Angus the final chapter

Angus has arrived at his final days.  This dog who presented many challenges, who some felt shouldn't have cheated euthanasia as a pup.  This dog attached himself to me and asked me to help him live.  This dog and his orange ball, his phenomenal memory for best people, his sudden lashing out at feet, his clown antics.  This dog.  Proud, loveable, completely independent, stubborn.  He has curtailed our lives due to his special needs, but his life meant more.  His daily regime due to kidney disease and a degenerative spine have taken me on an alternate course, not backed up by convention.  I tried my very best for him.  Loyal to this moment.  He sleeps fitfully in his basket at my feet, wags his little stumpy tail as I lean in to pat him.  I learned him.  He learned me.  I look at him to know what he needs.  Now he needs peace.  To give peace to him is what I must do.  And today it is done.  Rest well my boy.

The beginning. Observations. Covid-19 March 2020

So, here we all are in the midst of a pandemic.  The news channels of the world report nothing else.  Numbers of fatalities rise daily on the ticker tapes.  New terms have been coined such as social distancing, self isolation, testing, quarantine.  Even the name of the virus 2019 Novel Coronavirus, Corona Virus, Covid-19, SARS-coV-2 is enough to perplex one, but what about everything else surrounding this outbreak?

Many countries are in lock down, including South Africa.  In fact South Africa has had one of the most draconian lock downs of all.  A level 5 state of disaster was initially introduced at the end of March.  Even now that the threat level has been reduced to 4, no one is allowed out of their homes unless the trip is essential.  Food shopping and seeking medical assistance being two examples.  Police and the army man road blocks to check on where citizens are going and receipts proving a trip are checked.  Alcohol and cigarettes have been banned and many non-essential goods cannot be bought.  This lock down has caused many negative spin-offs, the main one being no work no pay for a huge number of casual workers.  This has resulted in a severe lack of money and therefore the inability to buy food in many areas.  Hungry people are beyond desperate and there have been riots at the lack of promised government assistance.  During these riots social distancing has fallen by the wayside.  Food trucks have been stoned, overturned and looted.  Bottle stores have been looted and the black market trade in cigarettes and liquor is roaring.  Hints at corruption and improper distribution of food parcels are rife.  Starving people shout at TV camera's that they would rather die of Covid-19.  On the other hand, the more affluent areas have set up food drives that have bridged the gap and fed thousands all funded from kind public pockets, but sadly this cannot go on indefinitely as once thriving businesses fail.  In the midst of all this, some feel that flaunting the rules to go out and walk their dogs, visit friends or jog is their right.  This has caused an outcry from law abiding citizens and accusations of snitching curtain-twitchers from others.  Facebook is flooded with angry commentary from both sides.  The idea that the social distancing that a lock down ensures contains the spread seems silly to some who argue "How can one person jogging spread the disease?"  Well, logically it can't, but if one does it others will follow suit and then what is the point of  containment?  Now that the threat level has been lowered and exercise is allowed between 6am and 9am, joggers and walkers swarm in the dark early morning hours.  Surfers have staged protests as the sea is off limits.  Accusing, angry voices shout loudly as the authorities attempt to enforce the law.   Some are happy to remain at home while others kick with all their might against the lock down.  The differing points of view have caused rifts as ripples of resentment and anxiety abound and people tut-tut the views of others.   It would appear that to date very little is known about this virus.  The news reports flip flop from one fact to another.  We don't know for sure where it came from.  Some suggest a mutation from bats to pangolins, others suggest it was man-made.  It would seem from the way it has engulfed the world that it is virulent.  It would also seem that in critical cases death is assured as it attacks the lungs, overwhelms the system and causes multi-organ failure.  This risk is especially high in people with underlying cardiac and lung disease, diabetes, immunosupression and increased age.  Spread is said to be via exhaled droplets from infected people.  These droplets land on surfaces and the virus is further spread by contaminated hands touching faces.  Ironically the best way to protect ourselves is to simply wash hands well with soap.  Cleaning surfaces from car door handles, steering wheels and gear sticks to counters has become common place, as has the sanitizing of anything that has the potential to be infected such as keys, glasses and shopping.  Shoes are sanitized, clothes are washed immediately and people shower after going out into the world.  Masks have suddenly become a standard piece of apparel.  People are manufacturing and selling cloth masks left, right and center.  There is no standard in place yet, so this may pose a problem due to the miniscule size of the droplets breaching the weave of the fabric.   The reason so many health care workers are testing positive seems to be because they are in constant close contact with patients and despite being dressed like Ghostbusters in Personal Protective Equipment, the virus still manages to spread.  The lack of consistent information and the dearth of fake news masquerading as fact does not help quell the underlying panic.  The absence of the usual tried and tested medical treatment we have come to expect has humanity on the back foot.  This has caused a slew of conspiracy theories hinting at all manner of domination tactics by the powers that be.  Some are outraged that their freedom is being purposely curtailed saying Covid-19 is no worse than the annual influenza outbreaks.  There are those who are of the opinion that despite high fatalities, there is no such thing as Covid-19.  There are theories about the 5G connection and the real reason behind the future vaccine is to nano-chip us all.  These theories may or may not have a kernel of truth in their origins, but the bottom line is there is something out there that is spreading rapidly and is killing people.  To down play or deny the existence of this unprecedented global event seems rather naive until we know more.  Human psychology will find ways to attempt to make an abnormal situation seem normal and if the situation is beyond their control, find sometimes bizarre ways to justify it.  Wherever Covid-19 came from or whatever it's purpose actually is is neither here nor there, it is a threat to health, to wealth and our mental well being as humans.  To nature however, it is a blessing.

