Ageing Doesn't Mean Getting Old!

So last time I posted, I claimed, foolishly, that my body was ‘fit for purpose’. With this in mind, we embarked on a number of garden projects, which involved enthusiastic digging on my part. So, I’ve crocked my knee. I’m not sure if it’s housemaid’s knee, clergyman’s knee or just old person’s knee, but its curtailed not only my gardening but any other physical activity for the time being. I’m reduced to trying to figure out garden planning software so I know what to tell my other half to do!

Lots of digging = knackered knee!

I’m sure it will soon sort itself out if I’m sensible (not my forte!) but it’s reminded me of the problems my Mum had with her knees, and made me feel, well, old… About three years ago my son bought me a book for Mother’s Day. He fully admits that he bought it because he liked the cover, but what it turned out to be was a book about ageing. Thanks, son! I think it's supposed to be heartening and reassuring but, although I tried to read it, I couldn’t get on with it. It was sitting on my bedside table so I thought that, being officially old, I would have another go. Maybe it’s because it’s translated from French, or because its tackling a topic that I would rather ignore, but I’ve given up again — it was so depressing. It’s called ‘The Warmth of the Heart Prevents the Body from Rusting’ by Marie de Hennezel, and while I admire the sentiment, I simply found it so difficult to think about. Maybe I was reading it wrong! If you would like to give it a try, I may know of a copy you can borrow!

Available on loan!

I prefer to think about people I know or admire that are ageing well. In a previous post I wrote about my patchwork family (here). As part of that family I am lucky enough to have two amazing aunties. 

Bridesmaids to my Mum and Dad, August 5th 1939

One, Lily, is my  late Dad’s youngest sister and the other, Maisie, is my late Mum’s youngest sister. Both grew up as part of a large family,  and both have now had to mourn all their siblings. But they are incredible role models for anyone who fears or thinks that decrepitude is an inevitable part of growing old.

You're never too old for a paddle

Auntie Maisie is 86. She is a widow, who still lives in her own house, continues to drive and, get this, teaches yoga classes every week! She is as sparky and funny as she has ever been, and looks so much younger than her years. Although I don’t see her as often as I should, my sister takes her youngest grand-daughter, also called Maisie, to visit her every week. Little Maisie adores Big Maisie - they play silly games together, go to the beach, or simply enjoy each others’ company. Big Maisie has far more patience with Little Maisie than many other people! I love that she provides a continuing connection to my Mum and is so vibrant and wonderful.

Never too old too party, either!

Auntie Lily has just turned 90. Also a widow, she has endured losing both her son and her grandson to hideous illnesses, but she is amazing in her resilience. She has a sharp wit and real sense of style - I’ve never seen her without her hair ‘set’! She also lives in her own home, although she has promised her daughter she won’t climb on a chair to clean the curtain rails any more, and does admit to having a gardener - no knackered knees for her! At her recent birthday party, she was regaling us with tales of her childhood - telling us about how kind my Dad was to her when she was little, and sharing ancient family scandals! Although she doesn’t drive, she catches the bus into town each week to do her shopping - she had an argument with someone recently, because she wouldn’t give up her seat for an old lady!! Yes, she looks that good!

So rather than reading about how to accept ageing by slowing down and planning for a care home, I’ll look to my wonderful aunties - my  last connection to my parents’ generation - and living proof that ageing doesn't mean getting old!

Fit for Purpose!

For as long as I can remember I have thought of myself as fat. As an adult I have yo-yo’d between less fat and more fat, but always fat.

Last week I was looking through my Mum’s old photos and found loads of me as a teenager, at a variety of family weddings. While my first thoughts were, ‘Whatever possessed me to wear THAT!’, the other thing that struck me was I was thin. Really thin. How could this be? I have always been fat.

Cool outfit, right?

As with many other things in life, its about self-perception. I believed myself to be fat, therefore I was fat. One incident from my childhood sticks in my mind. I had been to a choir event, where we had to wear school uniform including ankle socks. As I walked back into class, a boy (who I could name and shame, but won’t) said to his mate, ‘Look at her legs - they’re like cart-horses!’ I was mortified, and didn’t wear a skirt from choice for many, many years. Who knows how many other times my peers made similar comments. These, alongside photos of the beautiful people in my teen mags, mean that I went through my teens feeling as if my body was letting me down, not good enough and this continued into adulthood.

Not fat - really not fat!

