours, in an upright padded chair and although it was good to see this, he was obviously hating it as he kept sliding down the seat and kept grabbing at the binding holding him in (around his crotch). When Michael and I returned yesterday, he was sitting up in a much more comfortable chair with an elevated leg rest (I was impressed) but after an hour, he kept patting the bed as if he wanted to lie down. He also kept pulling at his moustache as it was growing into his mouth as if to tell us that he needed a trim. </p><p>No more mention has been made of inserting a valve into his stomach. I have seen him eat a whole container of apple sauce and some other liquid-gel stuff but refuse caramel pudding. I think he is simply showing what he prefers. (I am going to ask if we can bring him some food, like a pureed chicken soup). We also had a visit from the hospital’s microbiologist who requested that we wear a plastic apron and gloves when visiting to make sure that we are not carrying any bacteria that Rob couldn’t fight it at this time… She also said no to flowers or potted plants. </p><p>Michael and I are a little frustrated as we don’t know which neurologist is caring for him. We have had no updates, no mention of the results of the scan and such. We did try yesterday to arrange a consultation and did speak to a neurologist who Rob has visited in the past, but he said that his colleague is looking after Rob. (And did we ask for a name? NO!) He did say that they are worried as Rob is sleeping so much. (I thought this was the way to heal the brain.) I had a restless night, couldn’t sleep, worrying about how to be kept up to date and such and so I asked a friend Eleyna who calls herself a hand-holder for English-speaking people having to navigate the French medical and legal system to help us. (I call her a cultural attaché.) Hopefully, we will learn more in the next few days. ❤️</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-80116070404934345912023-05-28T05:15:00.004+02:002023-05-28T07:07:02.259+02:00Ups and Downs<p>I had one happy day and one kiss that will have to last a week as the last two days have not been good. Rob had a potassium deficiency so the nurses put him on a drip and fucking hell, restrained his hands once again, forcing him to lie on his back, unable to raise his arms. They promised to take off the restraints once the potassium drip was finished. Today, when I went in, he had a glucose drip and again his hands were tied (much softer bindings than the ones in Casablanca that were bruising his wrists.) Michael and I were told that we could remove the restraints when we are present and can watch over him so yesterday, I stayed six hours with a short break for a sandwich and cigarette. Today Michael and I are going to try a split shift so we can cover more hours. </p><p>Michael had the doctor write down Rob's situation. “Subdural hematoma (around the brain). Hemorrhagic bruising intraparentrymatous (in the brain).” This is disrupting the connection of synapses which is causing the involuntary grabbing and such. As the blood moves out of the brain, the control will return.</p><p>More sobering still is that the flesh is literally hanging off Rob’s bones. (His arms and legs look like parchment and so I’ve been rubbing moisturising cream into them.) He has had little to eat in over a month and the doctor wants permission to put a tub directly into Rob’s stomach and feed him through it. I am despairing because I imagine that he will be tied down for the duration. The problem is that he cannot swallow soft food well and we are not allowed to give him water as it may go into his lungs.</p><p>Bev caught Bill, boarding a plane for home, and asked for his advice: "Well it’s a tough situation… because if he can’t swallow properly yet he could aspirate and then develop pneumonia which would be dangerous. If he isn’t getting adequate nutrition I can see the need for the stomach tube but pulling on it would be a disaster also. Oh boy… between a rock and a hard place. It’s a waiting game for his brain to recover yet not have him disturbed while healing. I don’t have an easy answer… "</p><p>I do know that Rob's recovery will take months and we will experience many ups and downs but sometimes the swinging makes me dizzy. Without a voice, during his recovery, it’s as if Rob is a child of mine: I hate to see him suffer so I try my best to ease the way for him but sometimes this is impossible.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-61518773388711980902023-05-26T10:27:00.000+02:002023-05-26T10:27:37.174+02:00"And then he kissed me"<p>Yesterday, when we arrived, Rob was lying on his side! I leaned over to say hello and he raised his arm, wrapped it around my head, pulled me down and kissed me on the lips!