Caro's Big Adventure: the Cruise Begins!

So, Easter Sunday saw me arriving in Paris for a brief overnighter, before proceeding to Nice to meet up with the tour guide from Scenic. As a solo traveller, in a country where I know only a very little of the language, and am not overly familiar with the way things are done, I felt very proud of myself that I managed so well to get myself to the airport and onto my Air France flight from CDG to Nice.

Thanks to advice from friends, and my experience on my previous visit to France, I have two general rules:
1. I always try my best to speak French (even if it's really crappy French)  to anyone I meet for the first time
2. I always try to identify myself as Australian.

Therefore, my usual opening line tends to be:
"Bonjour. Je suis Australien, et je ne parle-pas tres bien francais. Parlez-vous anglais?"

This is usually met with one or more of the following:
1. A smile
2. Being cut off as soon as I say "Australien", with "English is ok"
3. A big smile and surprised expression, and "but your French is very good" (spoken either in English or French)
4.  An apologetic shake of the head, and some kind of indication that the person doesn't
speak English. (After which we battle on together as best we can, with my broken French and various sign language. This happened on my last visit, when I was in Aigues-Mort, and Alan had wandered off to look in another store, and I went into the Tabac to buy some postcards and stamps. The fact that the postcards I bought there -and the stamps- got home to Aust destinations eventually, meant we must have gotten it right, despite the lack of common language)

Anyway, back to the present. I managed to get from the hotel shuttle bus stop to the part of the airport I needed to get to. (Have I mentioned before that Charles de Gaulle airport is huge?) in the terminal 2F, I was then faced with many, many different check in and departure windows, and so I went up to the first official looking person I could see, and asked where I should check in, showing her my e-ticket. She didn't speak English, but was very helpful and pointed me to the right place. 

Then, the next achievement- automated check in using a kiosk thingy. I managed to check in and produce a boarding pass and luggage tag all by myself, and then got in the queue to drop my bag. This was the most fun part. As I was waiting at the head of the queue, there was a couple at the desk who seemed a bit dithery. They had their suitcase open, and were going through it, with stuff all over the floor, and at one point the guy behind the counter caught my eye, and I smiled at him, and he rolled his eyes rather comically. I think we shared a moment. 

When I got to the desk, he smiled at me, and I started my opening speech. He waved his hand and said, "in English?". I said, "yes, merci, but I try to speak French, because I think it's polite to at least try." We then had quite a pleasant little chat and a few laughs, whilst he did the paperwork he needed to do, and checked my passport (even for a domestic flight; I was surprised at this). When it was all done, I asked him, "so where do I go now?" and he smiled and directed me to the security gate.

The flight to Nice was quite pleasant. My seat was towards the rear of the plane, behind a curtain of sorts (in the cheap seats, I suspect), but I had no one next to me, and so was very comfortable (even the seatbelt was quite commodious, as on most domestic flights in Aust, generally I have to ask for an extender, or else it only just fits, and is a bit tight. But there were no problems, and I settled in for the flight. The in flight magazine was written in French and English, so I amused myself by reading the French bits, and trying to work out what they were saying, before looking at the English translations to see how ll I'd done. Interestingly, there were some bits that I'm certain where the English translations weren't totally accurate ( I think there was extra detail in the French bits that wasn't included in the English), so again I was feeling reasonably happy that my French is perhaps not as bad as I had thought. This was also a great exercise to improve my French, so it was good all round.

Upon arrival I was met by the Scenic Tours person, who was concerned that there were only about six of us on that flight, when there should have been something like 26. So she went running around trying to find out why Nd happened to the others. In the meantime, I got chatting to the rather nice Canadian couple who were sitting, waiting, with me. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, we eventually got on the coach, and were on our way to Taraascon, and the ship.

Caro's Big Adventure: Flying Business Class

Flying Business Class was a big treat. After checking in at the Etihad desk, I was given two pieces of paper in addition to my boarding pass: a pass to go into the Air NZ lounge (as Etihad don't have their own lounge at Sydney airport) and an Express Pass for the customs and passport departure section, so that I didn't have to stand in the longish queue, but went pretty much straight through.

So, after passing through all the official channels, I found my way to the lounge, and, like the hayseed come to town that I was, marvelled at the treats available on the buffet, and the self-serve bar, including various spirits as well as wine and beer.

 Eventually it came time to board, and I was ensconced in my own little cocoon (because that's what the BC seats feel like.) I was served champagne by the friendly flight attendant, and was asked to peruse the in-flight menu, to select what I would like to be served once we were in the air. A pre-dinner drink, followed by choices of entree and main course for 'dinner' that was served around midnight, once we were in the air.

During my meal. I watched a movie on the in flight entertainment system, and by the time the movie finished, it was about 1:30am (I kept my watch on Sydney time till we were almost at Abu Dhabi), and then decided to have a snooze. Now, I need to talk about the seats in BC. The seats have automated recline functions, so at the press of a button, I could move my chair forwards (for shorties like me, who might want to still sit up straight, but put their feet on the footstool), I could select 'upright' or 'relax' or 'bed' options from the automatic settings, or else manipulate the level of recline of the back of the seat, and/or how far forward the whole seat was...but wait, there's more!

There was also a massage function, with a variety of settings for location and pattern of vibrations. Needless to say, I had A LOT of fun playing with all this. 

