Being Thankful

Yesterday we had our harvest festival at church and a sermon filled with all the little things we should be thankful for, like blueberries in porridge. Now personally I wouldn’t thank you for that – I love blueberries but the thought of soggy oats in warm milk poured over them turns my stomach – bleugh!

I’m fortunate I can have my breakfast of choice, most days that’s crunchy nut cornflakes without milk to turn the crunch to mush – I think I was put off milk at primary school, those little bottles with pink straws that sat in the warm classrooms waiting for breaktime still give me nightmares. #firstworldproblems

Scrolling through Twitter this morning I came across a tweet about more bombs dropping in Kyiv. pausing for a second in comfort and silence I glanced up at a patch of blue sky out of my rain spattered window and let my thoughts meander.

The grass has only just recovered from the parched summer, the rain drops are most welcome. Sadly, there are places in the world where rains never fall and places that get far too much more than they need.

The world is an unfair place and sometimes it sounds trite to say we SHOULD be thankful. Almost disingenuous to be thankful for NOT suffering like so many others, but then our thoughts turn to prayers to lift the less fortunate out of their suffering – Oh God when will the madness cease?

For what it’s worth I offer you these words of thanks I wrote this morning – a prayer, a poem? Not perfect, maybe not as eloquent as I’d like think they are. As we say in our Open The Book assemblies – if you want to make this prayer yours say Amen after me…

Thank you that I live

In a land of blue skies

And gentle rain

 

Thank you for the softest breeze

To tease my hair

 

Thank you that my life

Is not filled with greater cares

 

But I pray for those who live

Their lives on a precipice

With daily shocks of bombs

Stained with

Grey rubble and dirty red blood

 

I pray for those

In lands parched and dusty

Children with hungry bellies

Or in lands where

The water rises high

Sweeping life and livelihood aside

 

So many lives in turmoil

And I wonder why

 I got to be so fortunate

By just a quirk of birth

To live in a land of plenty

Although there are still great extremes

Troubles and tears

Many hidden in plain sight

 

But today, just for this moment 

 

I have so much to be thankful for

In this land of blue skies

And gentle rain.

Grief is expected – how you grieve is optional

The outpouring of grief since the Queen died has been phenomenal. Carpets of flowers, crowds of people and then there’s THE QUEUE, which can probably be seen from space!

I’ll confess I’m a bit ambivalent about all the fuss, I understand the need for a release of emotion but the flowers to me are a waste, and the pageantry and protocol seems over the top.

tributes for the Queen - image from Metro

My biggest concern is for the wellbeing of the immediate family and close friends, how abhorrent it must be to be filmed at every turn, practically every tear measured. When King Charles had a fit at the leaky pen my heart went out to him. For all his privilege and wealth this is intrusive. He is a seventy something year old man mourning the loss of his beloved mother, not that long after laying his father to rest.

This is the part he was always born to play but at such a time as this his emotions will be all over the place. And the same goes for the rest of the royals, from the oldest to youngest, those used to being in the public eye and those more used to being on the periphery, suddenly being scrutinised far more than usual.

The media can be a voracious beast devouring its prey and all too often those of us looking on lap it up.

If only there could be a halt on proceeding, a chance to just breathe, some space away from twenty-four-hour news.

I guess it won’t be long until this news cycle is over and most of the family can retreat and process their grief more privately, some member won’t get that luxury.

There is now some deliberation as to whether Prince George will make an appearance at his great granny’s funeral. That is a huge ask of a nine-year-old, only his parents can make that informed decision. There will be critics either way.

I was thirteen when my great nana died and hers was the first funeral I went to, co-incidentally she was 96, a good age, an expected funeral, the perfect introduction to the ritual.

The first funeral my youngest son went to was his dad’s – that’s a bit harsh when you are a month shy of being eleven. However, he was old enough to know what was happening and certainly old enough to know his own mind and how he wanted to honour his dad.

Andrew’s coffin was wheeled into the crematorium rather than carried, One of Andrew’s brothers wanted to be involved, the other vehemently refused, one nephew volunteered, one didn’t. Oldest son stepped forward and then youngest said with determination he wanted to help too. It was a proud moment watching them with tears in my eyes, but the scene was only witnessed by very close family. It wasn’t a public spectacle.

I do hope the young royals get some choice in how they wish to proceed. And I hope all of them get the private space to mourn in the ways that are best for them.

Grief is inevitable but how we grieve is both optional and never-ending.

I have been slightly surprised by how much of my own grief has resurfaced at this time, memories of losing grandparents, my dad and of course losing Andrew. The afternoon of the Queen’s death we were scattering ashes of my aunt and uncle, followed up with tea and cake. A family gathering that foreshadowed the royal announcement.

Death is all around us, very much a part of life and yet the subject is still very much taboo. When Andrew died it took me months to even understand what grieving was all about. I thought it was finite and never knew it came in many shades of grey and blue not one size fits all BLACK.

