threescore

Today I had to go to the shop and get:

Hot Cross Buns (6),

Yogurt (Rhubarb).

Previously, Peanut has shown a liking for:

Cheese (the pasteurised, hard kind I’m still allowed),

Yogurt (any, especially gooseberry or similar),

Milk (on cereal),

Salad (in abnormal quantities),

and I’m going crazy about vegetables.

I am rather queasy around coffee, tea and chocolate (despite giving in to habit and regretting it often). I am more queasy than usual around bananas.

On a different note, I just finished reading Jane Eyre, and decided she needs to get out more. And never trust a lunatic in your attic, while I think of it.

Nineteenth century literature brings home to me how odd it is for me to be able to publish a picture of a child that will not be born for 6 months to an audience comprising family, friends, a sister as far away as can reasonably be imagined and several googlers per week wondering what threescore means. All this was beyond any fantasy Jane Eyre dreamt up as a child. Madness!

…I am not running the London Marathon.

Although a week of walking through beautiful Herefordshire has made me fit enough perhaps to walk it. Dad goes at quite a pace - faster than when I was short, I’m sure. Not sure if he’s even up to running it, but he could probably cycle it in a decent time, I think.

Why isn’t Herefordshire on the map? Even the Mappa Mundi added it as an afterthought, and yet it is the most English county I’ve been to, and utterly inspiring. There should be an Arts College there and an ancient university.

And, in the week we were there, I discovered that sheep have Character. What an amazing animal they are. Drive a truck of food in to their field and once word is out they gallop in lines to it. Only to follow the truck at speed as it tries to leave the field. Mad. I met one sheep, to be known only as Number 9, who reminded me of a Parent With Attitude. Not like Parents’ Evenings; more evocative of when I worked in prison and mums would come in. Even Number 9’s twin lambs looked like they were hiding hoodies, ASBOs and a tattoo or two.

Mum told me that she and dad were once on a farm where the lambs were taken from the ewes, overnight. The noise was awful. There are two lessons to be learnt from this: time your visits when you stay on a sheep farm, and watch where you put the kids.

I think we built up our stamina and fitness, and we had a lovely time away. However, I know better than to risk putting myself through Flora’s polyunsaturated Rather Long Run. Even for the Society for Delinquent Lambs.

I came across an interesting chapter on coping with pain and suffering recently. Philip Yancey, in his Where is God When it Hurts? addresses why there is such a thing as pain, whether it is a message from God, how people respond to suffering, how to cope with pain and how faith helps.

The work on coping with pain got me thinking. Yancey identifies four areas that suffering people face, which can be addressed with some help from genuinely available people. The four areas are: Fear, Helplessness, Meaning and Hope.

How do we help people through these difficult emotions? There is no magic formula, but Yancey has a lot of wise things to say. Fear can make pain feel worse. Being available to be with a suffering person can help reduce their fear. Fear can be disarmed when seen from God’s perspective: perfect love casts out all fear (1 John 4.18). Finding the right words is not important - there are normally no right words. Being prepared to do something matters more, and shows real love. Continuing friendships and relationships as they were before is vital.

Helplessness can come about through losing a sense of place in the world. Even Get Well cards carry a message that being ill is not ok and reinforce the person’s sense of futility. Suffering people who can grasp a way to control their lives (e.g. about who visits them and when, where they can live, taking many of their own choices) can beat the helplessness. A tool which can be used is to negotiate a contract, once someone has articulated their personal goals, assigning tasks stage by stage in order to reach the goal.  Encouragement and praise can go a long way to help a person progress forward, and then help others. Yancey says ‘a wise sufferer will look not inward but outward. There is no more effective healer than a wounded healer’.

Pain with meaning (sports injuries, childbirth, inoculations) is far more bearable than pain without. Yet we so often see the negative meanings of pain and ignore the significance of the experience. So we should acknowledge the pain is valid, comforting where we can, then look forward to the results of the suffering rather than backward at the causes.

Hope has the power to sustain. It cannot be taught, but sometimes it can be caught. It is not wishful thinking, but a belief in a good thing coming. In reality. It also saves the sufferer from pessimism and permits a person to accept reality while giving strength to go on living. It can be hard for people with long-term suffering to feel the availability of their friends when things aren’t new, but long-term availability fosters real hope. The Christian believes, with hope, that the best is always yet to come.