So, after the movie, I flattened the seat out to bed mode, put the sleep mask on to black out all the extraneous light, and settled down for some kip. I remember doing a bit of tossing and turning, and needing to take the occasional sip of water from my water bottle, but before I knew it, I looked at ,u watch, and it was around 8am. So I figured I must have had around 6-7 hours' sleep; perhaps not the best quality, but at least I slept, and actually felt ok when I woke up.

So then, of course, came the breakfast service.... And it was around this time that I adjusted my watch to Abu Dhabi time.

Not long after that we got into Abu Dhabi, and were told we could go to the Etihad Business Class Lounge in the airport (where I made like a Hobbit, and had a second breakfast). After a three hour layover, we were off again, en route to Paris. Again, I was plied with alcohol, bot pre-flight, and in the air, given an extravagant meal service (not only do they have real glasses, crockery and cutlery, but they also put a napkin tablecloth on the tray table before putting the meal tray down. All very elegant).

By the time I got to Charles de Gaulle airport, I was starting to feel a bit the worse for wear, despite my hours of sleep on the plane. CDG is a big airport, and surprisingly, once i got my suitcase, there was no real customs or quarantine checkpoint to speak of. I just walked out. Then, after asking a couple of people for directions to the hotel shuttle pick up point, and walking from one end of the terminal to the other (and my poor knees were not happy), I finally found the bus I needed, and got to my hotel. The first thing I did was have a long shower, and boy, was that good. By this stage it was obloquy 4pm Paris time, and I had been in transit for about 27 hours since leaving Sydney at 10pm on the Sat night. I was starting to fade, but didn't want to crash until after dinner, and sometime closer to 'normal' bedtime in that timezone.

All up I coped ok with the travel, but was very grateful for the comfort of Business Class (and especially those bed-seats, which really helped me to get some sleep)

So, I've arrived in France... More later.

J'aime France

Well, here I am in Paris, watching the rain gently falling from the window of my hotel room on the rue Thenard in the Latin Quarter. I've been in France now for over a week, having left Sydney on Easter Saturday. I'm conscious that I've been remiss in my blogging, so those of you who aren't my friends on Facebook won't have a clue what I've been up to. Sorry for that, and now that I have a bit of time, I'll try to bring things up to date. (I should warn you that I'm typing on an iPad, which isn't as easy as a regular computer, so please excuse any typos I might miss).

Mum's house was sold at auction on March 23, and after some mad packing up and clearing out activity, (and huge thanks to friends and neighbours who helped so much with it all) I was ready to leave the country the following Saturday.

Because this is the 'grande vaconce' that will be a kind of once in a lifetime thing, to help me recover, refresh and recuperate from the long and hard slog of caring for Mum through her illness and coping with the emotional and administrative effects of her death; and to reorient my head, to become ready to go back home and to work. Because of this, (and the fact that I now have access to all of Mum's assets, which is m ore than I have ever had in my life) I have made some deliberate choices about the level of comfort, luxury and indulgence I am prepared to allow myself, and I am trying hard not to feel guilty or uncomfortable about that.

So, my flights from Sydney to Paris (and the future return flights) are business class. I had a wonderful time being spoilt by the lovely Etihad crew, and enjoying a very comfortable seat, that reclined all the way back into a flat bed (so that I even managed to get around 6-7 hours of sleep on the first, long leg, from Sydney to Abu Dhabi).

The overall outline for the trip is as follows:
* Fly Sydney to Paris via Abu Dhabi (arrive Easter Sunday). Stay overnight in airport hotel near CDG.
* Fly Paris to Nice, where I met the liaison person for transfer to Tarascon (on the Rhone river) to commence a 9 day river cruise on the MS Scenic Emerald from Tarascon to Chalon sur Saone, finishing up with a transfer to Paris and overnight in a very flash hotel in the centre of Paris.
* spend the following 6 nights in Paris, at a cute little hotel in the Latin Quarter.
* train (TGV) to Nimes, to stay for three nights with friends in Gaian, just out of Nimes.
* train back to Paris, and stay one last night in Paris (in the same hotel I stayed in last trip, for old time's sake)
* train (Eurostar) to London- to spend some time catching up with various friends in London, Oxford, Thame and elsewhere, before heading back to Sydney from Heathrow
* arrive Sydney (hopefully not too savagely jet-lagged) on Sat 27 April, and stay in a nice hotel in North Ryde for 4 nights or so to tie up any loose ends, say goodbyes etc and then fly home, and re-enter my 'normal' life, after being away for 10 months.

So, that's it in a nutshell. I'm thinking that rather than writing a huge long post to give all the details of all my adventures so far, I'll break it up into a number of smaller travelogue-y blog posts, hopefully with links to some pretty pictures.

Some snippets of this and that

It's been a while since I last posted here, and much has happened. I don't really have the time or brainspace to do any of it justice, but will write this post in the form of a number of little snippets, in no particular order.

* After a slightly less than auspicious period on the market, the house was sold at auction last Saturday. A great relief.

* On the same day as the house auction, we scattered Mum's ashes in the creek at the back of the house. I used a liturgy very similar to the one we used for Dad's ashes five years ago, which is here. It was a meaningful ceremony, with the neighbours and a few close family, and the minister and her husband from the local church where I have been fellowshipping whilst here.

* After a lot of enquiries, I managed to secure the services of a removalist to transport the selected items from Mum's house to my place in Myrtleford. (Because it was a small load to a country town, there weren't many companies willing or able to do it). In the end, the packing of boxes became a bit frenetic, especially when the removal truck arrived a number of hours earlier than we were expecting. I was very grateful for the assistance of three good friends on the day, without whom I would never have got it all done.