</p><p>During our visit, he kept squeezing my hand. He stroked Michael's arm, and touched his and then Michael's moustache. Still, he was restless and so Michael played his music. When John Prine's "Long Monday" came on, and Prine sang</p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Soul to soul<br />Heart to heart<br />And cheek to cheek<br />Come on baby<br />Give me a kiss<br />That'll last all week</i></div><p style="text-align: left;">I touched my lips. (I am still overwhelmed by the kiss.) There were other small signs that Rob was trying to communicate. He pulled at his pillow that was at an uncomfortable angle and at the neck of his hospital gown. (He did this in Casablanca too.) I am not sure if he's trying to say that he wants out of the hospital or, most likely, that he hates wearing clothes in bed. When he kept pushing his hospital bracelet down his wrist, the nurse cut it off and put it on his ankle. (She was amused that Rob then tried to reach down to his ankle.)</p><p>Today, Michael has left, with his computer, to try and work by Rob's side. I'm staying home to catch up on paperwork. Tomorrow I will spend the day with Rob. (I am hoping for another kiss.) </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-34756249333757021552023-05-25T10:52:00.000+02:002023-05-25T10:52:06.102+02:00May 25, 2023, Castelnau de Montmiral, France!<p> I am overwhelmed. Michael says that the French air ambulance doctor and nurse marched into the Casablanca hospital on the 23rd of May at 11:20 am, went directly to Rob's room, untied his hands, removed all tubes, transferred him onto a gurney, into an ambulance and with lights flashing and siren howling drove directly to Casablanca airport and onto the tarmac. During the flight, the doctor asked Michael about Rob, why he was in Morocco, what he had done for a living, and such. An ambulance met them in Toulouse and again with lights and siren, drove directly to Albi Central Hospital. Luckily I was in the lobby when they entered. Once they had settled Rob into his room, the ambulance doctor spoke to Michael and me about Rob's condition and soon after, the neurologist checked Rob and spoke to us too. We received more information than we had in a month in Casablanca. </p><p>Michael and I visited the next day. Rob pulled at the collar of my blouse as if drawing me closer and it would be wonderful to think he knows me but I’m not sure as he is agitated and pulling on everything. (Is it any wonder after two ambulances and a four hour plane ride yesterday?) On a happy note, he is does not have his hands tied to the sides of his bed. He does not have oxygen tubes up his nose. He does not have electrodes stuck to his chest. Nor is he wearing support hose. He doesn’t even have a catheter. (When I asked the doctor about this, she said he didn’t like it.) After a few hours in his room, we felt such relief. The hospital staff have compassion for my poor confused guy. In Morocco, they had little. </p><p>I am so happy to be home. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-68228677454486061572023-05-20T16:58:00.000+02:002023-05-20T16:58:35.103+02:00May 20, 2023<p> If I weren't so weary, I'd be dancing jigs. Rob is leaving Casablanca on Tuesday, May 23rd at 11 am by air ambulance and taken to Albi CHU. Michael will be flying with him. I will leave the day before and bringing his heavy suitcase with me. A friend will pick me up at the airport. </p><p>I am curious about how a French hospital or rehabilitation centre will differ from the two we've visited in Morocco. I am curious about Rob's reaction to the change. I hope he is given more mobility and that he heals quickly. </p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-52688299184215035132023-05-18T09:55:00.000+02:002023-05-18T09:55:37.304+02:00May 18, 2023<p>I have lost track of the days. I do have the occasional meltdown but I’m alright. Michael arrives this evening. I have not contacted the Canadian Embassy (though the tour company did) because, although Rob is a Canadian, we live in France. And what could they do? I think we are nearly at the end of our Moroccan adventure. Too bad our energy and emotions haven’t made us enthusiastic about exploring the largest financial centre and second largest port in north Africa. Brendan and I did visit Rick’s Cafe twice and found this tourist attraction (the decor a near match for the one in Casablanca, the movie) and the music a greater soother for our frayed nerves. </p><p>I think after today, I will stop the daily report because there’s not much to report other than my frustration with the hospital. I do hope that the French rehabilitation centres are kinder and cleaner than the ones here. Yesterday, I was asked to leave the room when the nurses changed Rob’s bed. When I returned at the end, one nurse was spraying some disinfectant to the top of Rob’s sheet. (He hates the smell of ammonia or any household cleaning product so I don’t use them when he’s at home.) Rob pursued his lips in annoyance I’d say and then stared straight ahead and refused to look at me when I said his name. The only good aspect of this is that I could see Rob is still there although unable to say anything.