Fran Macilvey

About Fran Macilvey

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January 14, 2021

Dear Blog

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Dear Blog

I know a post is overdue. It’s been too long since I wrote to you.

Though I get a lot of help from my sisters, I still find myself subsisting on about five hours sleep a night: I want to go to bed early, but life gets in the way, and besides, I find the late evenings and early mornings peaceful, and just about the only time I can be sure the phone won’t ring, the family won’t need anything and there won’t be stuff around the flat that needs seeing to. I putter about sorting things, ready for the next day, and am surprised when I see 12:34 grinning at me from the kitchen clock. That time already?

Some people have a high tolerance for living with lots of stuff around them – they don’t mind leaving things in pursuit of a bigger objective – but, perhaps since I’m slower anyway, I find that harder than doubtless it should be.

Mum is still in hospital, on a general medical ward, free of covid – everyone is tested twice a week, and yesterday one case was found – and finally a diagnosis has been confirmed that fits well enough with her symptoms. Is this good news or bad? How does Mum feel about it? I can’t know. I can only go by the brave face that she puts on things when she phones me. Not too bad, I gather, and knowing her, she will be glad to have something to focus on.

Though I feel she needs to get home in order to locate something she can genuinely recognise and find soothing, I am kindly reminded by my friends that the hospital would not keep Mum in a moment longer than need be, the current pressures and risks being what they are.

With that I am content. Almost. Most of the time. I listen to loud music through my fab headphones, work, and hope. Which will have to be enough in these strange times.

Thanks for reading.

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December 21, 2020

Quiet Crises

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Quiet crises

Throughout this year, I have gained a new appreciation for those among us who soldier on: the health care workers, supermarket supervisors and the staff stacking shelves, the cohorts of recyclers, cleaners and organisers. It has been too easy, while we were taking our previously “normal” lives in our stride, to overlook the crucial parts taken by so many players in keeping our erstwhile expectations on track. I feel a sincere gratitude to those of us who get on with things, because they have little choice: a semblance of normal life has to continue.

Which has always been my mother’s rationale for keeping going, despite her increasing frailty. Recently, she was taken into hospital. On the advice of a GP, an ambulance was summoned, and asked to ferry my mother to one of the Edinburgh hospitals, where her arrival was expected. Ten hours later, an ambulance finally came to the door because my husband, coming to the scene fresh, and alarmed at my mother’s pallor, called the emergency services again; so that my mother’s case was re-prioritised; and thus, two paramedics arrived.

For our pains, and those of my mother, we received a small peroration from the lead paramedic on the use of the emergency services to summon help and a comment that he disliked the emergency ambulance being used as a taxi service.

It’s only now, after an exhausting weekend in recovery from a series of eight-, ten- and twelve-hour days in attendance on my mother, while seeing to a dozen things at once and keeping abreast of my own household’s needs, that I sense the illogicality of much of what he said: I was not at all offended that he felt the need to speak his mind; I am, however, rather puzzled by the implications.

If the ambulance service is not there to ferry sick persons about, what is it for? At what point does a sick person, unable to move, feed or toilet themselves, become an emergency? And why is it only noisy emergencies that get priority? Without re-prioritisation, would my mother still be waiting to reach her bed in the hospital as other calls were constantly prioritised above her? Must we both be in a state of collapse before someone notices our lives crumbling under the weight of accumulated impossibility? For we had no carers on hand no help manage our own quiet crises, nor hope of any. (I had had to tell my mother’s carers not to come to the house, since by then she had been expecting admission to hospital.)

In the last two weeks, I have begun to appreciate some of the complexities that underpin our public services and their organisation. I’m grateful for these insights, and can only hope that I have learned enough to carry me through the next phase of my mother’s rehabilitation. No hospital visits allowed, but phonecalls are always a route through the maze.

In this season of love and goodwill, in the midst of a million quiet crises, I wish you all well, and hope that the New Year brings us peace and joy.

Merry Christmas.

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December 10, 2020

My mother as she is

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My mother as she is

I went to a zoom meeting recently, organised by my eldest sister, and conducted at my mother’s house, on my mobile phone: Mum has neither a camera, nor a microphone, nor the will to organise such things herself, so we sat companionably side by side at the dining table – a large, reassuring object harkening back to the days of large family dinners – and warbled happily on the phone. It was good.

I noticed that at times my mother has difficulty speaking, but otherwise, she seems to me to have been much more like her usual self. My elder sister, seeing my mother under the overhead lights, expressed concern to me – when Mum was elsewhere phoning my other sister – and I said, “Oh, yes, I suppose Mum does not look very well… But she’s fine…” All the usual things one says to reassure, when one needs reassurance too.