Last week I also had a pre-diabetic check. The good news was my blood test came back as normal and my blood pressure was fine, so I have obviously wrested my body back from the brink of diabetes, which is where it was last April. Despite this, I have also put on weight. Bugger. 

The thing is I love food. For me it is a joyous part of my life, one that I share with all my family. My daughter and I share recipes, ideas and photos of food all the time. My son is a brilliant cook, who makes amazing pies, cookies and brownies. My husband is also an amazing cook and we share the cooking duties pretty equally now I have retired. For me food is more than something to stop hunger, it is about nurturing, nourishing and showing that I care. I love feeding people. I also love eating…

I just love food!

Those of you that don’t know me personally are probably imagining an enormous blob with a keyboard propped on their quivering belly. I can assure you this is not the case. I’m not thin, but I have finally come to realise that I am not fat either. Yes, I have ‘muffin tops’ that I would prefer weren’t there, and I have a section of my wardrobe that I don't visit very often, but in the main I am happier with my body now than I have ever been. I’ve been slimmer but I’ve also been bigger. I have size 12, size 14 and size 16 clothes that all fit me - what’s that about?! I recently bought my first ever pair of Levis, and because they just have a random waist size I have no idea what UK size that equates to - I just know that they fit, they are comfy and so, so cool!

I just love them...

Finally, after 61 years, I have accepted my body for what it is. I will probably lose a bit of weight with the spring and summer as I consume more salads than dumplings, but that could well be balanced out with increased Pimms consumption! None of my family and friends judge me for my looks, but I have long judged myself - harshly on many occasions - as a result of throwaway comments in my past and unrealistic images of how I felt I was supposed to look. We need to be so careful how we talk to our children and teenagers. We may think we are being flippant and funny, but I know, from bitter experience, the impact comments like ‘chubby chops’ can have. Children need to know that people come in all shapes and sizes - the valuable bit is what's inside.

My chops may be chubby, but don't keep telling me!

Whatever shape it is, my body seems to be fit for purpose. It allows me to play tennis, garden and chase around after my grandchildren. I think I manage to look stylish too, and hopefully will continue to do so into my dotage!

Stylish, and fit for purpose!

My Lifelong Relationship with Guilt

I have ‘blogger’s block’. Its been over three weeks since I posted anything and I am not happy about it. I’ve been unwell - nothing major, just a virus, but its left me low and lacking in energy. This means I have reverted to daytime telly and comfort eating. Which also means that I feel lazy, fat and useless. And guilty. Guilty that I have kept my husband awake with my coughing. Guilty that I haven't done anything productive. Guilty that I have put on weight. Guilty that I have let my tennis buddies down. Guilty that I haven't blogged. Guilty that I cant even think of anything to blog about.

Comfort or guilt inducing?

I googled the definition of ‘guilt’ and Collins Dictionary gives this: Guilt is an unhappy feeling that you have because you have done something wrong or think that you have done something wrong.

There you have it - ‘think that you have done something wrong’. I constantly think that I have done something wrong, or could / should have done something better.

Born guilty!

This is not a new feeling for me. I was born guilty on 17th February 1956…because two years earlier, on 17th February 1954, my sister died. She was ten, and had leukaemia. I was born on the one day my Mum didn't want me to be born. Typical. It wasn't even my due date. 1956 being a leap year, I could've contrived to be born on 29th February. Maybe then I would've felt special rather than guilty. 

Now logically I know that babies have absolutely no control over when they arrive, but this really has blighted me for the past 61 years. My parents were amazing, and would have been horrified if they had known how I felt, but odd comments about me being born on the wrong day, and them feeling that they would never be able to have birthday parties for me resonated far more with me than the ones about me being the most wanted child ever (don’t know how that made my siblings feel - oh God, something else to feel guilty about). Thinking back, they probably over compensated. I had amazing parties and birthday presents and I was truly loved. I’m not really sure if this feeling of guilt was a conscious one, but as an adult, during a hypnotherapy session, I suddenly found myself staring at my sister’s gravestone, crying because it had my birthday etched onto it. So each year, on birthday, I also reflect on how my parents and my older brother and my sister felt on that day two years before I was born. I can not, and do not really want to imagine how they felt.

Reason to celebrate or reflect?

While this sort of explains why guilt is not alien to me, the feeling doesn't seem to serve me any purpose. The logical, intelligent and reasonable me understands that it is a wasted emotion and that I am not responsible for everything that happens, but the under confident, anxious and low mood me still feels this to be true. All my life I have felt as if I should be able to change things for the better and that not being able to is my fault.

