Home, there's no place like it

On Monday this week Mum went into hospital for some symptom management, and as she is going to be there for over a week, I thought I'd take the opportunity to head home to Myrtleford and Beechworth for a flying visit (and an overnighter to Melbourne to catch up with my favourite kidlet, Miss Sophia... oh,  and her parents ;-)

Today has been a lovely day. Pottering around the house, and doing three loads of washing (towels, sheets and clothes that have been languishing about the place since I went to Sydney in July). I was also rather pleased and impressed that the house hasn't been overtaken by arachnids, cockroaches and other pesties, and apart from a slight musty smell from being locked up for so long, the house is pretty much as I left it.

This morning whilst pottering about the house, I had a visit from a couple of Myrtleford parishioners, and it was lovely to catch up with them and hear some of the news of what's been happening in my absence. Then I had lunch at Cafe Fez (including a pot of their legendary Moroccan Mint Tea).

In the afternoon, I met up with a group of folks from the Myrtleford church for afternoon tea at the Alpine Gate Cafe. It was good to chat and talk about what's been happening for them, as well as bringing them up to date on the latest news about Mum.

After this, I went out to visit a lady whose husband passed away recently, and we spent a precious time together remembering, laughing, crying, praying, and talking about all manner of things.

When I got home, I had a bit of a frolic in the manse garden. In my absence the lovely man who mows my lawns and keeps the garden under control has been doing his thing (and it looks as though his last visit was not very long ago). I noticed that the rose bush in the back yard was starting to bloom, so I got out my secateurs and cut some of the buds, so that I can enjoy them inside whilst I'm here. When I was doing this, I noticed that the rose bushes were being strangled by sticky weed, so I got my gloves on and enjoyed a very therapeutic 15 minutes or so of ripping the sticky weed out by the roots. Very satisfying it was, too.

The day concluded with some yummy takeaway noodles from the local Chinese, and a phone call to Mum, who has had a full day, with a number of visitors dropping in, and some of them even bringing flowers, which we both had a giggle about.

(There's a story here: When Mum was first admitted to the hospital on Monday, she was placed in a lovely single room, with huge windows that give a lovely view, lots of light - and they even open to let in fresh air. There is a broad window ledge, which visitors can sit on if required. Mum's first comment was, "I'd better get lots of flowers while I'm in here". When I asked her why, she replied, "well, look at that ledge, lots of space for flowers to brighten up the room."

So the next morning, I took in a lovely arrangement of green-toned orchids, and since then, have been dropping lots of very unsubtle hints to various friends and neighbours about taking some flowers in to Mum when they visit.)

Tomorrow, I drive to Melbourne, where I will stay in my favourite hotel, the Grand. I intend to set out early enough to check in at the earliest possible opportunity, and make use of the pool and spa at the hotel, and maybe even have a luxurious soak in the bath before heading out to dinner (and being sure to arrive early enough to have some quality reading and cuddle time with Miss Sophia before dinner).

I am so grateful for the opportunity to have this little break: the knowledge that Mum is being well cared for in my absence so I really can relax; the chance to reacquaint myself with 'home' (and pick up some more summery clothes and other bits and pieces to take back to Sydney with me).

Cancer is (still) a bastard

And now my attention turns to colleagues' wives and cancer.

Today I learned that the wife of a UCA ministry colleague in my home presbytery passed away yesterday. Loloma had been ill with leukaemia for some time, and finally succumbed. 

In addition to this, just before I left home to come to Sydney, I heard that Kate, the wife of my Anglican colleague, had discovered she had cancer, although at that stage it was uncertain how serious the prognosis was. Having heard this week from some folks back home, it seems that her prognosis is not good, and palliative care is likely to feature in her not too distant future. This woman is younger than I, and has three young children, the youngest of which would be about 12 months old now.

Since Mum got sick, after getting over the initial shock of her prognosis, she's been quite philosophical about the prospect of dying. She says that she has had a good and full life, and so for her to die a little earlier than expected is not such a tragedy, and there's no point sitting in a corner and crying. 