</p><p>I hope our exit won’t take much longer. I’ll only write again when we know the air ambulance is booked and we’re on our way home.</p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-79203206206352386362023-05-17T18:42:00.000+02:002023-05-17T18:42:07.987+02:00May 17, 2023<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #060606; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 15px;">Nothing unusual happened last night. I didn’t ask if I was allowed but fed Rob yogurt and didn't force the watery soup into his mouth. My act of rebellion for the day.</span></p>
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<p style="background-color: white; color: #060606; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Today at noon, Rob was slightly agitated but still his eyes were clear and he kept staring at me. I was surprised and pleased to meet the neurosurgeon who came into the room. He asked how I found Rob and I replied "sad". He said this is normal: he's been through a lot. He said that the cat scan done that morning showed that Rob was around 19% healed - a good advance - and it would probably take his brain six to nine months to recover. He agreed that a rehabilition centre would be ideal but another 2 or 3 days in the hospital could be useful. Brendan also heard from the insurance agent working on Rob's case and he, in turn, is working with an ambulance company outside of Bordeaux to find a facility for Rob. Brendan will hear from him this afternoon or tomorrow. </p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #060606; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #060606; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I am once again feeling hopeful.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-67161316507332655782023-05-16T18:46:00.000+02:002023-05-16T18:46:27.321+02:00May 16, 2023<p></p><div style="text-align: right;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilM77mVGxxCgbgM0CMwUa6ITFHnuB4oaoG6hH1-7zrs7yETwSmVJsSZGMmkzP8NFEYQug-2z-GOkuXOnk3MqGbWI7FuBhjM4O11X19E9M-vEI07a-4LCMtq0WBUQW_N6XpN8N3zyOyVAo8wuMpcKuivCy0PVy3rEPrH_94chOUeaYZyfQPAQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilM77mVGxxCgbgM0CMwUa6ITFHnuB4oaoG6hH1-7zrs7yETwSmVJsSZGMmkzP8NFEYQug-2z-GOkuXOnk3MqGbWI7FuBhjM4O11X19E9M-vEI07a-4LCMtq0WBUQW_N6XpN8N3zyOyVAo8wuMpcKuivCy0PVy3rEPrH_94chOUeaYZyfQPAQ" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilM77mVGxxCgbgM0CMwUa6ITFHnuB4oaoG6hH1-7zrs7yETwSmVJsSZGMmkzP8NFEYQug-2z-GOkuXOnk3MqGbWI7FuBhjM4O11X19E9M-vEI07a-4LCMtq0WBUQW_N6XpN8N3zyOyVAo8wuMpcKuivCy0PVy3rEPrH_94chOUeaYZyfQPAQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: left;">Picture taken this morning.</span></a></div><p></p><p>Brendan and I are fuming (as are Gill and Michael). The neurosurgeon in Toulouse (after 4 fucking days) said Rob does not need a hospital: he needs a rehabilition centre. So we were thrown off schedule once again and the insurance company has started afresh trying to find a rehabilitation facility. (How the hell does the good doctor know what Rob needs when he hasn't seen him? Bill says that he probably read the notes from the hospital in Casablanca but even he is a bit miffed when I tell him that Rob is still hooked to various tubes and still cannot communicate. </p><p>My visits yesterday are a blur. Was it afternoon or evening, when five nurses came into Rob's room and pointed to the hand-binds and said I was not to remove them. I yelled that they were cruel or some such thing and, when I am with him, I make sure that he doesn't pull his tubes out and I always tell them when I am leaving. They didn't understand. When they left the room, I cried. One nurse returned and tried to touch me and I backed away from her. In reconciliation, she removed one band shaking her finger at me emphasizing that he must not touch the tubes on the other hand. (Who am I? A child?)</p><p>During the evening visit, a young male nurse who speaks a bit of English came in and asked me about trimming Rob's moustache and beard. I told him to trim the moustache to Rob's lip line and leave the beard because I prefer a full beard. (Rob is going to kill me as he prefers his goatee.) He asked if he should trim Rob's hair and I said no. I like men with ponytails. (Rob doesn't but he can get a decent haircut when his brain has healed.)