Jabbering on.

This is for those of us common and garden variety humans who don’t claim to be anything but confused and fed up.  The hot topic of, scream, conversation is Covid19 and whether or not you have been jabbed.  Whatever your bent, it is divisive.  To actually voice that you are not a fan of vaccination is to have people suddenly turn on you like scalded cats hissing science-speak.  To say you have had your vaccination is to have people either look at you incredulously or pat you on the back and congratulate you.  Public berating is rife on social media platforms.  There is no middle ground.  What Covid19 has done is divide people.  It has caused families to break up, friends to unfriend and enclaves to form.  And this is just the beginning.  Divide and conqueror?  Oh, sorry, let me not sound like a conspiracy theorist.  That is not my aim.  The problem here as I see it, is multi-layered.  From the start, Covid19 has been mired in a smog of speculation.  Where did it come from, bats?  Pangolins, wet markets, China even?  Man made or zoonotic, a bit of both, none of the above?  Did some silly idiot drop a test tube and go “whoops” and has been feeling a bit guilty ever since?   What about the 5G connection?  Are aliens involved?  There are still no answers.  What we know for sure is that people are getting sick.  But. . .  some are sick, but not sick, some are sick-sick and recover and some tragically die.  Co-morbidities increase risk, but then a spanner is thrown in the works as a young, fit and healthy person dies.  The apparent randomness of the virus has us all feeling as if we are playing a game of Russian Roulette.  You would think that this would encourage everyone to rush out and beg for the vaccine, but not all are doing this.  Why?  There are many reasons, but the most commonly offered are safety concerns due to rushed vaccines, that it would seem vaccines have not been sufficiently time tested, possible severe side effects and long term effects are at this point unknown.  To clarify I offer this analogy.  If some random person, who doesn’t look too much like a serial killer, offers you a sweet, do you take it, pop it into your mouth and say thank you?  Humans are naturally cautious, it is called survival instinct.  Some want to be sure that what they are being told to do is safe.  They want to wait, watch and make decisions on their own terms.  Many are feeling bludgeoned by the constant calls to vaccinate and guilted, not only by their families and friends, but by their governments as well.  The latest headlines are telling us that 99% of people dying from Covid19 are those unvaccinated, yet vaccination hesitancy is causing concern world wide.  So, call it rebellion, rebellion as a way to attempt to regain a modicum of control in this unfamiliar world, call it un-common sense, call it stupidity.  Whatever the reasons, the bottom line is it is the real fear of the, as yet, known.  This is a direct result of the way the pandemic has been handled.  Just a year and eight months ago, the people of the world were thrust into the grip of a novel, meaning new, disease.  Medical staff were literally treating patients through trial and error as no one really knew how the virus worked.  Lockdowns have ruined and isolated people from their living and dying loved ones causing huge distress.  The ‘new normal’ demanded sudden, atypical behaviourial changes and “Coronaspeak.”  Daily slews of misinformation, fake news and conspiracy theories have engendered suspicion of anything calling itself truth.  Is it such a surprise then that seeds of doubt have germinated in people’s minds.  I wonder if there is anyone on the planet who is 100% sure that what they are doing or not doing is in fact correct.  For those who have been vaccinated or plan to be, that is OK too.  You have every right to make your choice.  It is a personal decision that does not require any outside approval.  The antithetical nature of the camps, however, will probably result in it becoming as taboo to question anyone about their vaccination status as it is to ask about their earnings.  Things start to become even more murky when the people tasked with looking after our health start turning against each other.  Now people who are supposedly the brightest of the bright, are making the career-killing decisions to make their opinions known.  Another divisive event.  If a doctor isn’t an epidemiologist is he or she not au fait with the workings of the virus?  Is there a sector of doctors who are mentally ill as was alleged?  (If so, can we have a list of names please.)  Why is questioning all this met with such hostility?  I did not write this because I wish to sway people’s opinions for or against the vaccine.  I am pontificating on why this subject is such a minefield of controversy, vitriol and consequentially, angst.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alcohol ban in South Africa and the problems it poses.

