Friday, 4 April 2014
Thursday, 3 April 2014
I've seen you, a few times now.
I saw you last night.
You wear a grey jumper, jeans, hair cut short- as you usually were, and how you preferred yourself.
In my peripheral vision I catch glimpses, and have studied you at times too, scrutinising whether it is you or not, and it always is.
You are always right next to me, and I haven't noticed.
And yet I am not surprised, not desperate to get to you, I just realise you are there, it is like you always have been, that pleasure in knowing you are there, but not a shock or desperation. These emotions do not fit with the situation. It is just simply realising you are there.
Then without fail, I wake. I try to sleep again, see you again…grab you in my dream and make you a reality.
Oh Alex, what I would give to drag you back through my dreams and have you by my side.
The tears I weep when I wake.
It was just a dream.
You only live in my dreams.
You will only ever live in my dreams.
Posted by Manic Mum at 10:40
Wednesday, 2 April 2014
Dusk, chill of evening breeze through my open window. Dog runs around the garden chasing a pipe cleaner. I have candles that flicker on my window sill, I love watching the pale glow gently pulse.
A meeting has been had about visits. I cannot have anyone dictate to me, I told them this, and to be fair they respected it, also told me I and the kids were the most important part of your rehab. To hear this made me cry. I sometimes feel so pushed out, so redundant as a wife, so negligible my role, that hearing these words I shed tears of relief. That someone does actually think I have a part, an important part to play in this.
Tuesday and Wednesday is when you will be doing the most physio, walking and sitting rehab with them, so these are good days for me to focus on the kids and Making Waves for You, and Making Waves for Alex, which is generally what I spend time I am not with you doing when the kids are at school. The other days I will see you. Twice a week I am bringing the kids in too, they are feeling it at the moment, feeling the loss of you.
Emie frequently cries and says she wishes she had a daddy at home. Monty says 'no Esmie, don't say things like that, you might upset mum' I step in and say how brave and how good and how important it is to talk about these things, even if you are worried it may upset me, and how considerate and caring it was of Monty to think of protecting me in this way.
They need to see more of you, they miss you terribly, and the longer it goes on, the more they miss you.
And this is the same for me.
The more time limps along, the more I miss you, my husband, my best friend, my everything…
Posted by Manic Mum at 21:29
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
White wisps of cloud dominate an otherwise pale blue sky, I find my drive to you an observation of reorientation (I am rubbish at directions, finding myself places, maps, routes) despite the fact I have driven to this Care Home maybe a hundred times before.
Perhaps I do not remember because my conscious wants to overrule subconscious 'You don't need to remember this route, it is all fine, he will be home in a few weeks, all back to the way it was'
No need for acceptance, no need to remember.
Only it is not like this anymore.
I am more than fully aware. Our babies crave seeing you more, I over hear Monty recording something on the IPad when he is allowed a bit of time on the way to see you; "This is Monty, just checking in to say I am on my way to see dad, and I CAN'T WAIT!'
In the back seat, he sees not the tears of relief I wipe from my face. The tears I shed once- for times before when he used to punch his sisters in the back of the car because he was so out of sorts and didn't know how to contain himself, and had to lash out no care for the consequences. It was then I introduced the IPad, recognising that he needed desperately to 'zone out' of the situation for a while.
That at times kids need to zone out completely, then reenter in a safe way, deal with things in a staggered way, if that is possible.
We had no choice but to see you so frequently, I knew no one, we had to see you Alex, for your sake. Monty was the most affected at this time, and in as much as he and I talked, in as much as I tried several techniques with him (which he opened up to on occasion) I was, and have never been able to help with the fact that he is the oldest, the only boy, the one who maybe needed his daddy the most. I am not you.
I am his mummy.
Being two parents is tough, because you had being a parent taken away from you.
You need to keep at your rehab, exercise, speech, eating, practising, relearning, listening…
Because you have not just me, but our four babies to get back to…
Posted by Manic Mum at 23:14
Monday, 31 March 2014
We have done it again, another change, another move for you. I came straight to see you, and the kids (lead by Monty) said,
"Mum, we will give you a few minutes just with Dad OK? Don't worry, we won't go far"
And this set you off.
They are growing up so fast, how considerate they are, how sensible they can be. Such grown up heads on compassionate shoulders; they bear the weight of you being this way with dignity and strength.
You are tired, but OK after the few tears you shed. But need me to explain what has happened, where you are, what went on. And, for the millionth time, I have to tell you again about the accident, and reorientate you now you are back in the Care Home again.
It is a strange phase. When you were at Exeter, I had no choice, I had to visit infrequently, and did this fully in the knowledge that it was what was best for you. I also knew you were in the best place you could be, and was excited to see what progress you might make.
Now, it's a quiet phase again. A watching, hoping, visiting, waiting, hoping some more, in a vast stretch of time where I do not know what to expect.
Time stretches out ahead of me, lifetimes' worth, with no compass, no map, no route.
I don't know what I am doing in fact, I feel strange.
I need direction from you.
I need more of you.
Posted by Manic Mum at 21:33
Sunday, 30 March 2014
Chocolates, wilted roses and a cup of tea in bed. I am staying away this weekend, and, the friend I am staying with is going through divorce, so neither of us was relishing the prospect of Mothering Sunday alone, hence my trip. Well in truth it was originally to look after my 18-month-old nephew for the weekend whilst my sister and husband went to Berlin, only she became ill and had to stay put.
The kids spoil me and my friend, and we eat soggy weetabix with strawberries and enjoy tepid tea in bed.
It has been a lovely day, I got to see my sister, and a very dear friend of ours too. My sister took me out for tea with the kids, and I am now back at my friends, kids tucked up in bed and about to pack to drive back down tomorrow.
Tomorrow is another big day. Tomorrow you move again. Back to the Care home you were in before going to the Intensive rehab place. We had a good review meeting, they have been pleased with your efforts, seen small improvements and will take you back again the future- their doors are always open to you were their words.
I see the positives in what they say, although there is obviously my heart crying out, why have you not improved more? much, much more? Why is it so slow and minimal now? Why have I not got you back already?
You have so far to go, and I have to be very careful not to address this too often, it defeats me.
Will I ever be able to get you home?
Tomorrow is a big day.
You move again, move back.
They are trying to suggest when I can and a cannot visit, which makes me feel sick that as your wife I cannot just see you when I want, because it's not the best thing for you. I will, however, find a happy medium with me feeling I have made some decisions for you, rather than being told what to do around you.
Because my role as a wife, has been challenged as much as your role of being a husband has been taken away since you had your accident.
I don't want any of this.
I will run through my moments of gratitude before I sleep, try and pour gratitude into the daily void I feel inside the second I open my eyes in the morning, every morning, since I lost you.
Posted by Manic Mum at 21:51