Ridiculous I know, but that’s how I roll! It’s all part of this complex maelstrom that is ‘mental health’. I save my most miserable self for my closest friends and family (aren’t they the lucky ones!), presenting a more balanced front to people who would be mortified to be confronted with my guilt ridden presence. But then I feel guilty that I am making the people I care about the most miserable too. I’m buggered, basically!

But, for those of you who live with someone like me, someone who is able put a brave face on to the outside world, but needs to retreat to how they really feel in the safety of their own home, don’t get sucked in by us. My lovely hubby said this morning that he feels that he is failing, because he should be able to make me happy. This simply isn't true. Someone once told me that, to help someone in a hole, the worst thing you can do is jump in the hole with them. Offer support, a helping hand and eventually they’ll get out - they may even be able to climb out on their own! Patience is probably the key, in the face of the most frustrating of circumstances.

It weighs some of us down

Sorry - this has been a cathartic, stream of consciousness rant. But at least I don’t feel guilty about not blogging any more!

Semantics or a Life Philosophy?

One or two things have happened in the past couple of weeks that have made me utter the words ‘It just shows you need to live for the moment’. I then spent a sleepless night wondering how I would actually do that...

Life is a constant worry...

If you google ‘Living for the Moment’ and select images, you are presented with the kind of slogans and posters that regularly fill my Facebook newsfeed. Frankly tosh, I’m afraid! 

If you search for the definition of the idiom that is ‘living for the moment’, google comes up with ‘live or act without worrying about the future’. Is that really such a good thing? In principle it seems like the perfect philosophy - don't worry, be happy etc. etc. It also sounds like the perfect legal defence…

’Why did you steal that car?’ 

‘Oh I was living for the moment, your Honour’

Doesn't really work does it? Rather than a life philosophy it suddenly becomes a mantra for the selfish. I suppose, as one of the great unworking, I am in the position now of being able to live for the moment, but I still don't know how to do it. Life requires planning and thought if it is to provide you with ‘for the moment’ opportunities. There have been many times in the past when my ‘living for the moment’ would have entailed locking myself in a room and crying for days, but I had two children that needed me to function in a more meaningful way. I had to go to work, cook, clean, wash, iron and get them to school / music lessons / clubs. If I’d selfishly surrendered to my needs, I don't think they'd be the rounded and balanced individuals that they are today.

Rounded and balanced - honest!

It could also be argued that living for the moment gives individuals carte blanche to disregard any advice regarding their future health and wellbeing. Anyone stuffing their face with a twelve inch pizza and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s is undoubtedly relishing the fact that they are living for the moment!

Living for the moment!

Of course, I am taking things to an extreme, but I really don't think that when people say ‘live for the moment’ that is actually what they mean. I think ‘live in the moment’ is a more accurate reflection of the philosophy. Appreciate what you have, at that moment in time, don’t put things off and think ‘next time’. 

It may be simple semantics, but I think I would find living in the moment much more achievable than living for the moment. I will always worry about things, past, present and future - its in my make up, my psyche, my bones. If I hear a travel report of an accident in the vicinity of anyone that I know, I automatically assume that it will have involved one of my friends / family. I do try not to immediately text them now, but it’s taken some effort on my part! 

Lots of my issues with depression have their roots in a past that still comes back to haunt me with monotonous regularity - a smell, a sound, a taste can drag me back to feeling lost and desperate with no warning. Equally anxiety about the future, whether it be the health of myself and my family or financial security, clouds my thoughts on a regular basis!

Family time - joyous

So clearly what I need to do is appreciate things as they happen - a walk in the country, a mad game of tennis, afternoon tea with my friends, time spent with family. Let the past go, regard the future as an adventure and let it happen in its own time and…

Live in the moment!

Sounds good to me!

Greater than the Sum of its Parts...

US drama at its best!

I have been captivated by ‘This is Us’, a US drama, hidden away on Channel 4. It tells the story of a family and how their present is impacted on by events in the past. But ‘family’ is the thread that runs through it, making me laugh and cry, feel uplifted or sad.

It got me thinking about how our experiences as children directly affect us as adults. 

My parents lost their first child to leukaemia two years to the day before I was born. She was ten, and my parents never got over the loss of their much loved daughter.But their answer was to draw my sister, myself and my two brothers close to them, to protect us and make sure that we had the best possible childhood. We didn't have much money, never had a car or expensive holidays but we had time with our parents and created memories that have sustained us over the years. 