So what are my personal resolutions in reading this?

1) To love dad, to continue to be his daughter and make him proud, to fight the fear;

2) To come up with my own list of goals, and help dad reach his;

3) Not to look backward, when I can help mum and dad look forward;

4) To be there in the long term for dad. He has said that he wants to write a blog about me when I turn 60. That’s the kind of thinking! To be a real catalyst for hope.

Mum recently had her cholesterol checked. Before Christmas it was high: 6.8. She was worried that a new score wouldn’t reflect how hard she’d been trying. In the recheck the score had dropped to 5.1. Mum is the kind of person who thinks that going from 6 to only 5 must be a Bad Thing. A nurse wanted to talk with her urgently, so mum thought it meant a telling off. In fact, the nurse wanted to get in touch to ask how she managed to drop the numbers so quickly. Must be the new healthy eating regime chez ma famille. The numbers break down into low density lipoproteins (bad) and higher density lipoproteins (good). There is still work to do when you look at the detail, and as mum is over 55 and her own mum has had a heart attack, there are statistics to fight as well. But my nightmares that mum might succumb to early heart problems are over now. She is even out and about cycling, now it is milder weather. The race in their kitchen to cut out saturated fats must also have had a good impact on dad’s health, which is a mighty encouragement for us.

Now I just have to get around to teaching her maths… She does ask me to help her, and one day I will. A drop from 6.8 to 5.1 is a reduction of 25%, which is fantastic.

I am not at school today.

I would like to be - even after a long few weeks recently and emotional highs and lows, carrying on at work makes things go more smoothly and takes my mind off worries. But I have caught one of these TALOIA bugs [there's a lot of it about]. I don’t yet know of other jobs where, if you have to take a day’s leave, you drag yourself out of bed to type two pages of instructions for the day you would have done, and feel guilty even then that you are not doing enough. After sleeping in, watching repeats on DVD and trying to keep your lunch down, you then have to consider seriously the merits of preparing the next day’s work in both typed-up-notes form and regular planner form, to be ready in either event. If you like taking the high moral ground, teaching is great. If you are a control freak, you can stay very happy. But watch out for the guilt. It is double-glazed and there’s a lot of it about.

I can hardly remember mum or dad ever taking days off sick; my generation and my profession are falling for presenteeism. I choose to be different: if I’m ill I’m ill. But I wish I was at work.

There is a dichotomy running through a lot of my thoughts. I studied theology and learned to hold different points of view at once while considering them. Now I think I cannot hold one particular line on anything very well. My doubts feel like great big holes held together with fishing nets. Take my birthday for example. This year it falls on a bank holiday, and this year I will be 30. Half of threescore. What exactly to do for it?

I met people in the summer who lost a house in the 2004 Tsunami in Sri Lanka. They had almost nothing, but were kind and welcoming to us. They have no resources to rebuild, but are expecting a baby. We cannot easily help them either, unless they can apply for money from charities. If I spend money having an exciting party or a trip abroad for my birthday, which I would like, I am incredibly aware of the differences in our situations. But does this mean I should not do something fun for my 30th? Or perhaps I should try and do something worthwhile.

The broken world I live in makes me very angry sometimes. Even when I think about Heaven and everything being right, I find myself questioning the idea of Heaven and whether I would act more humanely or more mercifully if I didn’t believe in it. If this was all there was, wouldn’t I fight harder against injustice and distress? Or is Heaven the final word?

In any case, taking a plane for a weekend trip to Europe is excessive in its carbon emissions and an utterly decadent action made possible by the commercialist hemisphere I happen to be a part of. Triple glazed guilt, no payments until the year 2020?

Forgive me. I am sounding off here, but I am also coming to the conclusion that I am a Spoilt Adult. Maybe I am rebelling. But I wondered yesterday how little I would be able to live on, and am not sure that I ought to enjoy all the indulgences I have. Food kills you. Travel kills the planet. Guilt kicks you in the stomach until you wonder which side of the shop window you are really on. Would I be happier with a simple lifestyle?