2020 is gearing up to be a very interesting year.  Strangely, although everything is completely topsy-turvy, it isn't bothering me much.  I suppose that is because I am lucky enough to have what I need.  In these dark days of complete lock down in South Africa others are not so lucky.  This morning, a man we have known for years, chanced breaking lock down rules to come to our house to plead for some wine.  He didn't want money, he wanted wine.  He is an alcoholic and has been for a very long time.  What little money he usually earns doing gardening goes to feed his habit.  Lock down rules have banned the sale of alcohol and the man is suffering badly as I am sure are many others.  The main reason for the ban was to curb socialising in crowded pubs.  The man I mentioned drinks alone in his home.  The withdrawal from alcohol will probably kill him as his general health is very poor.  This led me to think about the consequences of the ban.
If this ban is not lifted a number of things will happen.  Firstly people like my friend will probably die from withdrawal.  I have witnessed Delerium Tremens, it is not pretty and usually fatal.  Secondly, the reckless behaviour caused by the overwhelming need for the drug of choice will lead to the law being broken from petty thievery to perhaps grievous bodily harm or worse.  An addict's brain is fixated on one thing only and when in withdrawal, their ability to differentiate between right and wrong is severely altered.  Then there is the very real possibility that any substance that contains perceived mind altering properties from hand sanitizer to turpentine will be consumed.  This will lead to severe poisoning and yet more lives lost.  It is inevitable that illicit alcohol sales will (probably have already) become a thriving business and yet another drain on policing resources.  Black market alcohol is also often not regulated and therefore another potential health risk.  South Africa has a very high incidence of addicts in all sectors, but especially in the poorer areas where alcohol is a form of escape from lives mired in poverty.   I do not think the government thought this ban on alcohol through adequately.  Some NGO's are calling for the ban to be lifted as keeping it will do more harm than good to alcoholics in our society.  Alcoholism has a stigma attached and non-alcoholics may not understand how all consuming it is.  I fear for those, like my old friend, who sadly has the odds of survival stacked against him.

A re-evaluation.

I have spent the last few days re-evaluating what I would like from friendship.  I am essentially a loner, a very private person, but I do enjoy stimulating conversation, a good laugh and that warm and fuzzy feeling friendship should bring.  I have an egg cup full of friends I feel safe with, who I trust to share my concerns with.  I tend to be wary of people in general so these people are precious gems in my life.  I have found that more and more people are in it to win it, to stomp all over the sensitivities of others to gain attention for themselves.  I wrote a blog about how people use carefully placed words to bully others, but recently I was shocked to find that their actions too are a cleverly crafted game of like me, like me, like me.  I noticed this because human behaviour is of great interest to me.  I ponder over why something doesn't feel right.  I try and work out what the desired effect from an action may be. What I will no longer tolerate is "friends" who only need you when they are needy, who abuse your trust by gossipping or sharing your vulnerabilities, who, after being given chance after chance, still repeat the same behaviour, who infiltrate your circle of friends and micro-manage them in a way that puts you at a disadvantage, who demean, criticise or otherwise make you feel inferior, sad or bad.  There is a saying "What you allow, will continue."   Don't allow anyone to feed off your good energy.  If it doesn't feel right, there is something wrong.  Trust your instinct.  Sometimes, even though it is hard to say goodbye, it will be the best thing you ever did.

Why no outrage?

