Extraordinary ordinary people

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Whilst getting over the winter lurgi (aka bronchitis), I read Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. Except, as it turns out, she’s not. The intense loneliness of her day-to-day life, the ways neurodivergent Eleanor tries to fit it and to create a narrow – but very safe – existence for herself, and the ways she eventually tries to break out of it was – what? touching? moving? desperately sad? All that and more.

“… by careful observation from the sidelines, I’d worked out that social success is often built on pretending just a little. Popular people sometimes have to laugh at things they don’t find very funny, do things they don’t particularly want to, with people whose company they don’t particularly enjoy. Not me …“

Once I’d finished Eleanor, I unpacked my response by doing a bit of doom-scrolling on the topic of loneliness and isolation. Depressing? Yes, but also food for thought. I ended up questioning whether, as a society, we are all lonelier than we were in ‘days gone by’, as so many articles and writers suggest, or is that  just perception? Does it really matter?

Pondering this took me down the pathways of songs for a while – and there are many (many) songs about loneliness out there. Really. SO many. But the closest I got to where my thoughts of Eleanor had taken me was Green Day’s The Boulevard of Broken Dreams – or, as my family refers to it, the walk
straight song.

“…I walk a lonely road / The only one that I have ever known / Don’t know where it goes / but it’s home to me, and I walk alone… My shadow’s the only one that walks beside me / My shallow heart’s the only thing that’s beating…”

Oh Eleanor Oliphant, this could have been written for you. Or, I suppose, for any number of people who feel disconnected. Strange that I should find this so interesting, given that my working (and volunteering) life in community development has been all about connectedness. Most of the people I’ve encountered have been in their 60s or older, most are/were active and engaged mentally and, in general, physically. Whenever I came away from a group session, planning meeting or event, I found myself thinking, “I want to be like them if I get to be that old!

These interactions changed my views on ageing. Given that my starting premise was that 60 was old, this is not surprising. Admittedly, this view was predicated on my own family experiences: a mother who passed away at the age of 60, after a protracted period of poor health, and a father falling prey to cancer when only slightly older. So my expectations from my early twenties was that, in all likelihood, I would follow suit. 60 was old – and then you died, probably after some wretched illness. This wasn’t something I
worried about unduly, it was just reality as I saw it. I am, after all, a pragmatist.

Working with seniors – such extraordinary, ordinary people – over the past three decades I came to realise that there is actually no reason why I wouldn’t or couldn’t be just like them and live a full, healthy and connected life well past my assumed end point. What a revelation that was! More than that, I observed that social interaction is key. Of course, being physically and mentally engaged are very important too, but the social environment – the support networks, friendships, sharing and more that these provide – works to encourage engagement in every other sphere. Community organisations, places where people can meet up with others – whether friends or strangers – to participate in activities, listen to talks, go out group outings, or just have a natter over a cuppa, are enormously valuable community resources in this arena. They are where connectedness is nurtured and thrives, allowing friendships to develop and people to feel included in their community.

Now that I’m part of the recently-retired contingent, I’m having fun trying out various activities to see where my pathway will take. Currently, MahJong lessons have been replaced by regular games with a group – yes, at a community centre – and these are proving to be fast, furious and great fun. MahJong players take no prisoners! It’s interesting that, somehow, between thinking 60 was old (and headed for doom) and now, I have in fact become one of those people I aspired to be. How lovely.

No way to say goodbye

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A few years ago I wrote a short piece about how I think resilience works to add positive dimensions to my life. A couple of years later, I then chose it as my mot de l’année (fancy for ‘word of the year’!), blithely enthusing that I felt that it provided me with a framework that encapsulated both mental and physical robustness and, with that, the tools to bounce back from whatever came my way.

Such naïveté only works until the universe provides a reminder that all things are relative. As it turns out, resilience, like so many things, is subjective. Circumstances change, curved balls come one’s way and, sometimes, there simply isn’t enough fuel in the tank (aka strength or fortitude stockpiled) to manage the particular realities of the here-and-now. Who knew?