I am far too comfortable, which is discomforting to me.

On Thursday our school chaplain led a meditation for my form group in the chapel. Only one of the boys actually fell asleep, and the rest listened as she read a story about finding a potter’s workshop in a forest. We had to model how we saw ourselves in clay. I instantly thought of myself as a jug. Then Jesus came in and took the model and reshaped it. In my case it became a boat. What does this mean? My minister joked that I had been on the wacky baccy, because he doesn’t ‘do’ pictures. Although he was serious later and said he wasn’t sure what the pieces represented. Some people at church said they thought it meant going from a stationary action to a travelling thing. For myself I feel the words ‘pour out’ and ‘carry’ are key here, and that you never stop developing spiritually all through your life. Maybe I’m coming up to a new phase. I thought pouring myself out sacrificially was as far as I needed to get. But there is more. Maybe now I need to carry people somewhere. I don’t know what this means yet.

My prayer square got me thinking last night about the ways in which we have to watch our parents age and the emotions that run parallel. It was helpful. There were two other teachers and a nurse.

I feel, in no particular order: love, pride, guilt, anger, remorse, anxiety and fear when I think about my parents getting older. It is my generation which argues that it is not fair that I have to be more responsible now, whether I want to or not. So I feel guilty that I am not prepared for this. I didn’t choose dad’s age and I don’t want him to be weak. But there are other emotions. I feel excitement; we will go away with mum and dad to a beautiful part of the country after Easter. And hope; the future will hold any number of positive and good things. And assurance too: they are safe, dad is slowly improving and we can still relate to and have a good relationship with them.

I guess there is no more denial, anger, grief…

I feel as if I have been invited to accept this invitation. At some point we all are.

You are cordially invited to…

…witness a loved one suffer, watch them change and look to the future differently.

No dress code.

RSVP

The old man is no longer snoring, he reports, so I guess it is no longer raining/pouring. Looks like drizzle from here, which is about right for early January.

I’m not sure I want to know the connection between snoring and heart attacks.

Back to school tomorrow, so some more preparation and marking to find time to do today, along with washing loads, casserole to make and freeze and so forth. M and I went to see Homebase about a kitchen at lunchtime (style really does cost), and then I wanted to call on the carpet shop which have our measurements for the toy room, as we’re currently painting it, but they closed at 1pm.

Also my sister needs her thank you card and any birthday postage sending very soon to arrive before she starts trekking around NZ.

Because last half term was a particularly stressful one for me, my teaching wasn’t as good as I would have liked it to have been. As I see it there is now more pressure on me to perform and to do a great job. I have decided to try and be more positive and creative. We did have a great Christmas and this year could be a fantastic one. Dad is getting better slowly and there is a lot to be thankful for.

This month five women from the town where I live were killed, and Suffolk’s safe status has been violently shaken into some alternative 21st century reality. The effects are far-reaching. At school we have cancelled after school detentions. We have cancelled the Christmas party for sixth formers, as it was just too close to the red light district. We have even cancelled the last day of term next Wednesday, as the bus passes run out and it is not safe to walk home in the dark now. My tutor group were more concerned about losing their non-uniform day than coming into school for four more lessons.

Last night our work meal out was in town, so we went in groups. I live near the centre of town, and could have walked alone.

It’s like some heightened terror alert that makes you wonder how safe things really were before and whether my town is at least as safe as anywhere else now. With the world’s press and the country’s police forces camped out locally it is probable any strangler thinking of offending again will move away.

With Christmas 9 days away I am saddened for the families and loved ones of these five women. One was pregnant, which was awful. Was it a punter’s baby, who will never know his child died as she was strangled? Was it her partner’s, even though they were apparently drug addicts and couldn’t look after her other three children? How can you look at a situation like this and not feel some degree of judgment, and then anger at yourself for thinking such things? And distress for all connected with clearing it up.

Once you’re gone, you’re gone.

So they are giving medical help to the drug-addicted women who work the streets in my town, and financial aid to those who need it. Is this what it takes to keep our streets free from prostitution?

We wake up to the facts only when the facts stare us in the face and demand an answer.