This is not new news or a pretty subject.  This is a situation that needed addressing a long time ago.  There are areas in South Africa that are under siege by heavily armed gangsters, racked by unemployment and it's resulting poverty, debilitated by street drugs and alcohol which encourages crime for quick fixes as a way to forget.  These areas were mostly formed under the apartheid regime when people of colour were displaced from their original homes.  The majority of the people living in these areas are just normal human beings desperately trying to live their best lives.  Their days are spent hoping that there will be no gunfire, no deaths, no rapes, no abductions, no murders.  All they want is a peaceful existence. This is not the norm.  People in these areas live under constant threat of violence.  Murder is an almost daily occurrence. To make things worse, the promise of help from emergency services is virtually non-existent.  Ambulances are hi-jacked and medics robbed, police are shot dead, fire engines stoned, water pipes cut and personnel threatened.  Red zones have recently been implemented which means that the area is too dangerous to enter without police escort.  In many cases, when the police are not available, patients have to be carried some distance to reach an ambulance outside the Red zone.  When time is of the essence, this usually ends with a declaration of death instead of help.  Basic human rights are being infringed upon.  No human being should have to live like this.  I cannot even begin to imagine the stress that people live with constantly and how many are suffering from post traumatic stress disorders.  Instead of wondering what to make for supper, a wife may be thinking "Why is my 3 year old daughter missing, (Courtney was found buried after having been raped and murdered by a lodger.  She was the 19th victim of child murder in the Western Cape this year), will my husband be killed in the crossfire of warring gangsters, will my neighbour be raped on her way home, will I see another day?"  Too often children witness uncovered shot or stabbed bodies in the street.  Everyone knows at least one person who has died violently.  Stress causes illness and the incidents of heart attacks and strokes, cancers and asthma in these areas is very high.  As is the suicide rate.  I should think that the people are beyond angry, they feel invisible, afraid and uncared for by the government.  Calls for peace and prayer vigils for those innocents who have died in vain are all too common.  The people are doing what they can to remain dignified in an ugly situation, but the gangsters continue to ceaselessly de-stabilise everything.  Calls have repeatedly been made for the government to bring in the army to weed out the criminal element and help make areas safer, but our president turned that suggestion down.  Yet he called in the army to protect him.  Millions are spent on frivolous political party rallies, salaries for the ministers, their houses and their cars. Yet, people continue to live in, frankly, inhumane conditions.  When will government step up and admit they have failed miserably by allowing this torment to fester into pure hell for the people on the ground?  I felt compelled to write this because on the 1st of May 2017, in Elsie's River, Western Cape, gangsters opened fire. 13 people were shot, 4 of whom died.  (May Their Dear Souls Rest In Peace.)  This massacre did not even make the news headlines.  To my mind this is a blatant disregard for the loss of human life.  A cruel unsaid message to the people saying "Your lives don't matter enough to make the news." If this happened anywhere else in the world, it would be all over social media, television, the papers. There would be outrage.  Why is there no outrage here?  All that is heard over and over is empty promises to root out gangsterism.  I fear that the gangs have become too entrenched to be dealt with.  I fear for the people and their futures.  I hope that by putting this out there some good emerges.  I pray for a miracle.

                                                    Warning.  Graphic and sad.

Thoughts about a rain dance.

Cape Town needs rain desperately.  We have eighty-nine days of water left in our dams.  How does one solve this problem?  Well the only thing to do, as far as I am concerned, is what our ancestors would have done, organise a rain dance.  People were talking about it on Facebook and wondering whether someone could organise it.  Seeing as a rain dance is viewed as a bit of an alternative, hippy, wierdo way of summoning rain and in some circles frowned upon as evil, I initially thought to decline the challenge.  I was afraid, I suppose, of being ridiculed.  As time marched on and no significant rain fell, I thought well, why not.  I put an advert onto our Kommetjie Kommunity (yes, correct spelling) page and I was pleasantly surprised at the responses I received.  The rain dance was scheduled for this evening.  A beautiful, calm sea, a golden sunset and three people sat in the circle bashfully tapping on the drums we had brought.  Time passed and passed and one other person arrived, then another and one or two more.  I am so grateful to those who bothered.  I am grateful to the little girls who dressed up especially and danced around the circle to make the rain come (and I am pretty sure they are convinced it will.)  The point of this blog is not so much to describe the event, it is to point out how far people have gravitated from the natural rhythms of life.  Very few believe in the power of doing, instead expecting instant gratification by pressing a button.  Most will agree, saying "Yes, I will definitely be there what a good idea."  Then the usual apathy kicks in.  Having the expectation of a well attended rain dance (of all things) is a tall order I suppose, but it made me think twice about stepping out of my comfort zone again.  I will, I am sure, but it makes me think twice.  I am the kind of person who does what I say I am going to do and I do whatever it is to the best of my ability.  I wonder what will happen when the rain comes.  I wonder what will happen if it doesn't.  Well whatever the outcome, at least we tried with the best of intentions.

