How much energy have I squandered in the course of my life, being cross, offended, disappointed or depressed? I suspect it has been a great deal, and I reflect with wry amusement – since that is better than mourning, again – that all these negative states also absorb extra energy since, in order to keep them alive, we must insist on them and rehearse our grievances, constantly reminding ourselves why we have excellent reasons for being unhappy. If we simply released them, the worries that underpin our negativity would simply float away.
Energy misapplied can be re-applied in better ways, of course. By refusing to allow ourselves to be derailed into grumpiness, by the realisation that it is fine, it is perfectly allowed to remain content even in the midst of great upheaval. Without noise, the quieter virtues are emboldened to emerge: peace, rest, calm and patience, which can show us a different way to relate to the world’s paroxysms. Like love, peace does not require to be constantly bolstered with declarations of loyalty. Peace, when it is allowed to be, simply is; and reveals itself as the inevitable underpinning, once all the noise has been silenced: We may make a lot of noise, but in the end, it is quietness that prevails.
Perhaps that is why I so like reading, and have gravitated to writing as I’ve got older. These are peaceful occupations that not only allow us to escape from everyday noise, but give us the means to focus on an activity that demands a bit of quiet in order to be effective.
Today I’m delighted to feature on Kathy Pooler’s blog, writing about my books, in particular how and why I wrote my memoir, Trapped: My Life with Cerebral Palsy.
I’m so grateful to Kathy for publishing my article on her website today.
Writing Trapped must rank as one of the hardest things I’ve done. Yet, it was the endurance test that ultimately saved my life and gave me a new sense of purpose, as well as countless opportunities to do things differently and see the world through fresh eyes. Having achieved that, no other test has seemed impossible, or anything like as daunting.
I do sincerely hope that my experiences with managing life challenges through contemplation, reading and writing will inspire others to take courage with their own personal mountains. We all have challenges to overcome, some expected, others that arrive like a cold whirlwind out of a clear blue sky. Whether we realise it or not, and whether or not we want to believe it, we can find ways to be happy, whatever life brings us.
That I have been enabled to find a path to peace through my writing makes me grateful beyond words.
When I was a kid, my idea of heaven was to go with my father to his work, and into the store-room where they kept the stationery. The blocks of A4 pads of lined paper, the fancy water-marked paper for posh letters, which we would hold up to windows so that we could trace the lion rampant and colour it in, where my idea of infinite possibility, with so much room for all my ideas to go anywhere I wanted – heaven!
It’s a pity that, instead of preserving that sense of the infinite and using it to my advantage, writing now feels a bit daunting, as if there are simply too many words to choose from, so many ways I could take a line of thought. So, habitually, I think that writing is hard because it contains too much possibility. How easy it is, by comparison, to write to a brief, to follow instructions, to know where you are heading.
But perhaps that is to look at the way I write, the wrong way. Perhaps the better idea is for me to wait patiently in writing mode, wrists and fingers at the ready, to see what comes through. I’ve heard of other writers who listen and write, and who record stuff that they later read and think, “Did I write that?” and who, reading it, decide, “This isn’t half bad, actually…!”
Perhaps that is the best way to go forward. It’s certainly one of the more restful ways, and who knows what it might produce?
My sister says, if I can’t get peace at home, I can go to hers for a few days. A writer’s retreat, she might call it, with time to think during the day and lots of space in which to allow my thoughts to wander without interruptions, and without having to think about school timetables or the soup boiling over in the kitchen… Nice idea. Problem is, life keeps getting in the way, so a more useful way to proceed, is to get up earlier, get organised and get on. Which I am doing.
Meantime, I am very heartened that Martha is reading Susan Scott and, she says, thoroughly enjoying it. She has found one typo – corrected – and pointed out a few small changes that I have taken on board. Very useful. But what is really truly heartening is that she says she stayed up late one night to read it…! A sudden gift to me that makes me realise, “Yes, I must do this, keep going and finish it.”
Book review sites, in particular, pour scorn on reviews by family members, suggesting that they are bound to be partial. It may be a fair assumption to make, but it is not my experience. Be that as it may, I am delighted to accept my sister’s encouragement as a signal that to continue and finish my latest project is worthwhile, and that the time to write is now. How lovely to have that vindication from a woman who is already immensely busy, and who has a rather less saccharine view of the world than I do.
I read women’s fiction because, just occasionally, I need that species of escapism. Martha would not usually delve into women’s fiction, assuming she would find the time to read at all. Further vindication, if I ever needed it, that my writing is worth persisting with. Thank you, Martha.
After Mum had spent three weeks in a medical ward at the Western General with a great deal of assiduous help to get her medically fit, she was advised that she was no longer a medical case – there was no more medical help they could offer – so they needed her bed back.
Fair enough. Doctors need to
treat sick people. And the wards at the Western on which this is done, are
relatively benign. The spaces are open and well set out, visitors are welcome
and encouraged, there are things to do and people to see, variety of a sort in
the scenery, and things to see out of the windows. Brave souls are allowed –
nay, encouraged – to venture to the café’s on the ground floor, or even outside
if the weather is clement, they have their zimmer and are warmly wrapped in the
company of their sons and daughters, siblings… The care is thoughtful and optimistic,
and the results are outstanding.
