Lasting Firsts

Posted on February 22, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Like everything in my life at the moment, two ends of the spectrum run in parallel – sometimes so close, the lines lie against each other, indeterminate, entwined, indistinguishable. My mum needs caring in the same way as my baby. My girls teach me as much as I mother them.

And so I constantly memorise every ‘last’ situation with my mum – her last kiss to me as she said goodbye after visiting me in hospital with Ruby; our last phonecall just three hous before her catastrophic stroke, how happy she’d been; our last hug; our last fight. Everyday moments in our relationship, forever now memorised as momentous.

And alongside that, all my new firsts with Ruby. Her first smile three months ago, like a rainbow after a storm. Her first giggle, a trickle that has gushed into a flood. And now, her first solid food – her surprise, my delight, her excitement, my satisfaction, from those first tentative tastes of rice, to my freezer bursting with bags of heart shaped frozen cubes of steamed sweet potato, brocolli, carrot, pear and apple. I spoon feed my mum – favourite flavours no longer lighting up her eyes, and I spoon feed my new baby, marvellous mouthfuls of taste, surprising and lighting up her face.

Different ends of the spectrum. Same love.

Posted in feeding, mum, stroke | 5 Comments

Grown up love

Posted on February 17, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I’m so proud of them. No, I’m not talking about our girls – although they make me so proud there isn’t a blog host or an internet range large enough to hold the stuff I could write about them. No, I’m talking about my other family – my mum and dad and brother. I know this is not normal. We spend most of our lives being embarrassed or pissed off, or more often than not irritated and frustrated with these strange people who are so familiar they’re like our skin, yet so alien to us, they feel like a rash on that skin. And I’ve often felt all of those things.

Like most families, mine has had its fair share of dramas… but despite the sparks and the strifes, we’ve shared time, willingly and with pleasure. Despite branching out in our own lives, in the last ten years my brother and I have found ourselves coming together to holiday with mum and dad, and strangely our family strengthened instead of weakened as we married and grew. My mum was the central nervous system – the magnet which pulled us all together no matter how far apart we were. And in the awful days and nights after her catastrophic stroke, my dad, my brother and me – supported by my sister-in-law and husband – formed a vigil, a protective presence, a desperate determination that she would never be alone. As the weeks have slowly drifted into months and decisions were made, plans put in place we did so as a family – as she would have wanted. We are the family she taught us to be – strong in support, united in love.

My dad has been outstanding. He is 74 and caring full-time for my mum now. Most men his age couldn’t cope on their own for a day. He cares for her – and himself and does it with extraordinary competence. I don’t just mean he copes with the house and manages the washing. When I went up to visit last weekend, we had homemade soup for lunch – with homemade bread, and a stupendous homemade fish pie for tea. It was a sunny spring day so we got mum into her wheelchair and wrapped her up and took her round the park at the end of the road. The first crocuses of Spring were waving hello in the grass and we stopped to feel the sun on our faces for a moment. It was almost bearable. Because we were still together.

My mum is in a terrible place, but while she is there she is being wrapped in love. She taught us that and I hope we are making her proud. For I am proud of them – my mum, my dad, and my brother. So proud that my life has been shared with them, through the good times and the bad.

Posted in family, mum, stroke | 6 Comments

It’s so sad, I’m laughing

Posted on February 9, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Just when I thought life couldn’t get any harder? It got harder. I feel like I’m on one of those fairground rides – and like most fairground rides, I just want to get off. The one where you walk along the shaking ground and try to keep your balance? That’s what my life feels like right now. Everytime I think I can just step on to the solid ground again, the ride gives me one big shake up and I nearly loose my balance. Last week, after days of my baby being unwell I rushed her to Emergency where she was hospitalised. A week of sleeping on the floor beside her as oxygen breezed up her nose, fluids seeped into her arm, and finally milk was poured down a tube into her stomach left me feeling like I am in some awful parallel universe and I just want to get back to my old life now thank you.