In our case, just as things were ramping up for the jollifications of the festive season, an uber-grinch leapt out of the woodwork at us. One evening in early December we noticed that our otherwise seemingly perfectly healthy MissMolly had a very swollen belly. She’d inhaled her dinner at her usual speedy rate, so our first panicked thought was, as ever: bloat – that background horror-concern for anyone with a deep-chested dog.

We bundled her into the car and off to the veterinary emergency service, where she was seen very promptly – jumping the queue due to the possibility of bloat. After and examination, an abdominal scan and blood tests, the duty-vet confirmed it was NOT the dreaded bloat. Yay. However, as MM did have a large volume of what was referred as ‘free fluid’ in her abdomen, she was to stay overnight stay for observation and to wait on some remaining test results.

The what and why of the abdominal fluid remained a mystery the next day when we went to pick her up. The duty-vets said they weren’t keen to do anything about the fluid build up as it really required further investigation by a specialist vet. They said we should keep MM calm and quiet (!) and see our own vet for a specialist referral after that weekend. Less yay. More worry.

In due course we secured both a referral and the first available appointment at the only specialist vet service prepared to take on an outpatient case for comprehensive chest and abdominal scans at short notice. After a long and worrying wait at Animalius, a somber-faced vet came through to give us a diagnosis. She told us that MM had a classic case of end stage liver failure, that her liver was not able to function properly and that we had to prepare ourselves for the reality that our girl had weeks left, perhaps a bit longer. There was no point in more tests, she said, as they would only distress Molls; there was nothing to be done other than see our own vet about a palliative care treatment plan.

What? How could we – and Dr Kelly – have missed this? It was incomprehensible.

In the days that followed, Kelly reviewed all Molly’s records – even calling on a colleague to double check, and found no clinical signs of compromised liver function. MM endured our desperate scramble to try to prove it to be not true. We tried everything and anything: diuretics, pain relief, anti-inflammatories, a special diet, reduced activity. She’d seem to rally for a few days, trying to play, snuggling and being close, and our hopes would climb – only to be dashed. As the month progressed, we could see her gradually fading away in front of us – frightened and confused by the pain in her gut as her wretched liver failed her – but trying so hard to play and just be herself.

We said our final goodbyes to MissMolly just before New Year, sitting with her as she faded out of life. To say that we’ve missed our crazy, excitable, noisy, loving, talkative, space-invading girl every single day since then is putting it mildly. She was the most people-oriented and joy-filled hound ever, having absolutely no concept of personal space, curling up next to us everywhere and anywhere. Her endless enthusiasm and energy was infectious – and its absence is hard to bear.

Rudyard Kipling, a favourite of my father’s, wrote any number of poems, many of which were read to us as children. Whilst most have held little appeal or relevance in my life, some – oh, some – really can hit home at times. And losing a beloved friend is definitely one of those times.

I have done mostly what most men do and pushed it out of my mind;
But I can’t forget, if I wanted to, Four-Feet trotting behind.
Day after day, the whole day through , wherever my road inclined —
Four-feet said, “I am coming with you!” and trotted along behind.
Now I must go by some other round, which I shall never find —
Somewhere that does not carry the sound
Of Four-Feet trotting behind.

Goodbye, MissMolly – we love you and will always remember you and your four great big feet – they have left indelible paw prints on our hearts.

Our Molly

Choices

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I’ve been stuck at home for a few days, keeping an eye on a pup. A couple of days ago she gave a sharp yelp of pain when she came outside with me, but I wasn’t able to isolate the cause. We checked her limbs – feet, lets, joints, back, felt her gut (in case it was bloat), looked for any other possible causes – and she let us do all of that without twitching. Then, later, it happened again – and again – when she climbed onto the couch and when she lay down. A very distressing sound, a very unhappy dog and a very anxious me. So – vet time.

Dr Kelly has known MissM since she was a puppy and she could immediately see that she was off her usual enthusiastic crazy-pup form. She checked her out from top to toe and found her vitals all normal, weight perfect, gut fine, legs all okay — but the muscles in her neck were very stiff and MissM didn’t want to turn her head from side to side. Up and down was okay, but sideways no. And she didn’t shake her head at all either, as she often does after an examination.