My mother is indeed tired, so tired, that at times, her skin looks translucent. I am used to being a witness to her decline and her constant struggle to recalibrate for the things she can no longer do – for her, a heartbreaking realisation, that I have at least had time to accustom myself to, rather more than my siblings have. To them, a sudden realisation is alarming.

My mother cannot help harking back to the way she was; I too feel hamstrung, so, while I get used to that feeling, meanwhile I do my best to help, smile and hope. It’s just about all I can do. That, and make phonecalls to organise deliveries, extra help; all that kind of thing. I have to stay cheerful, and even when fatigued, I accept there is no better alternative.

My elder sister would like to phone me to talk about it. She will do that when she has time. And I will reassure her as best I can. I know Mum is lucky. She is still able to live at home and has the freedom to live unfettered by the well-meaning “supervision” of others, a word I noted in a recent advert for a care-home, which reminds me of my kindergarten days and makes me shudder.

I try not to supervise, or worry, but I do grieve, a gradual process like the tipping of a sand-timer to the inevitable empty glass.

Thanks for listening.

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November 23, 2020

Focus of thought

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Focus of thought

I was privileged recently to be part of a zoom call organised by a writer on Facebook; It was attended mostly by US writers, so while I was pondering the making of supper, my colleagues across the pond were just getting into their morning stride. But that’s the wonder of live internet communications.

In the course of our discussions, I gleaned that yes, it is very okay to write for twenty minutes at a time; and yes, we can indeed, and often do, listen to music while working. Obsession with particular pieces of music is, it seems, as valid a way of coaxing writing as an obsession with writing itself.

All of which I find so reassuring and helpful in getting back to some kind of work. Until fairly recently, I had come to believe that “writing” means being a devotee of the art, spending days immersed in other worlds, research and writing. Not so. We can have other interests, hopes and dreams, we can be involved in other fields – it is good to be, since that informs our writing – and we can apply focus of thought to write in shorter bursts of twenty minutes or half an hour at a time, providing we focus for that time and do not answer the phone.

Who is going to grudge me twenty minutes of writing time? Who will even notice? It’s not the amount of time we have, or spend, at work, but the direction and application we apply to our efforts. Realising that – and realising how much good thinking can be the result of a few minutes’ concentration – is, for me at this time, the most important thing to hear.

I’ve been stalled, rather ill, and unwilling to consider anything except dealing with the basics. So it’s heartening to realise that I don’t need to have acres of time at my disposal in order to be effective; nor, in order to write, do I need to exclude every other aspect of what makes life interesting. I can mix and match, do a bit here and there, and hope, while I am currently mired in a strange kind of confusion, that the little steps all add up to something worthwhile. That I cannot yet see any kind of end point, may not, at the moment, be the point.  

Thanks for reading.

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November 17, 2020

A World of Opposites

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A world of opposites?

Right now, the world appears as one of opposites: Republican, Democrat; mask wearer, not a mask wearer, Brexiteer, Europhile… And more than ever, we seem to be insisting on our rights to oppose. All of which appears to be sowing division, discord, and unhappiness.

Division, discord and unhappiness are not attitudes I wish to learn or absorb into my thinking, nor would I ever think that endorsing these aspects was a good thing. It is my experience that we all have something to learn, and that if we want to begin to find solutions to the world’s very real problems, we have to begin to find a way to live amicably, despite our different viewpoints. So how can we do this?

I can see many different points of view. Depending on my mood and a host of other things, I can agree that a certain viewpoint is justified sometimes, even if I hold a different viewpoint; it all depends. So, if I lived in a country with minimal state provision for its citizens and a very thin or vulnerable safety-net for the sick or disabled, of course I understand those who insist on the right to keep working as long as they can, and who decry any attempts to restrain their freedoms in that direction, pandemic or no pandemic.

Self-reliance is laudable, but it can sit uncomfortably in the midst of a global health crisis. So, since members of my family involved in healthcare are in the midst of a viral outbreak which is having deadly outcomes and which most observers agree is now barely being controlled, and since I have friends directly involved in looking after the sick, I support restrictions on our social lives and even on our freedom to earn a living if that helps to bring the crisis under control. If I expose myself to un-necessary risk in exercising what I think of as my rights, how might an eventual illness in me or in my household add to the burdens of an already toiling health care system?