* As I contemplated how much I appreciated the help of friends on that packing day, I was struck by the irony of the situation. One friend in particular had spent the whole day with me, and if it hadn't been for his hard work in the morning, I really would have been stuffed when the removalists came. The irony of the situation exists in the fact that when I was first getting to know this friend, the person through whom I met him (who was at the time a close friend of mine) had warned me to be careful of this person, and not to get too close. And when I really needed help, who was the one who was a good friend to me? As I said: Irony, I haz it.

* Last week I made a quick trip home to the north east, with a side visit to Melbourne. It was lovely to sleep in my own bed again for a few nights, to breathe in the air and atmosphere of the north east, and to see some of my dear parishioners, whom I have missed so much. They are as excited as I that I now have a definite date to come home and back to work (and they keep telling me how chuffed they are that I refer to returning to Myrtleford as 'coming home'). I am itching to get back into it.

* But before I go home, I am going on a holiday. On Saturday (yes folks, that's only 3 sleeps away!!!) I am flying to Paris, and then onto Nice, to pick up a river cruise on the Rhône River for nine days, from Tarascon to Chalon-sur-Saône, then a week in Paris, a few days in the south of France with friends, and then some time in England, tripping around London, Oxford and adjacent areas, catching up with friends there. I'm very excited, and this will be a special trip to help me relax, recharge and reorient my head from what I have been dealing with in Sydney for the past nine months or so, to getting back to work and ministry and 'the new normal' for me. (And I'm flying business class, so it will be a real treat :-)

* Today I had a lovely conversation with an executive from HammondCare, the Christian charity that runs Greenwich Hospital, which gave such great care to Mum. I had approached the organisation about making a donation in Mum's memory to Greenwich Hospital, and this fellow came to talk to me about the options that are open to me. The thing I really like about HammondCare is that it is a very unashamedly Christian charity organisation, and they have a very strong focus on pastoral and spiritual care in all of the care facilities they operate. He was telling me about some of the projects they are seeking funding for in the area of pastoral care, and our conversation diverted into many different side areas, about the faith, church, scripture and the Word of God. It was quite lovely really.

So, as I prepare for vacating the house in preparation for settlement, tying up the last loose ends of Mum's estate, packing and getting ready for my trip, there is also the knowledge that this is Holy Week. Possibly the most disjointed and unusual Holy Week I have experienced since entering into ministry. I have appreciated participating in the Lenten studies run by the local congregation, and also singing in the church choir for the Tenebrae service tomorrow night, and the Good Friday morning service. I will be in transit on Easter morning, landing in Paris that afternoon, local time, so I'm hoping to be able to take the advice of a parishioner, and use the flight time for reflection and reading, and having my own Easter celebration.

So there it is... the last little while in a nutshell. I'm hoping to have reasonable internet access whilst away, so hopefully will get to blog some of the adventures I have on my trip.

Feeling flat

It's been a busy week. The house is on the market, I have made some of the plans for my big European adventure, and today I finished cleaning out Mum's wardrobe, and took a car full of bags of clothes, shoes and manchester to the op shop. 

This week I have also sent formal notifications of Mum's death to a variety of organisations, companies etc that she has had dealings with. At one level, it feels like I have achieved a lot this week, but at another, I am even more overwhelmed by the amount of work still to do.

Inspired by this purging, and feeling enthused to continue, I turned my attention to my computer, where I came across a folder of material connected with an old friend I used to be close to, but am not any more. Most of the files were connected with old projects I had worked on for him, but amongst those were some old emails, photos and other correspondence, which I had kept for some reason.

Looking through these files brought back some memories of happier times; and was a reminder of how suddenly and completely things can change, even in the most seemingly stable and deep friendship. As I deleted all these files, I felt again the loss of that particular relationship, but also a sense of freedom, and letting go.

But with all of these things, I'm feeling a bit flat. It probably doesn't help that the hot, humid weather these past few days has made it hard to sleep, so I'm also very tired. It all feels a bit like one step forward and two steps back, but still I keep moving forward. Tomorrow I must do another spruce up of the house to prepare for Saturday's open home, so that will probably get me out of my head for the day.

Pssst! Wanna buy a house?

It's the end of an era, and a bittersweet moment, as the house where I grew up, that my parents built, and lived in for over 50 years, is now on the market.

It's been an interesting process to deal with real estate agents, and the gaggle of their associates (photographers, copywriters, floor plan writers etc etc). As of Wednesday this week, the house officially went on the market, and our first open home is tomorrow morning. According to the agent, there has been a lot of interest from the website, and they've had two requests for copies of the contract already.

Today I have been busily tidying the house, and making sure that things are ready for its debut on the real estate market tomorrow. I really hope that someone will buy the house who wants to live in it and love it as much as my parents and I have done for the past 50 years. But I'm very aware that once sold, the future of the house is no longer in my control, or reasonably my concern.

So, if any nice people out there have a spare million or so, and want to buy a lovely house in Sydney, check out the full details here.

Saying thankyou

I received a phone call today from Mum's oncologist.

I haven't seen him for quite some months (as it got to the point in Mum's medical care where there was no point in going back to see him any more, as her condition was purely palliative). In the past couple of weeks, I've been writing thankyou cards to the many people who have sent me sympathy cards, flowers, or who have been particularly helpful or caring towards Mum or me during or since Mum's illness. I haven't quite finished them all yet, but posted off a bundle last week.