</p><p><u>Today</u></p><p>I'm late at posting this so I'll add a note about my morning visit. Rob is much the same, slept through the first part of my visit and then woke. I spoon-fed him some gruel and thought of Elizabeth who could have made him something gently spiced and interesting. Towards the end of my visit, I called a nurse as he seemed agitated. She suggested I go downstairs and see Doctor Laura who I asked if she thought Rob needed a hospital or a rehabilition centre and she said "rehabilitation" although she would ask the neurosurgeon to have a look at him tomorrow morning. </p><p>I mentioned the hand restrainers and she said several nights ago, when I left, Rob had pulled out all his tubes and could have injured himself. I said that I told the nurses that I was leaving but, apparently, in the two minutes it took one to get to Rob, he had created havoc. (I must say that I'm kind of proud of him. Who would like to be tied down with no way to scratch say an itchy nose.) She did bend a little and said that his hand could be untied for my visits but I must call and wait for a nurse before I leave the room. A small victory.</p><p>Sorry about going on and on about this: I suppose it gives me something to rant about and distract me from his helplessness and my own. </p><p>Oops, I forgot to mention that Michael is flying to London tomorrow evening and probably staying the night and then flying either to Casablanca or Toulouse. The way it’s going, it will most likely be Casablanca. Sigh. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-43287163248416848492023-05-15T12:34:00.000+02:002023-05-15T12:34:15.434+02:00May 15, 2023<p><i> How long has this been going on?</i> It's been 3 weeks, one day since Rob's accident. I have been here 18 days. Brendan arrived two days before me and now is doing the work to get Rob home from London. Too long!</p><p>During my noon visit to Rob, he was distant and unfocused. They had tied both hands again. His moustache was embedded with white globs of food. I played his music and when he dozed, I read. I imagine there will be many days like this.</p><p>During my evening visit, Rob was agitated. He tried to get his hospital gown off. When I untied one handcuff and managed to get one arm free, he tugged at the other side so I removed that as best I could but it was difficult with all the attached tubes. Guessing he was too hot, I opened the window. So he is managing to communicate. He kept staring at me as if to tell me something and trying to clear his throat as if trying to speak (?) but I cannot understand what he wants from me. Again, I played his music.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-20285538339790346632023-05-14T10:27:00.000+02:002023-05-14T10:27:57.408+02:00May 14, 2023<p>Sigh. It's Sunday and still no news about the flight to France (that was supposed to happen today) although Brendan and I tried our damnest yesterday to contact people who might help us secure him a bed in Toulouse. If I understand correctly, this is now the hitch to our leaving. (Sunday was the first day a plane was available. I wonder when is the next possible day.) </p><p>Rob, wasn’t as lively as the day before yesterday. When I arrived at noon, he seemed agitated but calmed a little when I untied one arm and talked to him. I played his music. He drank water from a big bottle that I held and he grasped and tilted to his mouth. I brushed his teeth. (I wonder if French hospitals take more care with personal hygiene.) Time moves slowly. As much as I hate hospitals, I don't want to leave him until the visiting hour is up. </p><p>In the evening, I took a taxi to and from the hospital.</p><p>I am angry. Some person has once again tied both Rob's hands to the side of the bed and he is agitated. Truly, it is only necessary to tie one hand and even then, as Brendan questioned, why can't they simply cover the electrodes so he cannot puill them off? I untied one gauze strip from the side of the bed and then, in an act of defiance (quite unlike me, believe it or not), I untied the armband that held it. I called the kindest nurse and explained (in French) that I was bad and had removed the band because I cannot bear to see him tied when he has so little freedom to move and stretch. Every time, I remove that damn handcuff, he stretches his arm numerous time above his head. He feels the oxygen tubes in his nose. He feels the stubble on his cheeks. He is able to tilt the water bottle to his mouth. </p><p>I would like to know what he's thinking, what he's capable of doing, and what happens step by step as the brain heals itself. In brief, when will Rob regain his freedom.