It is very apparent to me that, even in a world of opposites, although the Covid 19 virus and its ilk has not – not yet – affected me directly, it is better for me to curtail my daily expectations, since the combined effect of us all doing so reduces the risks to healthcare workers: even in times of crisis, we do not routinely choose to work in a field of endeavour in which the risk of serious illness or death is constant, and many times that of other work.  

However that may be, I can and do listen to differing points of view, and try to see the merit in all different perspectives. Despite our differing philosophies, we have to find ways to listen and co-operate with one another every day, so that together we can contribute to constructive, long-term solutions to our problems. That is what politics is all about. Since climate change, environmental losses and the weakening of democratic systems affect us all, the most enduring solutions will come from as wide a field of contribution as possible.

Thanks for reading.

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November 5, 2020

Keeping going

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Keeping going

For a long time now, possibly years, I’ve been toying with giving up my writing. In any event, lately, I haven’t been writing much at all, and the dismay of my paralysis has been hard to get my head round.

So I’ve tried to ignore this particular patch of desert, to pretend that lockdown and its outcomes do not affect me. Though my situation remains surprisingly similar to what it has always been, the realities of lockdown, with their peculiar mix of worry and resignation, make working on a fictional series about hard-pressed women – and men – rather hard to justify.

Do I need to justify it? Lately, there have been so many good reasons why I should stop writing: I have lots of calls on my time, from my husband, my daughter, my sisters, friends, my mother, even my daughter’s guinea-pigs; but sitting here, crafting and editing my work, I am reminded again that I do sincerely delight in this particular combination of concentration and escapism.

Even when so much of writing seems to be carried out it a private world that feels like a vacuum, how could I excuse a final decision to stop, when writing makes me smile and feel good? I also know that it is one real, tangible thing I do, that my husband sincerely supports. He wants me to keep writing. And I’ve seen how the things that contribute to our happiness and sense of fulfilment make the routines and hardships of life easier to live with. Constructing fictional worlds is the nearest I’ll ever get to time travel; or, at this time, to actual travel, which is another reason why I will be keeping going.

I’m working now on a final edit of my three novels, which though they each stand alone, also represent a series of characters whose lives may work out in so many different ways. I’m almost driven to conclude that my novels are, as they stand, only outlines, scoping out what might happen, never cast in stone.

That I’m keeping going in itself gives me reason to feel celebratory.

Thanks for reading.

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October 5, 2020

Taking a longer view

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Taking a longer view

My mother’s health is failing. Finally, after several years of painful struggle and wishing that things could be different – I’ve not quite lost sight of the woman who was content in her domain and saw the purpose in carrying on – my mother’s light is fading.

In watching this long-drawn out process, taking a longer view, many emotions surface. And though I don’t know on any given day which will be uppermost, and which will lie dormant and sabotage me as I sleep, I know that this period of waiting will simply have to be endured, as all painful things are.

Certainly, there is regret, and a patina of peculiar relief, as we both accept the inevitable: I can’t make things better in the way she would like them to be: herself able and competent, living in France, her son alive, well, and, (in the dream she would have liked) living a happy life… I can’t put back the clock, and I’m not sure, even if I could, that it would be a wise course. Would all the things that have happened in the intervening five or so years have to happen again? I’m not sure we could cope with that.

There is comfort, as there always is, in knowing we have succeeded in coming this far together, in peace, and finally in a clearer understanding.

As a kid and a young adult, I often felt my parents to be remote, living by adult rules and logic to which I was not, nor expected to be, privy any time soon. Now, since I see Mum most days and have a hand in keeping her affairs in order, I have, I think, proved my claim to be as content, happy and competent in my own life as most of us are: my mother can relax now, knowing that, although I’ll never reach her heights of scholarship or astonishing grasp of detail, there is enough of her in me to ensure that I’ll be okay. Different, but okay.

Thanks for reading.

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September 23, 2020

Stories of Personal Courage

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Stories of Personal Courage

My friends like to share stories of personal courage with me that they have themselves read and been inspired by. And there was a time – a period covering roughly thirty years – during which I was fascinated by them, mining individual stories of personal strength for nuggets of inspiration and advice when I needed it most. Some of the accounts I have read, I have taken to heart, and they have undoubtedly played their part in keeping me sane and alive.  

Nowadays, I feel as if I have found more of my courage, and so, I simply want to live as happily as I can, one day at a time. Does this make me unsympathetic? Not at all. When I am asked a question, or spoken to, I listen, as I hope I am listened to. But I also want to live freely, untrammelled by feelings of regret or pity.