However, what made Mum really sad was when she was having chemotherapy, and would see others coming in for their treatment, many of whom were quite young: teenagers, young mums, and others who Mum thought should have their whole lives ahead of them, so it was unfair for them to be struck down by this bastard disease.

Whilst Loloma was an older woman (although not quite as old as Mum), with a grown up family, I think this is very true for Kate, who is still young, and has three little girls who will miss their mum.

Sometimes, in such circumstances, words fail. However, I think a friend was spot on when he sent me the following words about this kind of situation:

I remember when I was a chaplain in the Inter-Church Trade and Industry Mission (ITIM), my friend’s mother was dying and I asked Fr George Mainprize, of the Anglican Diocese of Newcastle, what appropriate words could I offer.

George said, “It’s a bastard of a thing.”

I said, “Yes it is a bastard not knowing what words are appropriate.“

He looked at me and said “They are the words.”

Playing guard dog

Mum has been pretty low lately. Because of her fatigue and breathlessness, she can't walk or get around the house independently, and even getting out of her chair and onto the seat of the wheelie walker is such an effort. We're currently waiting for a bed to become available at Greenwich Hospital for a brief period of symptom management and respite. This will hopefully happen early next week.

In the meantime, Mum is not feeling at all sociable, and when people have asked to come and visit in the past week (or even turned up at the door on the off chance), I have had to tell them that Mum isn't up to visitors, and put them off.

Whilst I don't at all mind having the role of guarding Mum's space, sometimes I feel a bit torn about always saying no to people. 

I understand that Mum is tired and feeling totally 'blah', and as such just doesn't want to be bothered dealing with visitors. But, without wanting to trivialise what Mum's going through, it strikes me as one of those kinds of situations like going to the gym on a cold and miserable morning. You so don't want to leave the warmth and comfort of bed to get out and go, knowing that it will be hard work and maybe even painful; but once you've done it, you feel good and invigorated for the rest of the day.

Whilst I understand that for Mum, the effort of facing people coming to visit is hard, but at the same time, as she isn't really able to get out any more, it can't be a good thing for mine to be the only face that she sees day in and day out. Surely brief visits from people who care, and who understand how tired and sick Mum is would have to be beneficial?

As I see it, there are two sides to this issue. One is that people want to visit Mum to let her (and me) know that they care, and want to be supportive, for Mum's sake. But there's also the other aspect- that we all know Mum is going to die sometime soon, and friends and relatives want to see her, as part of the ongoing farewell, for their own sakes.

I think it's important for us to allow our friends and family to participate in this journey with us, as we draw closer to the pointy end. It will be good for them, and good for us... so now my challenge is to convince Mum to say yes to visits. There will obviously be some days when she's not having a good day at all, and so it will be appropriate for me to be the guard dog, and send people away from the door, or when they phone, tell them not to come; but on days like today, which has not been a particularly bad day, it would be nice to say yes to a visit, for all of our sakes.

Rocky road

Today was the 5th anniversary of Dad's death. As this day was approaching, I'd been wondering what (if anything) I should suggest to Mum that we do to observe the anniversary. In past years I know Mum has watched the DVD of Dad's funeral, but we didn't do that today. In fact, we didn't do anything special to mark the anniversary. At about 10pm, I mentioned to her that it was the day, and she said she knew, but didn't want to make a big deal of it. Dealing with her own situation is enough for her for now.

Since her fall a week and a half ago, Mum's general state has been up and down. Although she now has a wheelie walker, she can't use it to walk, as even the slightest exertion causes her to become quite breathless. So now, we use the wheelie walker as a wheelchair; Mum sits on the walker's seat, and I wheel her around on it.

Yesterday, Mum had a bad day. In the morning she was breathless and distressed. We both thought she might have ended up in hospital, but it didn't happen. After ringing the Greenwich hospital palliative care team, I gave her another Endone tablet, and that settled her breathing down, and calmed her down generally. She spent most of the day sleeping; but trying to do anything, even the least strenuous movement was excruciating for her. 