A very dry February.

Virtually the whole of South Africa is experiencing rain and in some places, flooding. All except for the Western Cape.  We are in the grip of the worst drought in thirty years.  The dams have only two months worth of water left and as a consequence, water usage has been severly reduced and reduced again.  Fines for water usage outside of the stipulations are harsh.  Personally I think the implementation of restrictions was too little, too late.  Our household has always been aware that water is precious and recycled where possible.  Now most people are recycling water from every available source.  We are showering in tubs, collecting the warm-up water from showers and washing up, washing machines are watering our thirsty gardens, the rain tank manufacturers are doing great business, but the tanks are standing empty, downpipes have plastic bags attached to them in the hope of catching any scant rainfall.  The soil is dry, the grass is brown, plants have wilted and the birds are thirsty.  I fill a small container in the garden for them with the clean warm-up water which they dip into often.  It angers me when I see people who have no excuse to be ignorant of the crisis, openly watering their lawns.  When there is no water at all, I would like to see what good a green lawn will do?  On another dry note, I decided to make February an alcohol-free month.  Lime and soda being the tipple of choice. People were somewhat taken aback when I refused an alcoholic drink.  South Africa tends to be a nation of drinkers and socialising invariably includes alcohol.  The first week was quite hard because I had been in the habit of pouring a well-iced glass of white wine in the evenings to accompany the sunset watch.  Once week two was over, that need out of habit had dwindled.  Week three I found that I was feeling more energetic and a little holier than thou. . .  I knew I was going to ace the challenge I had set myself.  Now with two days left to go, I am contemplating a life with minimal alcohol, if any at all.  So all in all a very dry February.

A waddle, a colony and a gulp.