The list included a number of doctors who had treated Mum, including her oncologist. Interestingly, he had been the least favourite of all her doctors. I'm not sure why this was; perhaps because he was the one who had to give her the bad news; first that the mets on her lungs meant that her cancer was terminal, or later, that the chemo had been ineffectual, so she was likely to die sooner, rather than later. He had always been quite pleasant, but for some reason, Mum just never warmed to him as she did to her other doctors.

I actually felt a bit sorry for him, because I buttonholed him, and pushed him relentlessly to give me an estimate of Mum's life expectancy, back in June. He reluctantly did this, and I was very grateful, as it prompted me to drop everything and move to Sydney in early July to be with Mum, and enabled us to have a precious six months together before she died.

In my card to this doctor, I wrote how much I appreciated his honesty, and that although I was sorry I had to press him so hard, I was grateful to have that data, so that I could have that time with Mum.

When he called me today, he told me that he hadn't heard that Mum had died. I was surprised, as I assumed that the hospital would have sent him some kind of official word, as he was one of Mum's treating doctors. So this made me glad that I sent these cards to all of Mum's doctors, as maybe the others also hadn't been informed of her death through official channels.

He also sounded a bit surprised, as if it's not a common thing for people to go out of their way to thank him for the care he gives to his patients.  I think it's kind of human nature that when someone stuffs up, or performs below par, we are quick to criticise; but if they just do their job properly and well, we rarely give them praise. I was glad to be able to say thankyou to all of Mum's doctors, as they were all so lovely to her, and I was glad to know she was in such good hands, especially during the early stages when I was at home, and not able to be with her.

It's nice to say thankyou, and I still have more cards to write, so I should hurry up and get onto it.

Knickers!

As a Woman of Substance, shopping for various items of clothing can sometimes be a challenge. But nowhere is it more obvious that the fashion industry caters preferentially for the SGNT set (Skinny Girls with No Tits), than when it comes to underwear.

With a bit of juggling between the general size and cup size, I can usually manage to get bras to fit me, but lately I have had no end of trouble finding knickers. After traipsing around all of the shops in Macquarie Centre (Myer, Target, Big W, and assorted lingerie shops) I discovered that the only knickers that come close to my size are in the 'Bonds Cottontails' range. 

Totally unacceptable.

Why have times seemed to change so much? Some years ago, I enjoyed the rather sweet cotton and lace combination of Kayser Perfects (that went up to size 26); and a couple of years after that, there came the slinky Holeproof Nothings. (I had a good run with those, but unfortunately, they're no longer made.)

Today I was in the Sydney CBD for an appointment, and afterwards had a bit of a wander through the Queen Victoria Building. I thought I would seek out a lingerie shop, to see if they had a better range of sizes than my local. 

What was I thinking? I should have known better.

I went into the shop, and asked the saleswoman what their largest size was. She went rummaging in a drawer, and brought out three different packages, and spread their contents on the counter. According to the label, they were 'size 50'  (in European, or some other completely undecipherable sizing scheme), and she told me that it was equivalent to 4X large. I asked her, "But what does that mean in regular sizes?" and she just shrugged and told me she didn't know, but just from looking at them, I could tell they were nowhere near the right size for me. Then I noticed the price on the tag.

In an amazingly admirable show of self control, I managed NOT to splutter, fall over or exclaim, when I asked, 

"So that's the price then? $200? I think that's a bit out of my price range"

It seems that as with everything to do with 'fashion', especially when it comes to lingerie or bathers, the smaller the piece of fabric, the bigger the price.

So I find myself still without a reasonable source of new knickers. 
It annoys me that the powers that be seem to think that women with more substance, and impressively dramatic curves don't want, or (perish the thought) don't deserve to have, attractive, or sexy knickers; but should clothe our butts in acres of daggy, white cotton, with industrial strength ribbing around the legs.

I know there are certain online suppliers of plus sized lingerie, but these are often expensive, and without the option of seeing and feeling the quality of the item, and trying it on for fit, it's a huge risk (not to mention that these options are usually more expensive than the shop bought ones).

Honestly, it's almost enough to make a girl go commando. :-/

On this day...

On this day, in 1957, my parents were married.

For fifty years, January 26 was a day of celebration for our family, with a tradition of sharing a special dinner at our favourite local restaurant for something like twenty of those years.

When Dad died, that all changed, and for the last five years, January 26 has been a bittersweet day of sadness; remembering 50 years of good times, but also feeling the intensity of the loss.

Today, after five anniversaries apart, Mum and Dad will be together again on their special day. Whilst there is some consolation in the thought that Mum and Dad's five year separation is now over, I still find it hard, as the meaning of this day for them only underlines the fact that they are now both gone, and I miss them both so much.

So please excuse me if I find it hard to get excited about the nationalistic jingoism of Australia Day (or to even complain about the nationalistic jingoism, as I normally would). Today is a hard day for me, and probably will be for some years to come.

Someone pinch me, I can't stop giggling.

In the midst of everything else that's going on (which usually results in me crying a lot most days) yesterday brought some welcome light relief in the form of a very pleasant surprise.

The local shopping centre, Macquarie Centre, is having a 'back to school' promotion, where for two weeks in January they are giving away a $1000 gift card each day. Anyone who spends a total of $100 in one day anywhere in the centre can enter the draw to win. 