Prognosis? Well, it could just be that she’s hurt her neck racing around, but Kelly reckons it could very possibly be wobbler syndrome – a narrowing of the bony canal that the spinal cord passes through, resulting in compression. This was a definite ‘no, wrong way, back out’ sort of moment. Delighted that it hadn’t turned out to be bloat, but wobbler?

For now, MM is on meloxicam (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory) and gabapentin (anticonvulsant & analgesic), with another appointment booked for Monday. If she’s not significantly better, then X-rays are the next step so that Kelly and/or a specialist can identify the precise locations of the spinal cord compression and recommend suitable treatment…

Sad pup

Meantime, she wants to be close – and by that I mean closer than usual (!), is anxious and a bit dopey because of the gabapentin. Except of course when there’s food in the offing, someone comes to the door or she moves her neck in a way that makes her yelp. This part is very stressful all round. If you’ve ever heard a dog cry in pain, you’ll know what I mean. She’s got to be kept quiet and indoors except for nature-stops – which is tricky. So I cancelled various things and have spent the last couple of days sitting/lying with an extra-close, anxiously dopey dobermann and a rather worried springer spaniel circling the edges.

Anyhow, between dog-things, I read Acacia House, by Vivien Stuart. Of all the topics in the world to be reading about at present, this book is about palliative care > what a funny old place the universe is! (For clarity, I’m talking humans now, not pups… just in case that wasn’t apparent!) Acacia House packages various views about end of life decisions, treatment and hospice funding – or the lack thereof. It’s thoughtful, sometimes funny, and very touching.

With my sad dog curled up next to me, I found myself wondering once again about why it is that so many humans avoid conversations about end-of-life issues, arrangements and preferences? I get it that no-one wants to lose a loved one, and I get it that most people would prefer to think about happier things. But surely it’s better to have these conversations before ill health or accidents alter the way final treatment decisions should or could be managed? Particularly for those of us who any sort of advanced chronic condition or life-limiting condition, or may perhaps be at risk of developing a dementia-related illness.

After all, who will speak for us if we’re no longer in a position to state our preferences? Will they understand what it is that we want – rather than what they think we want… or would prefer us to want? When it gets to that stage of the game, the emotions of people with vested interests of one sort or another can tend to cloud issues and complicate them, taking away the final choices people should be entitled to make for themselves.

Many people have told me that they’ve tried to have these sorts of conversations with their loved ones, only to be shut down. They get variations on a theme of “We don’t want to think about it!” or “You’re still able and fit, so there’s no need to go there.” Is this perhaps because talking about our mortality and decisions around that makes these people confront both the notion of loss and the notion of their own personal mortality? If so, surely this is very narrow-focus thinking? After all, talking about something doesn’t make it so – otherwise we’d ALL be lottery winners!

By the time I’d finished the book yesterday afternoon and contemplated how I felt about it, snuggly-sad dog by my side, I’d concluded that having these conversations with loved ones is an absolute must. If you get stonewalled, perhaps wait a while and try again. It may turn out to be a bit like a war of attrition, wearing them down – one conversational gambit at a time, but it’s worth it in the end, I reckon.

An advanced health directive is the next step. This can be amended at a later date if your preferences change. But in the interim, it provides medical professionals and your loved ones with a clear idea of what you would prefer if you’re no longer able to make or communicate decisions. I downloaded a copy of the pro forma this morning and plan to complete it and then lodge a certified copy with my GP – ‘cos you never know what happens next in life.

Springtime Adventures

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It’s wildflower season in WA, a time when the usually grey-green landscape north of Perth puts on it’s holiday colours for an all-too-short time. This was as good an excuse as any for us to head off on a country jaunt. It also gave us the opportunity to use up our non-refundable  van hire ‘credit’ from November 2021 (the defunct Ghan-Nullabor adventure).  

I anticipated bush walks, photo opportunities and other wildflower-related shenaningans. And, whilst it was all that and more, the wildflowers also provided a glorious backdrop to an additional mission goal: hunting down the best vanilla slice north of Perth! 