My best piece of advice to anyone grieving is do what you need to do to get through each day, whether you laugh, cry or scream, every emotion is valid.

Let’s hope the royals get the chance to grieve without worrying how the world sees them because they have lost a loved one who means more to them than she could even mean to us.

The Secret Code of Holding Hands

You said we would always hold hands, even when we were old and grey. I wonder if it was appropriate to hold hands through a church service? Hands clasped out of sight, hidden between dark wooden pews, that probably held many secrets. You took my hand in yours and traced the words “I love you” on my palm. I squeezed your hand tight in a warning catching the glint in your eye that threatened an eruption of laughter. We communicated simply, secretly, lovingly. Now I can only remember as I bring a hand to my face to trace a tear.

Without a Care

The girl woke up, the strange bed was soft and warm, she was comfortable enough to stay and had no reason to get up, no pressing duties to attend to, but the golden sunlight that fell across her from the open window was too inviting. With young limbs and a childlike grace, she leapt from the bed. She could hear birdsong and the bubbling sound of running water nearby. She gazed on the bright new dawn, not a cloud in the bluest of skies to spoil the view.

A boy burst in her room and she stared at his familiar face, there was the hint of memory or a dream she couldn’t pin down.

“Lilibet, you’re here!” his eyes sparkled with delight.

Without hesitation she took his offered hand, and when they touched she knew this was her forever home. 

He led her out to play in the King's garden, without a care.

Hello Again Lilibet by Murphys Sketches https://www.instagram.com/murphys_sketches/?hl=en 

The Inside Outside Poem

 Inside, two fat juicy apples in the fruit bowl

Outside, a dahlia, not yet fully open, sprinkled with raindrops

Inside, a diary for 2022, yellow, white and blue

Outside, an ominous storm cloud hovering over my washing

Inside, a ticking clock counts each second

Outside, dead strawberry plants need some attention

Inside, a crystal vase with dried honesty seed heads

Outside, a bird feeder swinging by an old shoe lace

Inside, I take the apple and crunch it.

Abi and Me

The dust jacket is matt pink, scruffy black letters, which appear to have been scrawled with a sooty finger, or stick of crumbly charcoal, announce “This is not a Pity Memoir”. When the outer cover slips the sugar pink clashes with glossy bold yellow like a Battenburg cake full of E numbers. The words hidden beneath - “It’s a love story.” 

My copy is signed in the same scribbly hand – “To Sarah, Happy reading, crying (?) Abi Morgan”

Since trying to fashion my own story into a memoir I’ve been reading more true stories, especially those written by writers.

Abi Morgan is a screen writer and I confess I knew little about her except she wrote “The Split” for the BBC and I am a huge fan. Listening to her at discuss her memoir at the Primadonna festival with Kit de Waal I realised just how many similarities there are between my story and Abi’s.

Both of us were born in 1968 – I add her to the list of “famous” people born that year, Kylie, Jason, Catherine Tate and of course Daniel Craig. I note Abi’s birthday is in September, I am still just a smidge older than all of them!

Both us find our husbands collapsed after severe headaches – only Abi’s husband isn’t really her husband, they never married and the outcomes are starkly different.

Subsequently in the wake of one family trauma we both develop cancer – her breast, me bowel.

Yes, many similarities but also our stories are poles apart. We are like spinning tops which clash and career off in opposite directions rather than balloons benignly nudging each other on the breeze.

Am I waxing lyrical, of course, my writing so often coloured by the style of narrative I am reading, Abi’s stream of consciousness somehow taking my own words along with hers.

I didn’t like her style at first, I’m not sure I will enjoy this, I thought, but then something clicked, her lists, her pop culture references and her brutal honesty started to resonate as I tuned into her wavelength.

Grabbing some post-it notes I began reading like a writer (thanks Kit de Waal for that advice) not only noting what I enjoyed but marking the pages where our stories converged.

We had both written to Jim’ll Fix It – neither of us had our letters answered. We both count our blessings for that – phew! What charmed lives we led.

Although Abi never travelled abroad until she was eighteen, she has made up for it since and recounts many skiing trips and foreign family holidays. She even manages to take her two teenage children, one boy, one girl, away to their holiday home in Italy when her beloved Jacob is in hospital. 

Our family could never manage holidays when Andrew was still alive, I remember only too well the stress at the airport flying to Paris, defusing and calming what could have been a major incident. I still find holidays hard to do.

Do I envy Abi’s “glamourous” lifestyle? Perhaps - not really - I wish the home screen on my computer was Andrew and I standing somewhere more exotic than on Redcar beach. But that is my life and my memories, we can’t make anymore together because Andrew died.