Then one morning a doctor visits and advises that yes, you are well enough to go home. But, since in a moment of caution, it has been suggested that a care plan is needed – though, in the event, my mother was deemed capable of managing most things independently, so her care plan was minimal – they would move her to another bed in another building until the care plan was in place. The caller who phoned from the medical ward to advise me of this situation indicated that this was “a step in the right direction” but was unwilling to say how long the stay on the new ward would be, though a murmur of two weeks escaped her reluctant lips.
Mother phoned immediately afterwards, in tears. She had a very different picture of her eventual destination. There I was, supposing a ward on the ground floor – nearer the exits – nearer the shops, nearer eventual normalisation. My mother’s advices abruptly put a stop to my delusions, and she asked me to visit her as soon as possible, and get her out of there, please…?
I visited the new ward the next day, armed with books, a few items of clothing. And found my eventual route to a building out of the way, at the back. Dark, approached through a narrow entrance with an air of abandonment, up two flights of winding stairs. I begged admittance to a locked ward, pleading my case past ‘protected mealtimes’ to a nurse on duty. The ward was a shock: tucked up in the eaves and back out of sight, away from any prospect of easy access to the outside world; no flowers, radios, tv noises, no internet access, no banter of relatives or friendly visitors. No views past the thick stone battlements; a single long, long corridor with business rooms off, and no-where to go.
My resolution hardened very quickly, and when Mum approached the orderly on duty to say, “I’d like to go home” I backed her to the hilt.
What is the point of an NHS treatment plan that gets people well, then shunts them sideways onto wards with nothing to do, no motivation, no reasonable prospect of access to the outside world? While it might not be intentional, the impression is inescapable that getting out of the ward at any time is discouraged, as are visitors, noise, or anything approaching intrusion. The message is clear: get well, stay well, and stay independent as long as you can.
I’m currently obsessed with watching de-clutter programmes. But then, I love to de-clutter, and am always looking for new ideas and inspiration. Why, you might ask, when I have never had a problem with accumulations?
I’ve watched Maria Kondo, and another Canadian offering, ‘Consumed’, both of which offer insights that are salutary. For example, that our things can weigh us down; that we should either love, or use, what we own, and if we don’t, then why are we keeping it? Why not have a house-full of things we love? Or an empty house that we can fill with things we love… Why not, indeed? Sometimes I think that we go away on holidays to simply get away from the weight of our possessions.
And coming to the end of series two of ‘Consumed’ I felt a flush of regret, of shame, almost, that I’ve never had much opportunity to accumulate things. I have perhaps turned a necessity into a virtue, because to do anything else was too painful. First in a diplomatic lifestyle in which the family was constantly moving, packing and moving again, then at boarding school with its term times, holidays and limited trunk space, and even, dare I say it, in hospital during the long summer holidays, with its long wards and neat bedside lockers so clearly demarking small expectations.
It’s all very well for me to decide I’m a minimalist, but it is truly unfair of me to expect others to agree. It is sometimes very necessary to feel the security of generosity, of knowing that we can keep many things we choose, because we love them. If that means we have four pillows instead of two, then that’s fine.
I know that less is more. And I agree. But there is a place for knowing we can collect things, and expect our collections to be respected. So I’m not going to be badgering my husband and daughter any more, and I’m happy to leave my sister to accumulate what she wishes. Having gone through the same minimalist tests, she has swung rather to the other end of the scale, which is just fine and dandy with me.
As my mother’s health improves, my grief seems to be receding. Sure, Mum may never get back to being the sparky, independent woman she has been all her life, but perhaps that matters less than we thought it did.
And watching over the last year the process of her gradual change, acknowledging how many personal mountains she has had to climb – not only losing her husband and her son, but having to move her home twice in less that eighteen months and make all the necessary personal adjustments – I appreciate her courage anew.
In her quieter moments, she remains an inspiration, and not for the reasons she might suppose: not for her physical strength, her purposefulness, her self-reliance, but for her resignation. Her stoicism, never her most obvious trait, is resurfacing in such a way that grief comes in unexpectedly. It pricks behind the eyes, occasionally overflows, but then it leaves again. And this has happened so much in the last few years, that I too am becoming more resigned.
I can’t pretend to understand the Whys of our situation. I can hope to make a small difference, and give my mother the hope that she will be heard, and that she will get better. I keep my fingers crossed, pray almost constantly, and hope for the best. Because when examined objectively, there has been nothing else we could have done that would procure a better outcome. The NHS – God bless it! – has proved itself a worthy champion of those in crisis; they have rescued my mother from death and from her habitual defeatism, they have given her the hope of a new lease of life as well as a long-overdue medical review, and today, they conceded that she could come home, after more than three weeks in their care.
So with the help of two members of staff, we packed my car this afternoon and drove home peacefully, and with gathering relief. There may be more grief to face, but at least we now have hope that we can face it on our own terms. Which is something else to be grateful for.