The last time we were further north than Lancelin was en route home from our Darwin to Perth road trip, via the Gibb River Road (Oct 2019). On that trip we encountered a random couple also on their travels who, on discovering a mutual interest in vanilla slices, were effusive in their praise of the vanilla-flavoured delights of Northampton. “Make sure you go to the bakery,” they exclaimed. “You’ll love their vanilla slice. It’s the best in WA!” Sadly, the day we went through Northampton, the Shearer’s Shed Cafe (aka local bakery) was short staffed and the pastry cabinet was bare.

So Northampton was a definite ‘must do’ stop along the way on this trip. We got there on day three (of 14), with Himself by now as keen as mustard to finally enjoy his long-awaited and much-anticipated tasting of what we’d been referring to as ‘World’s Best Vanilla Slice‘ ever since 2019.

For those not familiar with a classic vanilla slice, here are the basics, as described by my resident  connoisseur: the slice should have a smooth, slightly rubbery set-custard filling, sandwiched between two layers of crisp puff pastry; this should be topped with a generous layer of (preferably white) vanilla icing glaze. To be clear, this means: no cream, no coconut or powdering of icing sugar on the top, no lattice (or other) biscuits as pastry replacement. If any of these options come into play, then it is, quite simply, NOT a vanilla slice – it’s just another pastry in the pastry cabinet.

So, back to Northampton and Himself’s tasting of ‘World’s best Vanilla Slice’…

From the moment we entered the cafe I could see the slice would not pass muster. It looked delicious in the pastry cabinet, but the ‘custard’ was clearly not ye olde bog standard yellow rubbery goop. It it was a fluffy, soft looking filling (pastry cream) that was definitely not going to get the tick of approval. And lo, this did indeed prove to be the case. The verdict was that, whilst very tasty, this just wasn’t ‘the real thing’. It was more the French style mille-feuille and Himself rated it about a 6/10 on the vanilla slice scale.

After waiting for almost three years for this tasty treat, disappointment levels were high. At least until we looked at the bigger picture, namely that most medium/small towns have at least one bakery. This meant that we (he) could do some active research along the way, comparing vanilla slices from each bakery we’d come to on the rest of the trip! The hunt was on!

Whilst not every place we visited actually had a bakery, those that did all seemed to have a clear understanding that a vanilla slice is a key component of any baked goods line-up in Australia. In the remaining 11 days of travel, several more slices were put to the test; overall Himself averaged a slice every other day and enjoyed every mouthful. 

The tastings :

#1 Northampton – The Shearing Shed Cafe: Custard not really custard; it was ‘tasty creamy goop’ – nice, but not authentic. Icing on top a bit thin and runny. 6/10.

#2 Denham Bakery: Custard authentic, but could have been a bit ‘chumpier’ (a technical term in the world of vanilla slice tastings, it seems). The icing (pink!) had coconut sprinkled on it (a definite no-no), which detracted from the overall score. 7.5/10.

#3 Coral Bay Resort Bakery. Custard a bit low on flavour; pink icing, but a reasonable 7.5 – 8/10. 

#4 (and #5) Kalbarri Hot Bread Shop: Icing was good (although pink) and custard just the right level of rubbery-solid (apparently!). This one was good enough for a return visit the next day, much to the amusement of the staff. 9/10!

#6 Jurien Bay Bakery: Authentic, but not very nice; possibly stale. Also, the staff was pretty grumpy. 7/10 max.

#7 Lancelin Offshore Cafe: Tasty, but not quite as good as Kalbarri Bakery. Lovely cafe though – and super friendly staff. Worth a second visit to try other goodies if we were there for a bit longer. 8 – 8.5.

So, for our in-house vanilla slice connoisseur, the winner was definitely the Kalbarri Hot Bread Shop. The only reason they didn’t get 10/10 is that Himself never gives a top score; that way, he says, there’s always room for improvement!

On the last leg home, after the final tasting, we developed the following tasting notes. They would have been helpful to have earlier, no doubt, but can (and will) be used in all future tastings. After all, we’re heading down south in a few months, and we’ll make sure we’ve compiled a list bakeries to visit by then!