Meanwhile Jacob lived and Abi wonders what it would be like if he hadn’t. Would life be better or just different? She ponders a carefree life as a widow - sorry love that's not all its cracked up to be!

I certainly don’t envy her looking after a man who is her “husband” and yet isn’t – he doesn’t even recognise her – she is NOT the REAL Abi Morgan. A side affect of his debilitating neurological condition.

My heart breaks at the thought and I know full well that I would not have handled that situation as well. If Andrew lived and needed full time care it would have driven me mad, I couldn’t have done it. Only I am allowed to say it but, I do believe it was for the best Andrew’s heart attack was fatal.

Jacob suffers from MS and then develops Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis – 80% of people have a good outcome with treatment, but his prognosis is not so great, they never get fully out of the woods.

I’m not sure what the percentage is of people having heart attacks fully recovering?  I daren’t look it up. It probably quite high and Andrew could have been perfectly fine but from family history I know that his dad was never the same after his first heart attack at the same age of 48. I know how stoic my mother-in-law was but how looking after her husband wore her down and how the ripples scarred the family.

Abi’s grief is so raw and visceral, you can still grieve if someone survives, you still mourn what was lost. 

Many of our challenges were different, I was spared financial worries, the mortgage paid off once I produced the death certificate – I burst into tears when the letter arrived.

Coming on top of all we both lost our cancer diagnoses seemed a cruel twist of fate, far too dramatic for even a weekly soap opera. 

We both think of our children and the unfairness of the situation, already being a family with “one man down”. 

Abi appears to have struggled more than me with the procedures of her own treatment, but she was also caring for Jacob, two hospital stories knotted together – how I admire her for that.

I had been a widow for eight years when I was diagnosed and I had my dad beside me during chemo, we sat side by side being drip fed our individual poisonous cocktails  – “family outings”, that my mum now admits she was weirdly jealous of.

It’s strange what you see in others, you wonder if you would cope differently. Be braver? Fall apart? Stay or leave?

Ultimately Abi’s story is not a pity memoir but a true love story, just as it says on the cover. You will never know how you might react until it happens to you and I pray it never does, at least not as dramatically. It makes a good story but up close and personal is almost too much to bear.

Abi Morgan you have my full admiration.

Everyone else – go read this wonderful, honest, life affirming book and hold you loved ones just that bit tighter in gratitude.

Down the Mouse Hole

Youngest son has just completed his master’s degree in computer science but he was stumped the other evening when his friends asked “what is the plural of mouse as in a computer mouse?”

It almost seems too obvious – surely it’s mice, but then again, it doesn’t sound exactly right.

image from the National Cyber Security Centre website

When would you ever need to use the word in the plural, you only have one attacked to your computer, if indeed you even bother these days with the scrolly bit built into a laptop?  (I confess I wondered the other day what happened to all the mouse-mats in the world???)

Neither of us could decide on an answer and so we were driven to the font of all knowledge – Google.

In computer terms, a mouse is a corded or wireless device that moves your computer's cursor while you move the mouse. In most cases, the plural of mouse is "mice," but more than one computer mouse can also be called "mouses."

A definitive answer? Well maybe or maybe not because as you scroll further.

MOUSE is an acronym, and is short for Manually-Operated User-Selection Equipment so technically MOUSE is already the plural 

However, the inventor of this essential piece of equipment disputes this.

When asked who named his most famous invention, Doug Engelbart recalled, “No one can remember. It just looked like a mouse with a tail, and we all called it that.” 

And this is where an inevitable rabbit (or should I say mouse hole) opened up as I took my searching away from the computer jargon to being word nerdy.

If it was called a mouse because of its shape, the acronym M.O.U.S.E. was in fact a BACKRONYM.

An acronym deliberately formed from a phrase whose initial letters spell out a particular word or words, either to create a memorable name or as a fanciful explanation of a word's origin.

Backronym was definitely a new word to me and I delighted in this new bit of not quite useless information to drop into any conversation. Especially when on further reading I discovered another new word INITIALISM

An abbreviation consisting of initial letters pronounced separately (e.g. BBC )

Youngest son was perhaps more perplexed than ever, but I’d lost him somewhere along the way in the tunnels of the ever-expanding mouse hole. 

Meanwhile I was suddenly content with my new found knowledge and repeated the words, acronym, backronym and initialism as I drifted off in peaceful slumber.

 ooooooo

If you enjoy finding our about new words and their meanings here's a word related book recommendation: The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams.

I recently listened to this as an audio book and it is a superb novel set at the turn of the twentieth century with the backdrop of the suffragette movement leading up to the first world war.

It is the story of Esme who grows up sitting beneath the table of the scriptorium in Oxford where her father works as part of the team compiling a definitive dictionary. Esme collects scraps of discarded words, saving them so they are not forgotten; women’s words and common words that don’t have the academic gravitas to fit into a scholarly dictionary.

It's well worth a read or a listen!