Glorious family memories

Both my parents came from big families, so we had any number of aunts, uncles and cousins within our extended family. Some were, naturally, closer than others but the family parties were legendary and we still talk about them today. We all grew up feeling valued, loved and believing that we were capable of anything. My parent’s legacy was four strong, independently thinking individuals, a direct result of our upbringing. Through good times and bad, we know we can always turn to one another when we need to.

Families today can sometimes be highly complicated, with divorce and separation much more common, and families joined together in different ways. My grand-daughter (or more accurately, my step-grand-daughter) has taken all of her five years to get her head around the different combinations of grandparents at her disposal, and hopefully will take on the burden of explaining it all to her little brother when he starts to ask about it!

When I thought about writing this post, my starting point was that families are akin to a jigsaw puzzle, a myriad of small pieces that fit together to make a singular image. But as I considered it further I realised that, if that were the case, families would never interlink and overlap, and these days they clearly do. I really feel that families are much more like a patchwork - individual pieces of fabric that are joined together, each dependent on one another, touching each other at different points and capable of growing exponentially. 

A never ending patchwork!

When I met my now husband our patchworks were separate and had grown independently of one another. Over time we worked to stitch them together into a whole. It wasn't easy, and we have had to do some unpicking and restitching over the years, but now we each love our step children as our own, and appreciate the richness and colour they each bring to the patchwork of our family lives. I like to think that they feel the same way about us.

My lovely, loony patchwork family!

Textiles need conservation and care - pieces of patchwork may fade and begin to disintegrate without efforts to preserve them. Although my parents are no longer with us, by talking about them and continuing with family traditions and rituals, by looking at photos and remembering their values, we keep them alive to us, and their fabric pieces shine bright - my mum’s would be a rose print, and my dad’s the serge of a St John’s Ambulance uniform. 

Some materials undoubtedly clash, needing careful positioning, and similarly, families can be hard work. However, in these changing times, their value should not be underestimated. It’s so important to work on keeping the connections of our families strong by constantly paying them attention, renewing the thread if needs be. 

Whether its a patchwork, a jigsaw or a family, the whole will always be greater than the sum of its parts, and its important to remember that a neglected or misused quilt will very quickly become a pile of useless rags.

Woman's Rights are Human Rights!

So, women’s rights. Not a light hearted topic for a blog post, but many things have conspired to make me feel the need to write this. 

Being retired has given me considerably more time to contemplate personal and world events. Now that I don't need to stress about work I find myself reacting more vehemently to things that I read or see on tv. At the end of last week I started a new book - The Letter by Kathryn Hughes. Whilst it’s never going to pull up any trees in the literary world, or challenge for a Booker prize, the plight of its protagonists affected me in a primal way. One, living in the early seventies, was trapped in a marriage with a violent, manipulative and abusive man, whilst the other, in thirties Britain, had her life outcomes controlled and altered irrevocably by her equally controlling father. As I read, I became increasingly incensed and angry, but also anxious as I imagined how these characters were feeling - no doubt as the author intended. 

Then I watched Call the Midwife…On one level this is Sunday night tosh, but it also serves as a reminder of what life was like for some communities in the late fifties, early sixties. Again the storyline revolved around a woman in an abusive marriage who was effectively trapped because men had all the power, both socially and legally. In the way of Sunday night, pre-watershed dramas, an escape was found for her, although, in reality, the first women’s refuge did not open until the early seventies. Sometimes though, even they didn't help. If you can bear it, read this article about how the system continues to fail some women. 

Women's March, Chicago 

My reading of the book and my watching of the tv programme coincided with the inauguration of Donald Trump as President of the United States of America. It will never cease to amaze me that this misogynistic and reactionary man was elected to the most powerful position in the Western world. His treatment of, and language around women has been abhorrent, and now he has the power to impact on their lives in a very real and scary way. I feel it especially keenly as my step son and his wife live in Chicago and will be directly affected by any chipping away of rights for individuals. 

It is difficult to believe how things have changed for women within my lifetime, but it is a constant battle to maintain rights that were hard fought for and won in the seventies. Every time funding is threatened for health and fertility advice and support, women suffer though ignorance and lack of care. Whatever your personal feelings are about abortion v. the pro-life debate, I am old enough to remember that if women and girls are desperate enough, they will seek to terminate a pregnancy in whatever way they can. Making it difficult for them to receive advice and care will not change the outcome, just the woman’s safety. And, however much we continue to do so, it is never possible to judge an individual’s situation and why they make the choices that they do.