Vanilla Slice – tasting notes
Filling: must be custard (not pastry cream).
Custard: consistency – rubbery & high density; must bulge when poked – but not be penetrated – and spring back on release quantity – not so much that the slice is too tall to bite; colour should be a nice deep yellow.
Pastry:  crisp puff pastry, not gluggy must have good adhesion to the custard, i.e. the top must peel off in one piece, leaving either a thin layer of pastry on the top of the slice or a thin smear of custard on the underside of the pastry top not biscuit!
Icing: vanilla icing glaze, preferably white stiff, not too thick or thin no coconut or powdered icing on top.
Flavour:  vanilla, but not too strong

Note 1: Just to be clear, these were not tasted by me – well, not more than a nibble to try the filling, anyway. I’m far more the ‘choose your pastry in the moment’ kinda person, although the Kalbarri Hot Bread Shop also do a deliciously indulgent jam doughnut (just saying).

Note 2: We did do heaps of other things, such as snorkel with green sea turtles in coral bay, go quad-biking, wave at whales from a sunset cruise boat, beach walks, adventured in Kalbarri – skywalk and suchlike, slurped best-ever mango smoothy (#bumbaks-in-canarvon), visited the space museum and replaced a much-loved 2019 coffee mug, hunted wildflowers, consumed yummy lunch (!) at Dongara pub (unplanned, but excellent) and heaps more.

Note 3: An Apollo Eurotourer is not necessarily the best choice for adventures of this sort. The van was comfy enough, but very cramped inside. But now we know – the grey-nomad-in-a-van life is not for us!

What happened to my mojo?

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When did I stop feeling – and being – creative?
It’s mystery, really. Does creativity gradually shamble off as we get older, going into hibernation for some or other reason? Or does it just run its course – the allotted ration used up at some point, the well running dry? Research says this isn’t the case, so perhaps I just got used to doing the things I do and stopped looking around for new inspiration, ideas and alternatives? I can blame work, life, commitments, etc., but the reality is that the blank page stays blank, the art/craft workshop is tidy, the mosaic project unfinished. Why?

I’m increasingly conscious that it’ll be curtains down at some point no matter how many things remain on my to-do list. So, how do I sidestep the procrastination bandwagon that seems to have rolled into town and moved in lock, stock and all barrels loaded? How do I get back to a version of me that I recognise – one that enjoys being creative and actively seeks out opportunities to do so?

Ah yes, how indeed? Tomes have been written on this topic, from academic papers to new age self-help books and everything in-between. There are any number of tools out there for the self-confessed procrastinator to use – it’s just a matter of getting around to finding them, acquiring them and implementing them… Right.

Instead, I decided it was time for me to have (another) close look at the what-when-why-how of my specific procrastinations to find a pathway through them – hopefully back to the creative me that’s been hiding out somewhere. It turns out that this process required a teensy bit of effort. Surprise!

I started by making a list – yup, a boring old list, but a list of EVERYthing I’ve been avoiding, from mundane things like household tasks to work-related goal oriented activities, from exercise and fitness activities to keeping up with friends. That bit wasn’t too hard – it just took time to figure out all those WHATs.

The next bit was a more complicated; it involved annotating each of the things I’d listed with two WHYs: 1) why it was even on the list (it’s an allocated chore, it’s a hobby, I need to get fit, etc.), and 2) how it’ll benefit me if get to it or, better yet, complete it. This took some serious soul searching, some WTF moments and some embarrassing realisations… but I got there in the end.

Onwards to WHEN I procrastinate? I had to figure out whether it’s as I set out to do item X on the list, or before then… when I think about doing the thing. Got it in one: avoidance in all its various guises has become my go-to. There always seems to be a plausible ‘reason’ to have a Scarlett O’Hara moment – to decide to put it off and ‘think about it tomorrow.’

And we’re almost there. To close the loop and move on, I had to figure out HOW it happens. What is it I do INSTEAD of the thing I’m avoiding? Am I putting the thing off completely, i.e. replacing it with another thing to fill the gap, or actually rescheduling? Thinking about it, I realise that, more often than not, ‘rescheduling’ turns out to be just a variation on a theme of a rolling, ever-expanding avoidance. Ouch. This introspection thing can be a real downer!