On Saturday, I did some shopping which came to just over that amount, so when I got home, I jumped online and entered the competition, and didn't think any more of it. (You can tell what's coming next, dear readers, can't you? :-)

Yesterday morning I received a phone call from Macquarie Centre Management to inform me that I had won Saturday's $1000 gift card. I was just a little bit excited (and almost squealed with excitement over the phone when they told me). My name is even on their website- I'm famous as a winner!

Later in the day, I had calmed myself enough to head into the Centre Management office, and collect my prize... and then off to SPEND!!!

For a long time I have resisted the temptation to acquire an iPad, but recently I have been seriously considering getting one, especially since a conversation I had after church last Sunday. So, with $1000 burning a hole in my pocket, I thought that an iPad would be a good purchase with my prize (and something substantial that I would be able to look back on and say, "I bought THAT with my prize!")

So into JB HiFi I wandered, and hovered around the iPads for a while. Should I get a regular size or a mini? A wifi only model or one with 3G? What storage size (16, 32 or 64GB)? The latest 'retina display' model, or a slightly older iPad2? And then, there would be the cover to protect it... Decisions, decisions...

So, putting on my best, "I would like to be helped" expression, and standing in the middle of the sales floor looking hopeful, I managed to attract the attention of a sales assistant called Daniel. Daniel was very pleasant, and explained and demonstrated to me in detail the difference between the iPad2 and latest retina display model. After a bit of discussion about the pros and cons of different features, he looked at me knowingly and said, "I think I have something you might be interested in". He then unlocked the cupboard under the iPad display and brought out a box. Inside the box was an iPad2 32GB with 3G capacity, marked down quite significantly, as it was an item that had been bought and returned (but certified by management that everything was in order, and the packaging had just been opened, so it couldn't be sold for full price as 'new'... and anyway, the iPad2 is no longer made in the 32GB capacity, only 16GB since the introduction of the newer model).

After a bit of further discussion, I decided to buy this bargain (and Daniel then knocked a further $20 off the price for me), and then I asked him about a case. "This is your lucky day," he chortled. "We have some cases reduced to clear, for only $8. They're out the back, so wait here, and I'll bring some in for you to choose from." He returned with a handful of different styles and colours, but I was drawn to one that was faux leather in a lovely purple colour. Daniel nodded at my purple T-shirt and  commented with a grin, "I thought you might have liked that one."

So for a total of $518, I walked away with an iPad2 worth over $700 and a case reduced to $8 from $50. It had also been a pleasant experience to deal with a sales assistant who obviously knew his technical stuff, and was able to not only respond to my questions, but also make suggestions, and kick around ideas with me (ie showing respect for me and my own technical knowledge, and knowledge of what I wanted). So if you happen to be shopping at JB HiFi at Macquarie Centre, Daniel is your man.

So yesterday was a fun day (as was today, when I got to play with my new toy and install some cool apps on it), and I am exceedingly grateful for such surprising and exciting windfalls.

Thankful for the pain

Since returning from my time in Tasmania to Mum's house in Sydney, I have been hit with fresh waves of grief and sorrow. Every morning I wake up and sob, because I miss Mum so intensely.

A little while ago, someone very rightly pointed out that my grief, and sense of loss, are so intense because my love for Mum, and the closeness of our relationship were also very strong. When my father died (just over five years ago now), a friend also pointed out that I was very fortunate that there were no great unresolved issues between us, and therefore no regrets, when he died. 

So in a way I am doubly blessed, that my relationships with both parents were so good and loving, that I am able to enjoy a 'pure' kind of grief; where the intensity of my sorrow is due solely to the fact that I miss them so much, and is not tainted with any kind of regret or ambivalence.

It's often easy to take for granted the relationships we have. Of course, my relationship with Mum and Dad was not always perfect, and we had our conflicts, especially in my teens (doesn't everyone?), and in my early twenties, when I made choices about the direction of my life that my parents didn't necessarily agree with. But, through my whole life, I never ever doubted that Mum and Dad both loved me, made huge sacrifices in their own lives for my benefit, and always did their best to be good parents (and the few mistakes they might have made were honest mistakes).

As I said, it's easy to take such things for granted, and think that the healthy, close relationship I enjoyed with my parents is 'the norm'. But when I look at some of the people I know, I realise that this is not necessarily the case. Some friends never had the opportunity to develop such a relationship, as one or both of their parents were chronically ill, or died when they were young. For others, there has been estrangement, or a less intense sense of never feeling 'good enough' to live up to parental expectations.

I feel for these friends, whom I fear will never have the opportunity to grieve with the same bitter-sweet intensity with which I am now grieving. Of course, at one level it would be much easier for me to not have to feel these intense feelings of grief and loss (and it would be cheaper on tissues too). But the intensity of the pain reflects the intensity of the love, and my life is much richer for experiencing both of these.

And so the work begins

After my experience when Dad died, having thrown myself back into work pretty much straight away, and not allowing myself the time and space to grieve his death properly, I have determined that I'm going to make sure I don't do that again. The therapist who I have been seeing gave me some very wise advice about doing whatever it takes to make sure I am emotionally ready to work, and be 'the minister', when I finally go back home.

So with this in mind, I have planned out a very particular process for dealing with all of the things that need to be done, and attending to my own self care along the way. (I have been jokingly referring to it as my 're-entry plan'). 

Since Mum died, I have been very deliberate about focussing on only doing one thing at a time: first on planning the funeral, and then taking some 'me' time out in Tasmania, and not throwing anything away, or packing any of her stuff up, and only making the formal notifications of her death that were absolutely necessary at the time.