And it was another reminder of how much I miss my mum.. As I nursed my little baby back to health, I needed her to nurse me back to sanity. On the ward was a little baby boy, not more than 4 months old. And in the week I was there, not once did his mother visit him. He broke my heart as he lay alone in his big cot, crying for the comfort that was never going to come his way. And while I feel so bereft that I’ve lost my security blanket, it made me realise how warm my mum has made my life. It made me hold Ruby a little closer, and renewed my determination to protect my girls through life, to be their security blanket too… because the world is a colder place without it..

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Who’s the Mummy?

Posted on January 30, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I’ve written before about that fuzzy old line that defines (or not) who is the child and who is the parent. In the last four months as my mum lies permanently entangled in her half-life post-stroke, I spoon feed her, change her, wash her and stroke her face, the line has disappeared as my actions mirror exactly those that I perform for my newborn baby. The child and parent in one.

But yesterday the line was broken again by my five year old in that ‘slap in the face’ sort of way. They say you should never work with animals and children, but I say everyone should have a child’s perspective on life kept handy – there is no better way to see the world than through the innocent, uncynical eyes of a child. They have that ability to stand on that box and see inside and out of it. Recently I asked who or what she thought god was. “Is he the police? Because he likes to help people?”

So how do I take her recent golden nugget of observation? I asked her to stop jumping on the sofa and when that was met by a higher leap and a defiant eye I enquired as to who owns the sofa. She slapped that arguement away like a lion brushing a fly off his back with his tail. “Daddy does. He goes out to work. He earns the money. He owns the sofa!”

A very loud silence filled the space between her defiant eye and my horrified face. I decided she could never know the impact of those words. “I own the sofa too.”
“No, you do nothing!”
That loud silence was now filled with the cries of sacrifice in my head – I gave up my career for you! I work so hard I can hardly stand some days.. all those organic pureed foods, all those hours of singing Wheels on the Bus, all those days of playing, all those nights of cuddles, ALL FOR NOTHING!!!!!!

Instead I put my sweetest smile on, reinforced with steel, and said in a tone that allowed no misinterpretation of who is the boss, “My sofa. My rules. OFF!”
She deferred to her better judgement and quietly left the room, while I lay stabbed and bleeding by her cutting remarks. That night at 2am, she whispered into my dreams “mummy, I need you” and I lay for a moment, tempted to say, “your dad earns the money, go wake him!” But that would have been childish wouldn’t it? Instead, I pulled on my mummy face and cuddled her up and put her back to bed. After all, abject rejection and total confidence annihilation are just part of the (yes, unpaid) job description. But it made me realise that I have to step away from my post-traumatic lethargy of loosing my mum and having a baby at the same time, and reawaken the woman I am – a proud mum, an aspiring novelist and a freelance writer – and get back in the game. My five-year old daughter gave me the pep-talk I needed. The child and parent in one.

Posted in job, parenting, stroke | 3 Comments

In search of me….

Posted on January 24, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I went to a party this weekend. In London. Not only have I not said those words since about 1986, but the decadence involved of dumping one’s children, getting on a plane and booking into a hotel – alone – with one’s husband to do something as frivilous as….a party… seems beyond my realm of existence of late. But I just did. So go figure.

No children. No mum. Just hubby and me. Did I mention we booked into a hotel?? Not that I had the faintest idea what to do at such a social event, but I was there.. in a sparkly top no less.

It was a friend’s 40th – and as I trawled through my university photos for some snaps to take with me, I stared in wonder at the girl in them and found myself asking – who was she? That 20 year old. Where is she now? For I don’t see her staring back at me in the mirror. She is young. Carefree. Eyes alight with anticipation and expectation. The only thing I’ve been expecting the last six years is babies, and the only thing I’ve anticipated is exhaustion.