In visiting my mother, increasingly I notice the help offered and contributions made to my life and peace of mind by the example of others: doctors who help, nurses who answer bedside summons, auxiliaries who dish out tea, or supper, or chat, taxi drivers who take me where I want to go, my husband who cooks when he is asked to, and my daughter who can be trusted to do chores she is asked to.
And I realise, teamwork really does help the world to function. Yet another lesson for me: I can work in a team. I do not have to be solitary, alone and independent all the time. Capable of doing all things reasonably well, I can also ask others to help. I can delegate. Coming down from the citadel of solitariness, I can lighten the load, have more fun and gain insights from others, by sharing with them all my travails – gently, of course – and being thankful for their efforts on my behalf. It’s lovely to let go the reins and allow life to flow.
I learn a lot from my mother: that independence and self-reliance are great strengths, that it is good to have our own opinions and to be able to justify them, that hard work will reap great rewards. In the example of her dependency, I also learn that teamwork is valuable, necessary and can save lives, as well as making living much more fun.
Mum has been in hospital for almost three weeks. It was a big step to call the ambulance and actually get help, but I’m glad we did.
From having passed all her first tests and scans with flying colours, she was still feeling oddly off and looking peaky when my eldest sister and I went to see after her first week, on Tuesday. Moments after we arrived in her room, took off our coats and exchanged the usual pleasantries, Mum went to the loo – an unexpected struggle – then had a total systems shut-down. Was it a stroke? Something worse? We had no idea. More bloods were taken and an emergency scan immediately done. An infection was discovered, treated with loads of strong antibiotics – which, as a rule, Mum tends to avoid, thank God – and within twelve hours, she was in recovery.
Sepsis has been diagnosed – a fatal condition if left untreated – which must have been brewing for a few weeks..? In what Mum now does, and doesn’t quite manage, there are also signs of mini-strokes. And with all that, she is still as strong as an ox and getting better every day.
In the example of her sheer tenacity, my mother has become my mirror, challenging me to do my best, to keep going and to stay cheerful withal. Yes, times are taxing and we are all very busy, but that only presents me with the challenge to stay calm and cheerful, get my life organised and be positive. Because, being honest about everything, any other attitude is simply a waste of time.
Timetables are useful, and so
are routines. Which now include visiting the hospital most days to visit my Mum.
I have driven myself there, but the difficulties of obtaining parking are
almost insurmountable. (What do I do if, having reached the hospital, I can
find no-where to park?) So now I get taxis and am grateful that I can relax in
the back of the cab for fifteen minutes each way. If I time it right, I can
avoid the worst traffic clutter and shorten the journey.
I really cannot fault my mother’s medical treatment at the Western General. Having such an apparently intriguing case on their hands, the treatment appears to be tiptoe kid gloves careful, and the staff are uniformly kind, helpful and easy to get on with. And I say that as someone who has good reason to loathe hospitals and to never want to go into one again.
Yes, I can identify with the tedium. It amuses me to hear my mother complaining of boredom and frustration, but I refrain from saying, “I do know, I do understand…” as that would only make her feel worse: without prompting from me, she remembers my hospital admissions, which she herself sanctioned, and concedes that yes, I do understand, and yes, I have been patient. That was nice to hear, today. (Increasingly, I find I can make a point by being silent and letting it speak for itself.)
So yes, I have reason to hate hospitals, but I no longer do. Which for me is not so much a turnaround as a revolution of cosmic proportions. A whole arena of paranoia that I have, apparently, let go. For which, yet again, I am immensely grateful to my Mum. Thanks be to mothers for the lessons they teach their children.
February 27, 2019
Energy Misapplied
Fran Macilvey Fran's School of Hard Knocks, Happiness Matters 2 Comments
Energy Misapplied
How much energy have I squandered in the course of my life, being cross, offended, disappointed or depressed? I suspect it has been a great deal, and I reflect with wry amusement – since that is better than mourning, again – that all these negative states also absorb extra energy since, in order to keep them alive, we must insist on them and rehearse our grievances, constantly reminding ourselves why we have excellent reasons for being unhappy. If we simply released them, the worries that underpin our negativity would simply float away.
Energy misapplied can be re-applied in better ways, of course. By refusing to allow ourselves to be derailed into grumpiness, by the realisation that it is fine, it is perfectly allowed to remain content even in the midst of great upheaval. Without noise, the quieter virtues are emboldened to emerge: peace, rest, calm and patience, which can show us a different way to relate to the world’s paroxysms. Like love, peace does not require to be constantly bolstered with declarations of loyalty. Peace, when it is allowed to be, simply is; and reveals itself as the inevitable underpinning, once all the noise has been silenced: We may make a lot of noise, but in the end, it is quietness that prevails.
Perhaps that is why I so like reading, and have gravitated to writing as I’ve got older. These are peaceful occupations that not only allow us to escape from everyday noise, but give us the means to focus on an activity that demands a bit of quiet in order to be effective.
Thanks for listening.
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