Anyhow, down to the nitty-gritty now: what to do about it. Well, every week we (Himself and I) write a to-do list up on the whiteboard in the family room. It serves as a memory jogger as well as a prompt, making it more likely that the various things will be remembered and be factored into the week. The list usually goes up on Sunday and includes work, appointments (personal, pets and for others, medical and other appointment with MiL / FiL), my time at the indoor pool, his at Watch School and so forth for the week ahead. We update it as the week evolves. Sometimes appointments change, sometimes things get added or removed – but it’s all up there, a shared mini schedule.

Even so, the daemon that is procrastination regularly has its way with us: the lure of email, cat videos (!), yet another Netflix series, ‘googling up’ some or other piece of information – and disappearing down a wormhole of links. Thinking about this, I conclude that when I don’t do a thing I’ve committed to do (whether the commitment is to myself or to others) it’s simply because I don’t really WANT to do it. Figuring out WHY I don’t want to do it starts with what I’m replacing it with.

A case in point is my current (and ongoing) mosaic project. I started it 18 months ago to cover up an unsightly section wall out on the patio. It’s the bottom section of wall that we never quite got around to tidying up, about 4m long and 30cm tall. A plan and a design for a mosaic frieze gradually emerged and, with it, a distinct sense of creative accomplishment and anticipation. Step one was to get Himself in to help with filling the biggest of the ugly-wall gaps with render and smoothing it over, and to lay a row of colourful tiles along the top of the little wall. In due course I was presented with a cheerful tile pattern and mostly flat surface to work on. Success! Whiteboard updated accordingly, positive feelings all round. Yay. (Take that, Procrastination!)

In my (debatable) wisdom, I’d decided to work directly onto the wall. So the next was to transfer the design onto the surface. Some delays here, which literally included the dog eating the plan (!), but the design finally went up and work began. It was fun. Slowly but surely two geckos emerged on the wall and the piece started to really take shape. The five central dragonflies were planned on paper, and the ceramic tile pieces cut, ready to go up. Happiness factor increased.

Then, after several weeks of regular activity – once the dragonflies were up and the background (so much background!) was started, I gradually stalled out. Instead of spending an hour or so out there each evening, listening to an audio book, cutting tile pieces to shape and fixing them to wall around the critters I’d already completed, I started to binge-watch a TV series, I read a couple of books and spent more time surging the internet. I baked and made freezer meals. I went to WASO concerts and had lunches out with friends. I gardened – a lot!

After several months of this, my internal hall-monitor started asking very pointed questions about the mosaic project. Initially I blamed the weather (too hot, too cold), the wildlife (flies, mozzies, dogs!), the uneven surface (to which the tiles really don’t stick very well). But a long hard look at the what-when-why-and-how of it all has made me realise that I’ve simply been finding the physicality of the project too much. My body and mind have conspired to rebel against the idea of crouching down or sitting on the (cold, hard) ground to work on it. In addition, what I haven’t wanted to acknowledge is that, somewhere along the line, tedium has replaced the initial enthusiasm. I quite simply fell out of love with the idea of it all.

So where to from here? The project is about half done – and can’t be UNdone; nor can I simply bundle it into the back of a cupboard like a half-finished jumper… Clearly I need a plan. And a deadline with clear milestones to ensure I stay on track. I’m reluctant to say Gantt Chart, but that’s about the size of it if I’m to visualise achievable steps and navigate myself back to creativity!

Over the course of writing this, a Master Plan has emerged (without resorting to flow charts!) It’s not on the whiteboard yet, but it will be. Bottom line is that I’ve found something to goad myself into getting back into it: it hinges on FiL’s 90th birthday celebrations in mid-July, some of which will be here at #10. So now there’s a plan: Day 1 (5 June) – review progress to date, decide on completion date. Get cracking! Days 2 to 32 – shape and place no fewer than 10 pieces every day. Day 33 (8 July) – Final pieces cut and placed. Grout the entire frieze and clean up. Done!

I think I’ve worked myself up to believing I’ve got my mojo back: I’ve written a blog post – the first in over six months – AND cut and placed 10 mosaic pieces! Good outcome for all that soul-searching!

(Note to the reader: Give it go – the process does require a certain amount of soul searching and, with that, acknowledging some home truths, but it’s worth it – really.)