But I went… with not just a little glimmer of anticipation and expectation in my eye (did I mention there was a hotel?) and you know what? I danced. I laughed. I remembered old friends and they remembered me. It’s Monday now, and I’m back on the treadmill but today I had a little tiny, itsy bitsy spring in my step. I think I found that girl… if only for a little while, if only for one night. But it’s enough to know she’s still in there somewhere…

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Small and Big

Posted on January 11, 2011 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

I’ve never felt so small in my life. Or so big.

After years of believing I’m in control of my life I realise its fragility, and how, in an instant it can all be over. That’s what happended to my mum. Literally. One minute she is reading her grandchildren a goodnight story, and moments later…Bam! Something explodes in her head and her life ends. It’s just that she’s still alive. Since then I’m terrified of my own demise. I lie in the dark and wonder when and how it will happen. I am shattered by the thought of leaving my girls and not being able to stop it. I don’t feel like I can conquer the world any more….. more like I’m falling off the edge of a cliff. I feel small in the shadow of all that I do not control. It’s a strange sensation and I suddenly dread the forthcoming birthdays, each one closer to my last. The very first blog I wrote was about the sudden accidental death of one of my peers – it was inconceiveable then that life could just end. It is no longer inconceiveable and that makes me feel very small indeed.

And that smallness is making me feel big. Because I can never be that little girl in my mum’s arms again. Even as a mum, I have always been able to still be that little girl. Even the night before she left me (for her stroke did make her leave me) I was her little girl when she cuddled me as I cuddled my newborn, reassuring me and making me strong. For that’s what my mum did. She kept me strong. And now I am alone. I will have to make myself strong. I have to always be the adult now. I have to finally grow up. Small and big. Big and small. All at the same time.

I have to start being strong. And I’m going to start here. I’ve been reading back over my early blogs – my life filled with the wonder of womanhood, of writing and the marvel of motherhood. In honour of my mum and all that she taught me, I must live that life again. So for the first time in a long while, I’m writing a story makes me feel good. And strong.

Today Poppy had her first ballet lesson. She’s very little and lovely and based on her elder sister’s reluctance to embrace new experiences, I wasn’t sure which way this would go. I dressed her up in her petite ballet dress and off we set, my nerves wrecked before we even got there. There’s something so vulnerable about Poppy, my heart is always breaking for her. I’m still not uber confident about walking into a room full of strangers; how was my little three year old going to fare? Like a little trouper is how. Without a backward glance she joined the group of dancers and proceeded to dance her little feet off. She never hesitated, she never looked lost, she bore a confidence that made my heart swell. After, Daisy (who’d lasted half a dance class last year before refusing to ever return) asked for Popcorn. As I was feeding RubyI gave her the money and told her to go and ask the girl behind the counter. She refused, too shy. ‘That’s ok’ I said. But not for Poppy. Despite the fact she didn’t come anywhere close to the top of the counter, Poppy strode off to ask for popcorn. She may be small, but she is unbelieveably big. Small and big, both at the same time….
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Sliding doors of life….

Posted on December 28, 2010 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Even before the film Sliding Doors appeared, I often lived parallel lives. As a child, at unhappy times, I would literally live another life in my head, while my real life carried on. (Often this other life involved lots of interaction with Michael J Fox, but that’s a whole different blog!).

Then, for many years, my sliding door to a different world stayed shut, the reality of my life good enough to experience in and outside my head – only occassionally would I become an intrepid traveller again as I washed the dishes, or rescued orang utans from the wild as I read The Tiger Who Came to Tea for the 63,839,586th time.