But now the time has come in my plan for me to start attending to the practical things of sending letters to various organisations, clubs etc that Mum had dealings with, to inform them of her death, and ask for her to be removed from their membership/contact lists, and the packing up and chucking out tasks (although I am still awaiting the arrival of the death certificate, which is rather necessary for some of these notifications).

Today I have a couple of difficult phone calls to make. One is to Greenwich Hospital, to arrange for the return of the equipment we borrowed from them, and also the practical details of the donation of Mum's motorised lift chair to the hospital. That won't be so hard.

The second phone call is to an old friend of Mum's, who is one of the 'Christmas card list' people. I received a letter from this person yesterday, following up the Christmas card letter I sent in early December, asking how Mum is going. I have to ring and let her know that Mum has died, which I expect will be as hard for her to hear as it will be for me to say.

At the moment I am procrastinating... watching repeats of cop shows on Foxtel, pottering around with Facebook, and looking up cinema times for a movie this afternoon. But I probably need to make those calls pretty soon... or maybe I'll wait till tomorrow, when I might be able to trust my emotions a bit more, to be able to talk about Mum, or even think about her, without bursting into tears.

I miss her so much...

It's now twelve days since Mum died. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday, and at others it feels like an eternity.

All around the house are reminders of her: the cardigan she was wearing a few days before she went into hospital, draped over the back of her chair; her slippers in the bedroom; the unfinished vest she was knitting, with only the neck to finish off (but she just couldn't work out how to follow the pattern for that bit, so it was put aside. Now it will never be finished).

And of course, the reminders that she's not here: the empty towel rail in the bathroom, her empty bed and not having to sort her clothes from mine after I do the washing.

Every time I use the bathroom, I remember the many times I would sit on the chair in the corner when she was on the toilet; waiting for her recalcitrant bowels to move, and the particular way she had of folding the toilet paper before use, and tapping her hands on the hand basin when she had washed them. She once commented that it was a nice change to have someone to talk to when she was on the toilet.

I cry a lot. It sneaks up on me and then hits me, and I sob. At Mum's funeral, as I was greeting relatives and friends as they arrived, I would catch myself thinking, "I must tell Mum that so-and-so came". And then I realised... and I cried.

I miss her so much it hurts.

I should point out here that what I am experiencing is all part of the normal and healthy grief process. I know this, and I also know that the intensity of the feelings will fade with time. I don't need anyone to pat me on the head, hold my hand and tell me this. I know it. I experienced it when Dad died just over five years ago.

This is all stuff that I need to go through, and I don't need people to give me advice on how to handle it; I have my plans for that already. I write about it here and on Facebook because the act of writing helps me to process my thoughts and feelings; again an important part of the grief process.  I'm happy to share this process with those of you who read this. However, I'm aware that a number of my friends are also struggling with their own pain and grief right now, so some might find some of this a bit hard to read, and if so, I'm sorry for that. 

Eulogy for a special Mum

This is the tribute I shared today at my mother's funeral. I wasn't sure that I'd be able to keep it together, but somehow I managed it. 

We’re here today to celebrate the life of my mother, Isobel Ann Field.

It’s impossible for me to do justice to her life in the little time available (or even if I had hours), so I hope that what I can offer here will maybe spark some memories you have of Mum’s life, or maybe fill in some gaps and tell you something you didn’t know about her. I encourage you to share your own stories and memories of her life with each other over afternoon tea after the service (and toast her with some of her dreaded legless lexia).

Isobel was the youngest of eleven children born to Bessie and William Jones, on May 22^nd, 1936. As with many large families in those days, life was hard, and the family was poor, especially when Isobel’s father became too ill to work, and eventually died when she was only 11 years old.

Despite that, Isobel had some fond memories of her father. Even though he was a very harsh taskmaster on the older children, especially the boys, Isobel was the baby of the family, and the favourite. She got away with much mischief, her older sisters often getting the blame for things she got up to.

She told me of times when she was very young and her father was still working, when he’d come home on pay-days, and sit her on his lap, and tell her to dive into his coat pocket. There she would find a lolly pig (a sweet which some of you may be old enough to remember), and this was a special treat for her every pay day.

Isobel did very well at school, and came top of her class at Asquith Primary School every year. Dad often commented that I got my academic prowess from Mum’s end of the gene pool, rather than his. But after Isobel’s father died, it was like a switch turned off in her brain, and she really couldn’t be bothered with school any more. So at the Home Economics Secondary School she attended (because girls didn't go to 'high schools' in those days), in most of her classes, the teacher’s opening line would be, “Miss Jones, up the front!”

Isobel also spent some time in her teen years living with her sister Phoebe and her husband on their farm in North Queensland. It was there that she learned to ride a horse, and became quite proficient at daredevil horseback stunts.

She left school at the age of 15, and started working at Woolworths, where her oldest sister, Mona (21 years her senior) also worked. Out of all of the Jones girls Isobel and Mona were probably the most alike in looks; and their Woollies co-workers often mistook them for mother and daughter rather than sisters.

One of Isobel’s jobs on the lolly counter was to weigh up the bags of mixed chocolates for sale. Her mother had a particular favourite, and so Isobel would be sure to make up a couple of bags exclusively of these particular chocolates (with a secret code mark on the bag) so that when her mother came in to buy her chocolates, Isobel could sell her these special bags, instead of a standard mixture.

