Friday, October 30, 2015

Grandpa Ball

My Grandpa died this week. He was 98 and one of the best men I've known.
He was kind, compassionate, clever and strong. He told wonderful stories off the top of his head. He was both interesting and interested. People mattered to him. Kindness mattered. Treating other people the way you would like to be treated was his way.
I've a shoebox FULL of his letters. I didn't write enough back. I knew I would lament this when he died and I was right. I wish I wrote him more. He wrote of current affairs, the weather, he enquired after the family, school, work, he wrote the kids poems about a funny little mouse named Montgomery.
He was a wonderful person. I am proud to be his granddaughter.
Upon receiving the news that he had died I felt the breath leave my body. It took a moment to return. Despite knowing he was in ill health, that he was ready to go....I don't want him gone. I want him strong and kind and present. I grieve for him. I feel sadness run through me, a stream of loss.
I will keep him strong in my heart forever. Rest now Grandpa. See you on the otherside xo

Monday, October 12, 2015


It's been approximately 26 weeks since I broke this here hand.
After the initial shock and surgery were over I told myself 12 weeks. 16 at the most. It will get better. You need time to heal. It's your right hand. Be patient. Go easy.
So I did all that - or tried to. I returned to work after months off, I did all the physio I was told to do.
I took pride in my kick ass scar.
It didn't really get better though. It stayed sore, swollen and not that capable. It aches when I wake up, it hurts when I use it. If I knock it the pain jags down my body like a lightning strike.
The worst for me? I can't hold a pen for much over 5 minutes. So I can't write. I can't scribble. I can't doodle.
I feel lost. Afraid. I'm worried about the pain, about taking painkillers, about what to do next.
I'm sore. Not to mention slightly deformed.
My most recent xray showed a displaced screw is the cause of my 'discomfort'. It's the 3rd one down and appears to be nestling into the juiciness of my knuckles.
So it needs to be removed. More surgery. More money. More recovery.
I'm terrified. I don't really want to be cut open again. I don't want more pain. Or recovery. I'm over the uncertainty. I'm sick of being stoic. I've started complaining and I'm not sure I'll be able to stop. Pain, just like fatigue, accumulates. I'm tired of it. Worn down. I don't feel like being chipper or brave. I feel like whinging, possibly even crying sometimes.
Actually I may have burst into tears on my friend last Wednesday when I ran into her in the school carpark. There weren't too many people around and I knew she would understand. She just kind of rubbed my back & hugged me which was really all I needed. Aside from a better hand. That's pretty much what I need, but trusting someone enough to burst into tears on them is a pretty good thing. Thanks Cindy. You're a legend.
Most of all though I'm scared that it's not going to fix the problem. That I'm stuck with a dominant hand that doesn't perform. That we are going to pay more money to some rich asshat surgeon who doesn't really give a shit what becomes of me once I walk out of his office.
You know what I'm doing here? I'm keeping my expectations very very low. It took me 3 days to type this, because prolonged anything with my hand fucking hurts. But I had to write something.
I'm booked to go to Adelaide in a weeks time, child free, to have surgery & then recover at my Mums place for 5 days. I figure if I go in expecting it to be a terrible ordeal the chances are I'm going to be pleasantly surprised. That's the plan. I can feel you both wincing and wishing me luck from here. Thanks. I'll do my best.