I have a passion for wildlife.  I have been interested in all things wild since I was a youngster.  I wanted to be a vet, but my lack of aptitude for maths negated that so I became a paramedic.  I have always had the notion that one day I would put my medical skills to use with wild creatures exclusively.  After the tragic murder of Kommetjie's Eco-Warrior, Wally Petersen, I felt compelled, in my small way, to contribute to his legacy.  It was suggested that the Southern African Foundation for the Conservation of Coastal Birds would be a good place to begin.  I phoned the organisation and found that they offered a free two day course learning how to respond to, handle and stabilise sick and injured seabirds.  I live on the coast so I decided that this course could provide me with valuable information.  This week I made the two hour trip to SANCCOB's head office in Tableview to become a first responder for seabirds.  SANCCOB, (the N is just for fun) founded in 1968, is known for their programme that saves oiled penguins, but it is far, far more involved than that.  I arrived to a warm welcome from Dylan who was to be my teacher and was sent to don oilskins, clear safety glasses for eye protection, wellies, a glove on my left hand and neoprene arm protectors.  Next I met a pen of around thirty deceptively cute African penguins.  Plus minus thirty centimetres of wiggly peckiness.  I was taught how to catch them and hand them to the volunteers who were medicating them.  Then they either went for a swim or were put into another pen.  They were all African (previously known as Jackass) penguins in different stages of maturity.  Even the youngsters, otherwise known as Blues, are incredibly strong.  The African penguin is endangered and is a very stressy bird so minimal handling, calmness and quiet around them is a must.  I found myself chatting to them, in hushed tones of course.  After being pooped on and nipped, it was time to have a tour of the premises. This included a peek into the chick rearing unit complete with incubators (through the window) the ICU and an induction video.  A lovely man named Alex took us through those paces.  Volunteers from all over the world come to SANCCOB to complete their internships on penguin and seabird care.  Everyone I met was busy either scrubbing out pens, feeding, spraying down mats, medicating, preparing fish smoothies, defrosting and sorting fish, washing the mountains of towels that are used, disinfecting used syringes and tubes, catching birds for vet checks and so the list goes on and on.  The whole operation is an extremely well oiled machine, it has to be to care for the one hundred or so penguins and other birds needing attention. More penguin handling, then onto the flying species like the large kelp gulls, comorants, ostercatchers and tiny Hartlaub's seagulls.  All have a slightly different method of handling.  Birds tend to go for shiny things like eyes, so safety glasses are an absolute non-negotiable.  At lunch time we met Steve, who is actually a girl.  Steve is an ambassador penguin.  This means that she is one of a handful of tame penguins who go out with the SANCCOB employees to interact with the public and raise awareness for the plight of seabirds in general.  The ambassadors all have names. The rest only have numbers and people working with them are encouraged to have as little interaction with them as possible to preserve their wildness.  The tame penguins all have stories and cannot be rehabilitated because of their tameness. Taming a penguin is to sign it's death warrant away from an environment like SANCCOB.  Apparently a lot of visitors ask whether the penguins dance. . .  thanks to the movie Happy Feet.  Day one over and I slept like a contented log.  Day two began with feeding penguins.  It looks easy when the experienced handlers do it, but it isn't. Penguins are averse to being held so they thrash about with ferociousness, pecking at every opportunity.  I did not think I would ever manage to push a fish down a gullet, but eventually I got the hang of it.  Penguin faces must be wiped to stop fish oil from contaminating their plumage.  Oil on plumage sets the rehabilitation process back about two weeks because it removes the penguin's waterproofing.  We had to identify and catch specific numbers who needed medication for various ailments like Bumblefoot (which is a staphylococcus aureous infection that sets in in pressure sores on the feet of birds in a captive environment) and injuries to flippers and feet. In the ICU I saw birds with amputated and broken feet, seal and caracal bites and injuries from plastics that had become tourniquets around their bodies to name a few.  Certain penguins are nebulised to help with a fungal infection that attacks their respiratory system.  There is nothing that will not be done to save the birds if at all possible.  I met Ebony, a hand-reared rare Bank comorant who loved everyone very vocally.  There was a Rockhopper penguin with black and yellow tasselly tufts, a ganet, a pair of terns, various penguins in a state of arrested moulting (which means they will have to remain in captivity because without their adult coat they will most certainly die in the wild.)  Dylan showed me how to catch, hold and tube feed a kelp gull and a comorant.  Very stressful because of the risk of feed going into the airway. Dylan was so encouraging and this gave me the confidence to get it right.  Great teacher!  I observed Dylan and the vet as they did the health checks on a batch of soon-to-be-released penguins.  He continued his lesson teaching me to tube feed the adult penguins later in the afternoon.  Hmmm.  I did that too, but not without being pecked repeatedly.  Even through two layers of neoprene my arm looks as if it got caught in a wringer!  Adult penguins have super strength and are grumpy sods when things are not going their way.  All good though, they got the nutrients they need to survive and in about three months time, when their blood smears are clear, their weight is good, their crucial feather jackets are healthy and their injuries have healed, they will be released back into nature where they belong.  I applaud the dedication of the volunteers and staff at SANCCOB.  I feel privileged to have been taught by a knowledgeful and passionate young professional and hope that in future I can make a difference, one seabird at a time.

                                        Penguin bites.

                                        Bumblefoot.

                                        Vet check.

                                        Beak cast.

                                        Tube feeding some fish smoothie.

                                                  Below, an example of arrested moulting.

The Aspects of Christmas.

As the freight train that is Christmas barrels down upon us, I realise how conflicted Christmas time is.  The Spirit of Christmas.  The religious aspect.  Of stars leading wise men and a virgin birth.  The childhood memories of the magical aspect.  No child ever really wondered how Father Christmas flew around the world in a night and got down the tiny chimney with a large doll house, he just did.  The materialistic aspect.  Of excess food, un(read necessary) alcohol consumption, extravagant spending on high-end presents, more baubles and trinkets to decorate the tree, last minute, very expensive Christmas crackers filled with kitsch and weepworthy jokes, another 100 songs of Christmas CD, fake snow, fake tans, those blasted fairy lights that never work even after you have found the offending bulb. Wrapping paper!  Piles and piles of gleefully ripped, beautifully designed paper.  (I say gleefully because I had a mother who instructed me to unwrap ever so carefully so she could iron it for use next year. Needless to say we had a drawer full of flattened, never-to-be used Christmas wrapping and as a consequence, I have become a gleeful serial ripper.)  The family aspect.  Christmas is supposed to be "the most wonderful time of the year."  Deeply missed loved ones come home for Christmas, but long (wish they were lost) standing (only just) relatives do too. "He/she/they will only be here for Christmas, you can be nice for one day, can't you?" Response to which is usually an exaggerated eye roll.  A token gift for miserable Aunt Sophie, who mutters, in a voice not unlike Eeyore,  "Oh, I have always wanted one of these."  You know she hasn't and will probably re-gift it to you.  Creepy Uncle Ted who smells, gets drunk and makes inappropriate advances.  Children on sugar highs.  The on-going, never-to-be-repaired family feud which makes two separate occasions a sad necessity and the yearly re-enactment of "The martyrdom of the matriarch in the kitchen" scene worthy of an Oscar. The forgotten aspect.  Of doing Christmas from the heart, being thankful for your blessings, of sharing with those less fortunate. Remembering those who are remembering their lost loved ones, the people in war-ravaged places, the poor, the homeless, the desperate, the infirm, the newly bereaved, the lonely, the families and friends separated by distance. This is the true Spirit of Christmas.