But now, I find myself living parallell lives every day. Not some wild escapism, not some far flung adventure, but simply the imaginings of what would have been, to soften the blow of what is. Three months ago my life changed for ever, for the worse. Since then I have tried to come to terms with loosing the mum I knew and adored, while learning to deal with the reality of a mum who barely knows my name and who will never share my life again. From the second hubby came into my hospital room in the dead of night to tell me my mum had had a massive stroke, my life split into two – the life I was planning and the life I am being forced to live. The last three months as I struggled with a new baby, I have dealt with the reality of waiting to see if my mum would pull through and then deal with having her settled at home, incapable of rational speech, thought or action. In my head though, I have lived through daily phonecalls, regular visits where she would hold my baby in her arms adoring her with song and praise, while sending me off to bed. I lived the experiences I knew we would have had, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey and a Butlers chocolate, showing off Ruby to strangers in the queue, reading stories to the girls. As I stood alone in my kitchen, the phone in my hand but no number to dial, I closed my eyes and pictured her coming off the Belfast train – 100 memories merged into one real moment, the smell of ‘Beautiful’ greeting me with her warm hug, tales of her conversations with strangers on the seat beside her keeping us company all the way home. As she walked through my front door she would say, “I love coming into this house, ” and we would sit down with a cup of tea, children scurrying around us and she would be proclaiming Ruby to be the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. I lived every memory of the past to get me through the present.

And so it was at Christmas. Mum and dad were due to come down to us this year, and like every year, I was going to take Mum to the National Concert Hall, and on Christmas Eve we would all sit down to the Christmas Ham dinner and then wrap ourselves around the fire, wine glasses glistening in light of the flames, stuffing Santa sacks. In the morning, as the girls giddy with Santa surprises would be shouting “Nanna Look!” when her bed-bedraggled head curled round our bedroom door, she would sit on our bed and share their excitement. We would have a walk in the snow and then, a little drunk perhaps, try to produce a christmas dinner in the right order before finding just enough room for a couple of chocolates by the fire at the end of the night. Instead, their car did not arrive this year, bringing bags and bottles of goodies. I didn’t book any tickets at the National Concert Hall. I hung up the lights and carefully placed decorations knowing they would never be seen by the person who would appreciate them the most. And when it hurt too much, I slid open the door and lived the version where their car drove up and they bundled into the house laden with love. I heard my mum say the house looked beautiful.

And on Christmas day, as my mum lay in her bed and we pretended to be merry the sliding door jammed and I could no longer soften the blow. This is how it is now. I have to organise our baby’s christening knowing my mum won’t be there. Plan a family holiday without her. Walk past the phone and not pick it up. But at least for a while yet, I can climb onto the bed beside her, the smell of my Beautiful rubbing onto her skin, and hold her hand. The past and the present still in tune.

Posted in mothers, stroke | 4 Comments

Who’s the mummy?

Posted on December 16, 2010 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

Life used to be simple. Clear cut. Black and white.

Roles were defined and refined. We all knew were we stood. My mum was my mum. I was her daughter. Then I became a mum and I had daughters. So far, so simple.

Now… the roles are blurred, the lines in the sand rolled over by the waves of catastrophe and stress. Now, my mum no longer looks after me. I look after her. I brush her hair and put on her makeup. I clean her house. And my daughters? Well, I do look after them too – although they do their fair share of brushing my hair and applying makeup – some days I look like The Joker. Although I’m not laughing much. The angst of my mum’s demise, and the sleep-deprived stress of a new baby have combined to make me ‘grumpy mummy’ as now defined by Daisy. “I’m not grumpy all the time”, I insist, but she gives me that look that only children can give. The look that says, “yes, but it’s the grumpy times that count.”

And to rub it in, she brought me down to earth yesterday. As only children can. I was in my usual ‘get-out-the-house-with-two-children-and-a-baby-dressed-fed-and-somewhat-intact-by-half-eight-in-the-morning’ mode when the final hurdle of getting laced runners on Daisy’s feet (why oh why did I not buy velcro???) was a hurdle too far. I lost the plot and threw a tantrum. It was quite impressive too. At one point the runners where hurled across the room.

