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.