Street workers only get the help they need when there is an unprecedented local threat.

Dad only changes his diet radically after his heart attack.

I suspect my own health and eating habits may only change when they have to. I don’t even know if I have the discipline to live healthily when we get pregnant. What is a reason strong enough to tackle the elephants in our rooms?

Or are we all more or less the same?

We found that local chicken, baked with vegetables, lemon and lime juice (and some herbs), with baked potatoes did the trick today. Except I knocked over a bottle of apple juice which made us all jump and dad went pale.

(How to make four hearts shudder).

 We also went to a local craft fair at a beautiful private school near us, where dad was able to have a small walk and I had his mince pie and mum wished we’d had our wedding reception there (even though we couldn’t; I forget why), and we met a Russian lady I helped to get into the UK five years ago.

Then we went for a cuppa at mum and dad’s, which is looking Christmassy, even without decorations (the darker evenings and dim lighting?) and the cat bit my husband and I talked on and on and dad wanted to change the subject and I realised I had gone on and I felt awful.

But we did laugh about literature and I told him a bit about History Boys and he told us all more than we already knew about the 100 years war and we discussed the Problem of Evil. And it was all well worth doing, and dad looked healthy again.

I guess it’s better than fighting to save a heart, or even fighting a broken heart.

Lots of people let me down in various ways today - life as a teacher means you cannot dwell on the inadequacies and insecurities of the lives you touch. Or the changes of plan. Or the chances you might be teaching badly.

Finally tonight I completed the week of planning for next week, which is now in multi-colour spreadsheet - for arranging in any convenient way (by class, room, day…) Probably overdid it, but that’s my reaction to life pressurising me - I fight back harder by doing a better job. Even when I get tired I get angry and find more energy to fight.

Not sure it’ll help me get to sleep, but I feel very content at a job well done, and even managed to mark a set of books afterwards.

It may be my own way of dealing with things, and if it is, it surprises me. I saw myself (until recently) as a person who could never do well enough or please people enough. Now I choose to work hard as my moral stand against all those things which could be herded up into the category ‘evil’.

Was it the fault of evil that dad had a heart attack?

Was it his ’sins’ of lifestyle that brought it about? Quite possibly.

Or the sins of his genes? Not implausibly.

Or the consequence of a broken world? Yes, if you believe that.

But my working hard doesn’t undo it or make it unhappen or undifficult to deal with. My new unsaturated Dad is still much reduced from his real self and I want my dad back.

And, like finding that instead of invigilating the end of an exam 45 minutes before the final bell you have to occupy your year 11s for a lesson, your heart sometimes needs some reinforcing so as not to give in and melt.

What’s my source of hope? Tomorrow. There will be a good tomorrow. Children. Work. Love. Beauty. Friendship. Family. Opportunity. Celebration. Release. Growth. Weekends. Daydreaming. Colour. Seasons. Travel. Documentaries. Creating. Exploring. Learning. Laughing. And the occasional take-away.

Marking mock exam scripts - you can do them one at a time (one day at a time), 30 at a time (laid out on tables, but you have to turn the pages), one question at a time - whatever you like. And it doesn’t matter how good the grades are this time round. I feel shattered, and I haven’t finished but I have to keep going. And whenever I finish I will feel guilty that:

a) I didn’t have more time for my husband,

b) I didn’t have more time for me,

c) I will never catch up with dad, whose teaching and passion for education remain inspirational, or mum, the hardest worker I know…

Am I supposed to feel like this? What if my own cholesterol level rises? I WANT JUNK FOOD and I don’t care about my arteries. It just doesn’t register enough.

Actually I am very tired. I want to do passive or fun things, but have to get on, because I have only a few days to plan another 10 days’ lessons, as well as tie up all sorts of loose ends. This is where I am unlike my parents. I know I have rights, and I expect them. I expect to be able to slow down and stop working so I can get to sleep in good time, even if I don’t have much of a break. I am a generation x flatliner trying to catch up with the y-axis standards my parents set and floundering and feeling guilty.

Whatever they think, I’ll never believe I am doing enough. And if that makes me unhealthy, that’s how it has to be. Why shouldn’t I also suffer later if they are suffering now?