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-53859038009119270472023-05-13T09:24:00.003+02:002023-05-13T09:24:31.961+02:00May 13, 2023<p> May 13, 2003 </p><p><br /></p><p>I still do not have confirmation that our departure day is tomorrow. Needless to say (though I'll say it anyway), I am angry, frustrated, anxious and there's not a damn thing that I can do about it. </p><p>I went in yesterday and Rob was wide awake. They had moved him into a larger room with chairs and a sofa. The nurse who knows I hate his arms tied, untied them for the length of my visit and let me tell you, there is nothing weak about Rob's arms. He tore off the electrodes from his chest and the oxygen tube up his nose. I had a hard time trying to stop him and putting them back in place, apologizing all the while to him. When I held a water bottle to his mouth, he took it off me and tilted the bottle to his lips and drank. I cannot imagine how he feels. Most likely, he is more frusrated than I am. As if trying to tell me something, he squeezed my hand tight and pinched all around my face. (There’s life in the old guy yet.) </p><p>Mohammed, a security guard from the hotel walked me to the hospital in the evening and waited an hour for me. </p><p>Rob's eyes grow more focused, more intelligent every time I visit. His hands were still tied so I removed the tie on the hand that was bandaged protecting a needle leading to a vein. He didn't once try to remove electrodes or tubes and so I asked the nurse if she could leave that one hand free. I think she agreed. (Language is difficult. Everyone speaks Arabic, a great number also speak French, and a tiny number speak English. I am so missing Brendan.) This evening, I played Jesse Winchester, a folk singer whose soft voice and tender lyrics seemed to soothe Rob. I hated leaving him.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><pre style="font-family: "Source Code Pro", "Courier New", Menlo-Regular, monospace; font-size: 16px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">Magnetism
(After Sonnet 116)
Pull between earth and moon, or chemistry,
carries the swallow home from Africa
to perch again on his remembered tree,
the weeping birch by the pond. A star
will guide his mate home in a week, perhaps,
to the old nest in the barn, remade, mould
of spittle and pond-sludge snug in its cusp
as the new year in the mud-cup of the old.
Loss broke the swan on the river when winter
stole his mate while he wasn't looking. Believing,
he waited, rebuilt the nest, all summer
holding their stretch of river, raging, grieving.
So would I wait for you, were we put apart.
Mind, magnetism, hunger of the heart.</pre><pre style="font-family: "Source Code Pro", "Courier New", Menlo-Regular, monospace; font-size: 16px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Gillian Clarke)Sent to me from David Reid</pre>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-14855000579333634462023-05-12T09:28:00.002+02:002023-05-12T13:08:19.547+02:00May 12, 2023<p> Another day has passed and still no definite date for departure although the insurance company say that it looks like Sunday. They are in the process of finalizing arrangements with CHU In Toulouse, but I am afraid to hope because every time I have, I've been disappointed.</p><p>This morning Brendan left to catch a train to the airport and a flight to London. He has missed Jane (who he will miss seeing by hours as she has to catch a flight to Mexico for work) and Seb beyond words so I am happy for him but I have to admit, a little sad for me. He has been amazing in so many ways - Bev calls him "a saint" - while I have been an emotional mess. He communicates, in French, with the hospital staff and has taken care of all interaction between the insurance company and the hospital and more. (He has promised to continue from afar.) I feel vulnerable, without him, even walking to the hospital is a little scary as it's not in a safe area. (Later a security person at the hotel told me not to carry anything valuable on my person as I am easy target.) </p><p>Rob remains much the same, and slept through both of my visits. Bill reassures me that this is normal, that his brain is healing itself. I take comfort in this and hope, amid his snores, that he is receiving some solace through the music I play in his ear and my chatter.</p><p><br /></p><p>Long ago a work colleague told me she believed that life is hell, that we are literally in hell and that's why life is constantly throwing obstacles our way. I did a google search on quotes about hell and found one by Milton: “Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.”</p><p>Please let there be light today! (And yes, I know that once we get Rob to France, there will be a whole new set of obstacles but hopefully hopefully hopefully they will be easier to bear. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5239353.post-44391812635760864522023-05-11T17:25:00.000+02:002023-05-11T17:25:31.520+02:00May 11, 2023<p> I feel as if I am on an emotional rollercoaster and I'm taking you on the ride. Yesterday Rob seemed foggier. He looked at us but did not respond - not even to music which is worrisome. The high and the low was the earliest that they can transport him (hopefully us) is Sunday and I was hoping for tomorrow at the latest. The high is the repatriation team is at work. </p><p>At the end of the day, we still hadn't heard if it's a go for Sunday or not.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com