Around this time, Isobel joined an amateur theatrical troupe, known as The Merrymakers, who rehearsed in the Beecroft Community Hall, and performed revue-like shows for local nursing homes and hospitals. At 5’8”, Isobel was the tallest girl in the company, and as she told me (and anyone else who would care to listen) on many occasions, she had the longest, and best legs in the company too.

It was in the Merrymakers that she met the man she would spend over half a century with, Neville Field. Their first date was the Woollies staff Christmas party. Of course, Neville was such a shy, retiring little thing when it came to the fairer sex, that Isobel had to take the initiative and ask him out... but it all took off from there.

There was a bit of culture shock on both sides, I think, as Neville, an only child, was indoctrinated into how things worked in a larger family, and Isobel was boggled by the privilege and plenty of Neville’s upbringing.

The Joneses were great practical jokers, and Neville found himself the victim of such a joke played by Isobel’s sister Lew, the first time he went to meet the family. But later on, it was Isobel’s turn- on one occasion when she went away with Neville and his parents to the Central Coast, she short-sheeted Neville’s bed, AND sewed up all the arm and leg holes of his pyjamas. Neville’s mother thought this was just outrageous, and especially scandalous that Isobel should be touching his unmentionables since they weren’t yet married, only engaged. Of course, it is usual when this particular joke is perpetrated, for the PJ arm and leg holes to be roughly hand sewn to enable them to be quickly unpicked when the joke had run its course. I’m not sure whether Isobel didn’t realise this, or was just a bit bloody-minded about doing the job properly, but she used a sewing machine, and it took quite a while before Neville was able to actually put on his PJs that night (adding to the disapproval of his mother).

But despite all this, Isobel and Neville survived all the practical joking, and got married, on 26^th January, 1957. Eight years later, their life was made complete when they became the parents of the most wonderful, gorgeous, intelligent child ever born ...

... and trust me, you don’t want to know some of the things Mum told me about those eight years of waiting, about the lengths she and Dad went to in their attempts to become parents. Suffice it to say, in her later life, Mum made a particular point of never asking young couples, “Isn’t it about time you started a family?” as so many people said things like that to her when she was young and she found it dreadfully hurtful. She often said to me, “If only they knew how hard we were trying to start a family, and how painful it was when they asked that question.”

Of course, this didn’t stop her from making comments to me about such things, and on one occasion, when I was in my early 20s, she came out with, “Don’t you think you should think about settling down soon? Dad and I aren’t getting any younger you know, and we’d like to be grandparents before we’re too old to enjoy it.” As an only child, of course, I was their only hope for grandparenthood.

After I picked my chin up off the floor, my reply to her was, “well, if you want to be a grandmother, that’s easy. I can do that for you, no worries. But if you want to be a mother-in-law first... well, that might be a bit harder.” I don’t think I’d ever seen Mum lost for words before, but she certainly blathered a bit, and once she found words, said, “oh, yesyesyes, I definitely want to be a mother-in-law first!” and strangely enough, she never hassled me about procreating again.

But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit.

Having grown up in Parklands Rd Mt Colah, it was rather fitting that the place where Isobel made her home to raise her own family was also in Parklands Rd, this time in North Ryde. Neighbours were an important part of life in Parklands Rd. When Isobel and Neville were building the house, they ‘borrowed’ power from John and Kay next door, and that was the start of a lifelong friendship, and many long conversations over the side fence. I know that Mum was especially grateful for the love and friendship of Kay and John in the years since Dad died.

A strong sense of community developed among the young families. We had street parties on Christmas Eve at the Standens’, on NYE at our place and there were many games of cricket on the street, and other things that we all did together over the years. The mums in particular enjoyed a good chat in the mornings after we kids left for school. Apparently there was one day when Dad came home from his postal run in the early afternoon, and found Mum and co still chatting in their dressing gowns out the front.

Time marched on, kids grew up, and people moved out of Parklands Rd. But people also moved in. When Michelle and Justin were first looking at the house next door with the thought of buying, after being bailed up by Dad doing his ‘Neighbourhood Watch grumpy old man’ thing, they commented to each other how nice it was that the old man next door had his daughter there putting his washing on the line for him. Of course, I wasn’t anywhere near the place, and the person they’d seen was Mum, in the usual skimpy shorts and singlet top that she wore when she mowed the lawns, put the washing out, or did any work around the yard. Needless to say, many years later when Michelle and Justin shared this story with Mum and Dad, Mum was rather chuffed that they thought she was Dad’s daughter, probably a bit moreso than Dad was.

I am eternally grateful to the Listers for taking the pressure to procreate off me, by providing Mum and Dad with three delightful surrogate grandkids in Jessica, Beth and Joe. Mum loved to babysit when they were younger, and took special delight in going to watch them play sport. Is loved you guys so much, and having you in her life made her so happy- don’t ever forget that.

I could go on, outlining various things that Mum did in her life- how she worked as a cleaner, a parcel contractor, hospital switchboard operator and domestic engineer, but I want to tell you about the kind of person she was.

Mum was a very quiet and shy person, especially when she was young. She inherited her mother’s droopy eyes (as I did), which meant that if she wasn’t concentrating on smiling and looking happy, her neutral facial expression could look a bit like a frown or a scowl. This, coupled with her shyness, meant that people who didn’t know her often mistakenly thought that she was a bit aloof or standoffish. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Mum was kind and generous and a great friend to many people, and also incredibly humble about it.