Old age.

I have always had a soft spot for the elderly, particularly for those who have been abandoned in care homes because their families have emmigrated.  Money is sent for their care.  A faded photograph from happier days is a treasured thing, shown with pride.  I have seen frail geriatrics in the most appalling condition.  The spark gone from their rheumy eyes and yet a glimmer of hope when spoken to like the once proud adult they were.  I fail to understand the mindset that switches from 'my parent who brought me up' to 'an old person who has become a burden to me.'  Where is the compassion?  Why are the elderly not revered for their wisdom?  Why is it the norm to want to pass the buck onto care personnel who have no vested interest except a salary?  Why do people struggle to believe the elderly are sometimes abused both mentally and physically.  I think the reason old people often become so bitter and twisted is because they have lost their freedom, their voice, their dignity.  They are shouted at before anyone has ascertained whether or not they are deaf, they are spoken to like children even if of sane mind.  They are not stimulated by visitors, by being read to, helped with a puzzle or being taken out, but placed in front of a blaring television on a soapie channel with no remote.  No chance of choice.  Families get angry when an old person becomes resistant to change.  The thought of being put into a care home away from all that is known and comfortable is, frankly, terrifying for me and I am nowhere near being a geriatric.  I know that many go because they don't want to rock the boat and are desperately unhappy for the, usually foreshortened, remainder of their days.  Days that could have been spent with loving family around, beloved pets to cuddle and maybe a garden to tend.  Revered elderly people often live longer and healthier lives in their familiar surroundings. The elderly may develop mental issues and behave differently, but this can be managed if it is understood.  I feel that in some cases old people develop mental issues to escape the banal lives they are expected to lead.  Others fight the indignity of being handled like a petulant child and are then seen as difficult.  These are souls who fought in wars, danced with lovers, explored the world, wrote books, experienced life.  Their stories are their legacy, their experience, our lessons.  These words written by Dylan Thomas are apt "Do not go gentle into that dark night.  Rage, rage against the dying of the light. . . "

PTSD

A traumatic event in somebody else's life has sparked the need to document my own experience.  I worked as an intermediate paramedic for at least ten years of my life.  I loved every minute of it.  It was a personal challenge as well as a learning curve every day I was out there on the road.  In my day, there was no debriefing, no support if one felt things were too much. Sensitivity was seen as weakness, so no one showed any emotion except for hilarity in the form of dark humour.  Things seemed fine until one night.  I was off duty and putting my young daughter to bed when we heard what sounded like a wet guinea fowl hit the window.  The whole house shook.  A silence of deep proportions took hold and then the screaming.  I realised it had been a shotgun blast.  From next door.  I rang the emergency number and sent my daughter, with the phone out to where neighbours were gathering in the road.  Then I jumped over the wall.  The sight was not one I would choose to describe.  There was nothing I, or anyone, could have done.  So I did what I could as far as managing the situation, handed over to the police, collected my daughter and returned home.  We made a cup of tea and chatted about what had happened.  While I was lamenting why, my daughter put everything into these wise words saying "Mum, he chose to leave this world this way."  We finished her bedtime story and she went to sleep.  While I waited for my husband to come home, odd things began to happen.  I 'saw' gaseous mustard coloured hands coming out of cupboards, through windows and up under the stairs.  Grabbing at me.  I could not feel safe anywhere in the house.  I kept thinking bullets were going to come through the garden wall.  It was highly disturbing.  I realised it was probably Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  The following day I went to work and kept reliving the events of the previous night in my mind, but one must prevail, so I did.  The senior paramedic on our shift suddenly decided to grill me about the intricasies of our latest patient and I felt such a fool because I couldn't answer him.  All that knowledge gleaned from years of experience, gone.  My mind was blank.  I had shut down.  I didn't care.  I decided that day that I did not want to be a paramedic any more.  I wanted to go and do something normal.  But after being in my line of work, how does one define normal?  I lost my confidence, I was fearful, I relived the incident continually and I was an insomniac for months.  I did get back on the horse eventually after taking myself off for psychological help, but I have never felt the same way about my work as I did before this event. Being a paramedic was my life.  Now it is a part of my life that I remember fondly.   It will never be left behind and no person will go unattended ever, but PTSD made things different.  It put things into a perspective I am lucky to have.  I am lucky because I understand what others go through and the importance of being counselled in a job that is abnormal for most.  I am, however, privileged to have served and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.