I would not, and do not, want anyone to pity me; and therefore, while I do sincerely admire people who are living examples of courage every single day, I want not so much to admire them, as to enjoy their company, share their jokes and wish them well.

All of us, whether heroine or oppressed worker bee, at heart just want to be seen for who we are: not placed on a pedestal, nor looked up to, nor discriminated against or judged unfairly as we grovel trying to pull together our dignity from way down the queue.

I want to live on the level with others. I am not a mascot for the “unfortunate”, mainly because I don’t characterise myself or others as unfortunate, nor do I have unique access to spiritual insights, wisdom or empathy. There may be times when I feel I have something I want or need to say, perhaps voicing the views of those who may find it harder to speak out or be heard; but in this, as in most things, I cherish the hope that we are all alike in campaigning for what is meaningful to us.

Are my ambitions at risk of sounding flaccid and pedestrian? Perhaps, though while I do have ambition, my stamina is not always up to par; and for me, walking on the level is an achievement in itself.

Thanks for reading.

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August 31, 2020

“Eat Pray Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert

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“Eat Pray Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert

I can totally understand why “Eat Pray Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert has garnered so much attention and a devoted following worldwide. I’m not put off by the cynical reviews, though reading the book, I’m less convinced by the film – which I saw first. I understand film and book as loosely paired, each bright exponents of their own art: the film as very colourful, the book as a very readable exploration of how spirituality can marry well with the best of western values.

“Eat Pray Love” is full of the kind of pithy wisdom that we might collect for ourselves and deploy over a life-time, taking our favourite nuggets with us on our holidays, or into our encounters with difficult people… And it is also an immensely readable story of how one brave woman learned to slough off the trials of her life to find something more rewarding.

If she can manage to do that, so can we. Speaking as one who has spent years in a spiritual quest to understand Why? and who now acknowledges increasingly that Why is not the point: it’s more useful to work out How… it is heartening to notice many of my own suspicions echoed in this volume. I nod, agree “Yes, of course!” and “Oh, so now I understand…” Which is what, for me, makes this book such a gem.

“Eat Pray Love” is well written, and grapples with seeming ease, with abstruse spiritual concepts that would leave many of us floundering. With a seeming effortlessness, Gilbert lays out to view her evidence for a kind, generous all-seeing deity who loves us totally, and would like us to be happy. To argue with that seems churlish.

Rather than write a glowing review and indicate that this book saved my life, I would rather you read it and collect from it what suits you, given where you are now, and where you are going. It’s the kind of tale that will resonate with each of its readers differently, so that will have to be my main recommendation: read it, because it might just be the book you’ve been looking for. If not, then working out the reasons why not, is useful to know.

If I have one quibble, it’s that Ms Gilbert – who has such an amazing array of language she could use – in her heated moments references disability as an insult. I wasn’t really expecting to see it written, so when I saw “spaz” it was a jolt, and to see “spastic” used as a form of abuse was like tasting metal in my mouth. Once, as Lady Bracknell might say, is unfortunate. Twice begins to look like carelessness.

Nevertheless, a book I will keep.

Thanks for reading.

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August 25, 2020

Knowing all this…

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Knowing all this…

Knowing all this…. Covid resurgence, climate problems, disappearing wildlife, wildfires, water shortages, riots, political shenanigans and catastrophic explosions, not to mention other issues closer to home that constantly pull me up short and make me question… Knowing all this, what am I going to do?

Am I going to watch videos fervidly late at night and worry? Am I going to scroll endlessly through mini clips exposing this disaster or that impending crisis? Look out of the window at relentless rain and wonder where the Summer went…? Or…? Can I do something positive?

My life, my choices, my peace of mind, my freedom.

I hold tight onto my choice to be purposefully kind, and to work hard despite these and other pressures that bear down on my heart. I can still help a bit, by keeping my health strong, and my mental processes tidy and clean. Just because life’s situations are sometimes messy, is no reason to head straight for the swamp and drown in it.

All change, or betterment to any degree, starts with me, right now.

So that signals the end of obsessive anything, of endless checking, clicking, scanning the horizon and fretting. Instead, I’ll go for a walk in the fresh morning or as evening light fades. Instead, I’ll eat well, take a rest when I need to, and chat with my friends on the phone or over a cup of socially distanced tea. There is always plenty to do, and when that is finished for the day, I can read a cheerful book, watch a funny movie, have a laugh with my family.

When I look back at this unsettling time of change, I want to know that I worked hard and did my best. And in that, there is precious little space for wasted time or regret.

Thanks for reading.

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