I have been lucky in my life - my parents treated me, my sister and two brothers equally. We all grew up believing anything was possible. When my first marriage broke down, laws were in place that enabled me to extract myself from it, relatively painlessly, and society did not shun me or my children. I worked in an environment that was predominantly populated with woman, and progressed in my career as far as I wanted to, with equal pay and no apparent glass ceiling. Nobody told me I needed to wear particular shoes, make up or clothing, as reported on the BBC website this morning, and I largely felt, and feel valued as a person. I am remarried to a lovely man, who is not above cooking, cleaning and ironing (as long as it’s not  bed linen). I don't know if these things are true for every woman of my generation.

Womens' March, Chicago

I marched for Women’s Rights in the seventies and I fully support what the thousands of women (and men) across the World who marched on Saturday were saying. It appals me that Trump implied that these people had not voted in the recent election, simply because they were objecting to him. Women are humans first, women second, and as my daughter-in-law’s banner said, “Women’s rights are human rights”, and these rights should not be threatened or eroded by anyone.

Cheap Thrill #14: A Walk on the Wild Side

Every year, during the months of November to February and about 15 miles north of where we live, Grey Seals use the beach to breed. It has became one of nature’s spectacles, drawing visitors in their hundreds, if not thousands. And that, dear reader, is probably why I’ve never been before…the only times available to me were weekends or the Christmas holidays. Not only did I jealously guard these free times, I also knew that everyone else went to see the seals then and, whilst I can just about bear queueing for a theme park ride, queueing to view a natural event seems a shade perverse. 

Glorious Norfolk skies - the best in the World!

However, lest it escaped your notice, I am now retired! So, having checked the weather forecast, this morning we ventured forth. Bear in mind that not only is this the tail end of the breeding season, but also the Norfolk coast has recently suffered a combination of a tidal surge and high winds, so we were not all that hopeful of seeing anything of note. Undeterred, we paid and displayed and set off to the first ‘Seal Viewpoint’, or more accurately ‘Sand and Sea Viewpoint’. Nothing, nada, zilch, not a hint of a fur coat, and the warden told us that many seals had disappeared during the tidal surge. 

Still, the sun was shining, the Norfolk sky was incredible and we were already togged up for the winter, so we decided to continue to the next viewing point, some 25 minutes further along the path. When we climbed to the top of the steps to reach the summit of the dunes, I saw a couple of lumps on the sand, which we eventually established were grey seals. However, so still were they that I convinced myself that they were dead, until hubby spotted the flick of a flipper. Even so, not exactly mind blowing.

Those rocks are moving!

We walked a bit further and realised that the ‘rocks’ behind the actual rocks were a heaving mass of grey seals, rolling around, hauling themselves in and out of the water and generally chilling in the sun! How exciting! The warden at the official viewing point was talking to another visitor and, as we approached, she indicated that we should be quiet and turn to look behind us. 

Sooo cute!

And there, in the grass, no more than 10 feet away was a baby seal. This evoked in me the sort of noises that I usual reserve for news items about baby pandas and marmosets. Not exactly David Attenborough’s style, but it was completely involuntary! The warden explained that this weaned pup had been up on the dunes since the weekend, and would only move once its hunger had reached the point of needing to go and fish. Interestingly, seal’s aren’t taught by their mothers to fish. Once they  are weaned, they are left to starve until their instinct to feed takes over. 

Waiting for the hunger to kick in...

As we stood taking photos and chatting, we noticed that the pup had started to move and we watched as he struggled to make his way across the dunes towards the beach and the sea. 

Nature at my fingertips!

We were so close, I just couldn't believe it. He even stopped to read all about himself on the noticeboard, which the warden and I found hilarious!

It says here that I'm a grey seal

As we walked back to the car, I was left reflecting how amazing nature is - those seals mate five weeks after they have given birth (I know!!!), but the fertilised eggs are not released into the womb until 12 weeks later, so the pregnancy of nine months coincides with their winter break on the Norfolk coast! Incredible. 

So today, I have enjoyed a lovely walk in the fresh air and sunshine, I have learned an awful lot more about grey seals than I knew before and I have had sufficient ‘sooo cute’ moments to last me at least until the lambs start leaping around the fields. Joy, pure joy!