As I strapped everyone into the car I took a deep breath and sheepishly apologised for my outburst. “It’s just hard,” I explained, “Getting everyone out in the mornings with no help from you.” Daisy looked at me – not unlike my mother used to, it has to be said, when she was making an annoyingly accurate point – and said, rather aloofly.
“Yes mum, but we are little people, and you are the big person.”
Ouch.
Ouch, but true. I am the big person, and no matter where the lines are, or what the roles are or even if I have no idea where I stand anymore, I should remember that at least. Parented by my child. Sounds just about right at the moment.

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Lessons of life…

Posted on December 7, 2010 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

My mum has taught me many things. How to bake. How to sew. How to knit. How to make a mean gravy. How to stack a dishwasher…. the latter something I never quite grasped much to my mum’s annoyance. And as I ply my knowledge on a daily basis with the girls, I now pass on many of those skills. As I pour the cake-mix into the tin, two little voices squeal for me to leave some in, their hands already delving into the bowl, their faces smeared with chocolate goo. A flashback. My face. Mum smiling as she passes me the bowl and puts another cake in the oven.

As I make some Christmas presents, sewing on buttons, Daisy asks me to teach her and so I hand her the needle and guide her to push it in, and pull it through. A flashback. Mum making my dress for my first formal dance, allowing me to sew a few stitches.

As I fight the urge to delve under my duvet for a stolen moment despite the hungry mewls beside me from Ruby, two little heads peer round the bedroom door, and seeing me awake, leap onto the bed and snuggle beside me chirping and chattering under the duvet. A flashback. An uncountable number of mornings lying beside my mum, putting the world to rights. And not just as a child.

I am still shocked by what has happened. She lies downstairs, bedbound and trapped, while I wander round her bedroom upstairs, her things as she left them. Her clothes hang in the wardrobe, many bought with me on one of our outings. She will never wear them again. Her jewellery glistens in the drawer, each piece with a story. She will never wear them again. Her photos, her books, her momentoes of life scattered around the room like moments in time. She will never touch them again. And I realise what her most important lesson has been. None of those things mattered. She was always insecure about not finishing school or having a big career, or having any accomplishments. Yet, everyone who knows her, loves her. She invested her time on people. What she didn’t realise is that the things that make a person great is not a list of accomplishments or a long CV. At the end of the day, as the last few weeks have shown me, the only thing that matters, the only thing that determines greatness is the love you leave behind. And if the love we leave behind is the greatest accompishment of all….. then my mum is the most accomplished person I know. And I will do my best to pass on that lesson too….

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Letter to Ruby

Posted on November 18, 2010 by Grin & Tonic by Alana Kirk

In the midst of all the darkness, there is light – a bright shining light of life. So while I grieve for my mum, I must remember to celebrate my new daughter.

Dear Ruby Rose,

You are 8 weeks old and glorious in gorgeousness. You’ve had a hectic beginning being looked after by so many people while I see your Nanna in hospital, but you cling to me and look so bright-eyed you convince me it’s all ok.

I am meant to be your teacher, your protector, your guide, but it is you who is keeping me grounded, secure and in the moment. It is you who pulls be back over and over again from the edge of darkness when my mind and heart wander to my loss and grief. And while my heart aches for my mum, it soars for you.

Every baudacious burp, every satisfying suckle, every cheerful chortle and every gratifying grin; every little squeak like a mouse, every stretch like a little frog, every mew like a kitten, you push away the shadows. And my mum loves you, even in her absence. When I dry your chubby little legs after each bath, my mum’s voice whispers over my shoulder,”dry her properly, get all those little creases in her arms and legs.” When I sing you a lullaby at night, the song she taught me floats in the air. When I throw my arms up in despair when I can’t work out why you are screaming while trying to get the girl’s tea, her voice laughs beside me, “well, you did choose to have three!” You are loved not just by me, but also by those who have loved me.

I hold you close in the darkness of night, alone while the house snores quietly. I smell your head and know that while my world might be shaking, I will keep steady for you. You are beautiful. You are perfect. You are mine. And even though this is the saddest time of my life, I am the happiest woman alive.

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