When she first got sick, she received many cards and phone calls from friends, including some people she hadn’t seen for a long time, who commented on what a great friend she had been to them through the years, and she was genuinely surprised by this, and said, “I don’t know what they’re talking about, I’m nothing special.” But the reality was that she was special, and many of her friends have told me of the times they have been able to talk to Mum, to tell her things that they couldn’t share with others; knowing they could rely on her to listen, maybe give advice, but most importantly, that whatever she was told was “in the vault”. It was never shared any further.

Mum was also extremely generous. If ever there was someone who needed something, she would go out of her way to help, and supported numerous charities. On one occasion when she was visiting me in Victoria, there was a family in one of my congregations who had a granddaughter who had been chosen to sing with the Aust Children’s Choir on an overseas tour, but because of difficult family situation, her mother wasn’t able to afford the cost of the trip. Her grandparents had asked the church if we could auspice some fundraising events for their granddaughter, and when Mum heard about this, she quietly pressed a $50 note into my hand and asked me to give it to the family to help the girl (whom she had never met).

She was also very active. Her house was always spotless, and she often wondered out loud whether I had been swapped with her real child at birth, because I am such a slob around the house. My grandfather (Dad’s father), who lived with us for many years, once commented that Mum would catch the dust before it had a chance to land, and that’s how she was.

She also loved her sport. When I was young, she loved going to watch my cousin Stewart play 1^st division soccer for Marconi. Dad and I kept well clear of her at the matches, because she was an embarrassment to be around as she yelled things like, “Kick it!” and made various comments (usually not positive) about the ref. She also loved her Aussie Rules football. As a teenager, every Saturday, all afternoon, I had to endure the VFL Match of the Day (as it was then called) on TV as I was doing my homework on the loungeroom floor. And of course, her joy knew no bounds, when the South Melbourne Bloods relocated to Sydney, as the Swans, which was her team for many years. It was a special gift when they won the premiership for her last year.

She wasn’t just an armchair sportswoman, and played tennis with a group of ladies from the time I was in late primary school, until her illness meant she could not longer play. That group of ladies have been very special friends to her for many years. And many of them are here today.

When Dad’s health declined, Mum cared for him with very little external support (mostly because his stubbornness wouldn’t allow it). It was a stressful time for her. When Dad died, just over five years ago, it was a very hard time for Mum emotionally, but it also freed her up from the responsibilities and stress she had in caring for him.

During the past five years Mum and I have indulged in some ‘Girls’ Own Adventures’. We went to the Boxing Day Test, took a trip to Western Australia, where I introduced her to the Monastic town of New Norcia. She loved the town, and was a bit excited to shake hands with one of the monks at a social event in the monastery whilst we were there.

The next year, we went to New Zealand, which was the first overseas trip for both of us. When I was planning our trip with my local travel agent, he asked me if Mum would need a wheelchair, being in her mid-seventies. I looked at him and said, “My mother plays tennis every week. I will need a wheelchair before she will.” She was also a bit dark that, at the age of 74, she had to pay full price for a regular passport, and was one year shy of qualifying for a ‘seniors’ passport for half price. I told her that she just needed to make sure she got her money’s worth out of it, and make a few more trips overseas.

Unfortunately, this was not to be. After months of mystery symptoms and many many tests showing nothing out of the ordinary, Mum was finally diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in February last year. When it was discovered that she already had secondaries in her lungs, this dealt a devastating blow, as we had hoped that surgery might provide a cure, but that also wasn’t to be.

Mum was always very pragmatic about her illness, and said many times that at her age, she had lived a long and good life, and was not afraid to die. She felt sorry for the younger people she saw who came for treatment at the chemo day infusion centre, as they should still have their whole life ahead of them, but the cancer was robbing them of that. However, pragmatism aside, I remember the day we received the news that Mum’s prognosis was terminal, Mum, Kay and I collapsed in tears in the corridor outside the oncologist’s rooms and sobbed all over each other.

In this past year, and especially the last six months the focus for Mum and me particularly, has largely been on Mum’s illness. And it has been a huge thing for us both to deal with. I have been especially grateful for the support we received from some great doctors, the Northern Sydney Home Nursing Service and the wonderful community palliative care team from Greenwich Hospital, which supported us to keep Mum at home for most of that time, and Catholic Community Services who have provided domestic assistance and other support.

I’m also personally grateful for all the love and support that I have received from friends, family and colleagues. Especially for the graciousness of my home congregations and presbytery in freeing me up to be here with Mum for the past six months.

It would be really easy to let the hugeness of Mum’s illness define how we think of her and remember her today. But that was just one year, out of 76½. So when you think of Mum, don’t think of the cancer, don't let it win - think of her generosity, her wicked sense of humour, her obsession with sport and her beloved Sydney Swans (and her excitement when they won the flag for her in 2012), her love of cheap sweet wine, and her birds in the back yard; the many Melbourne Cup lunches she hosted, her love for those around her, but most of all for a good life, well lived.

Whilst Mum was not a regular churchgoer, and probably wouldn’t have called herself a ‘Christian’ (and often boggled at the direction my life has taken in that area), she is the kind of person who was always selfless and generous and loving, and I could certainly see the light and love of God shining through her, even if she might not have been aware of it.

She’s now set free from the pain and tears and frustration of her illness, and reunited with Dad, who’s probably had a few things to say to her about all the money she’s spent, and things she’s bought in the years since he died.

Rest in peace, Mum, and thanks for the fond memories you’ve left for us.