Blue Skyes.

From the land of the Long White Cloud

your name was returned.

Blue Skyes again smiles over

our childhood home.

Ghosts laid to rest with a smattering of tears,

but Oh What Joy

to know

we were always a sisterly unit

never to be torn apart again. 

Blue Skyes for us, 

whether in Africa or New Zealand,

Blue Skyes will remind us 

of each other 

all we need to do is look up

to feel our sisterly bond.

We did it

and in doing so, 

healed.

Matters that matter.

Wherever you look there are self help books, motivational sayings and things designed to make you say "Yes!  That's me!  Let me dissolve my negativity by smiling at people/helping the less fortunate/consciously replacing anger with joy. . ."   While this is possible in some circumstances, it is not in others.  A recurring issue recurs because it has not been dealt with.  As simple as that.  Writing it down and burning it is a nice distraction, but essentially it amounts to avoiding the problem.  (Unless you are pretty certain the universe will bend and whisper into the relevant ear.)  Speaking about it helps far better, but what if the person with whom you need to address the issue will not listen without turning it all around?  Convoluting your words and making you wish you had never brought up your gripe in the first place?  Causing you to feel stupid and humiliated?  It may well be that your problem seems petty, but it is your take on things.  You feel something about it and you have every right to.  There are self help books on how to communicate too.  Listen, understand and formulate your response or something like that.  Supposedly you can tell someone to go to hell in a loving way. . .  I digress.  Issues breed resentment and the longer the issue festers, the greater the resentment.  A calm and rational discussion, as touted in the self help books, is seldom viable in these cases.  The solution for many is to avoid conflict and try to pretend it doesn't matter.  Some braver souls opt for confrontation and end with a war.  A war which doesn't clear the air because the initial subject has been drowned in vitriolic spewing.  It is not about agreeing with or kowtowing to another.  It is about respect for and listening to an opinion on a matter that matters.

Sticks and stones. . .

I grew up with the adage "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."  I have said that to myself numerous times, in numerous situations, but I have come to realise that that saying is nonsense.  It was probably coined by some poor soul who had been on the pointy end of somebody's tongue lashing in an attempt to lessen the blow.  Words are a magnificent tool when it comes to their ability to wound.  A well placed acerbic comment can effectively humiliate, undermine and reduce another to a quivering wreck in the time it takes to utter the sounds.  The sad thing about hurting people with words is that they cannot ever be fully retracted.  Once words have been spoken, the sentiment is there.  People who speak without thinking and realise that their words may have hurt someone will typically clap their hand over their mouths and apologise.  Others, who use words as their weapon of choice, are skilled at the art of word war.  They will make insidious comments that are difficult to pin point as an insult.  They will say hurtful things and end with a laugh as if making a joke.  If confronted, the word bully will say something like "Oh, don't be silly, I didn't mean it like that, I meant this. . . "  Or, "Oh, I think you must have the wrong end of the stick."  Yeah, right, the sharpened end!  The intended target, usually a well mannered pacifist, seethes, but says nothing and then lies awake all night thinking about the clever, caustic retorts they could have made.  We are taught to ignore hurtful words, but in all honesty, we can't.  Sometimes a comment is so hurtful that even years later the residue of those cruel words still resonate.  I live by a rule that I may think what I like, but those thoughts may not leave my mouth unless they absolutely have to.  So, give me sticks and stones any day.  At least I have a chance to defend myself.  Words do hurt me.