When she went to bed last night, her sleep sounded troubled, and her breathing laboured. When she snored, it sounded like she was moaning in her sleep, and it was hard to listen to as I lay awake in the next room. I prayed for God to take her in her sleep, as it pains me to see her suffering and so miserable.

Today was a slightly better day, without the distress, but still hard work for Mum to do anything other than sitting in her chair. She said again that she thinks she should be in hospital, mainly because she thinks that her dependence on me to help her with everything is too much for me to have to bear. I don't mind having to do all the things I do to support her, but it is hard to see my mother, who has always been so strong, active and capable, so helpless and scrawny.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring? We're trying to just take one day at a time.

Simple things, small things, things to be grateful for

As Mum's strength and energy continue to wane, I have so much to be grateful for.

I am grateful for the team from Greenwich; for Robyn the RN, for Alyssia the OT, for Hanna and Cam the physios, for Geoff the psychologist, for Ruth and Kat the doctors and everyone else on the team. I am grateful for the efficiency, patience and compassion with which they have cared for Mum and for me so far.

I am grateful for the shiny green wheelie-walker that has enabled Mum to be more confident to move around the house since her fall last week, and, the shower chair that will also help her to maintain her independence for a little longer.

I am grateful for the Shanghai Rolex Masters tennis comp, and the golf tournaments in exotic places like Turkey and Portugal that no-one has ever heard of, that have been keeping Mum amused since we got Foxtel on our TV earlier this week.

I am grateful for the box of fruit and veges that I found on the front porch this morning, and other gifts of food from loving neighbours and friends. Even though the main purpose of these fresh yummies is to try to tempt Mum to eat, the givers are well aware of the fact that I am most likely to be the one who benefits most from them, so it's a gift of love for me too.

I am grateful for the love of friends and family who come to visit (often travelling significant distances to get here), or call to see how we're going; and that I had a long phone conversation this afternoon with a cousin whom I haven't seen or spoken to for longer than I can remember.

I'm grateful for the colourful and cheeky lorikeets that squawk and squeal to be fed, and for the especially tame pair that come right up the steps to the back deck and warble gently at me for food; and for all the different birds (and the water dragons) in our backyard, all of whom remind me that there is a strong and vibrant life going on in the world around us, in contrast to the journey towards death that I am taking with Mum.

I'm grateful for the support of my church congregations back home, who regularly send me emails, letters and call me to assure me of their care and prayers; and also for the church family at North Ryde Community Church, who have welcomed me among them, and offered care and support.

I'm grateful for the 'Princess of Pain' (aka Linda, the gym trainer) who has helped me to work out an exercise program at the local gym, and the opportunity to get out and use my body in ways that it hasn't experienced in a long time.

So, when I think about it, there is an awful lot to be thankful for (and I have really only scratched the surface here- many things and people I haven't mentioned). 

A little bit shaky

'Up and down' is the order of the day right now. 

Since her last radiotherapy treatment, Mum hasn't been quite right. Although the radiotherapy seems to have been successful in alleviating the pain in her back and hip (which is why she had the treatment), there are a couple of new things that have emerged since the treatment. I'm not sure if these new symptoms (light-headedness and a colicky pain in her gut) are the after effects of the radiation therapy, which will eventually resolve, or if they are part of the next stage of the overall disease progression.

On Friday morning, Mum had a fall. After feeling light-headed, she lost control and ended up hitting the floor hard. She wasn't injured, but was shaken up pretty severely, and has lost a lot of confidence since then, often needing me to support her ('just in case') when she walks around the house. She's also been feeling miserable, wishing to die now, rather than going through all this pain and misery.

It's been as if Mum is crumpling in on herself, both physically and emotionally, and that's been so hard to watch. I've cried a lot in the past few days, whilst all the time trying to remain strong in front of Mum. I'm grateful for the incredible support of the Greenwich Hospital Community Palliative Care Team, who have responded to my latest cry for help more promptly and thoroughly than I expected, or could have hoped for. 

Some of the allied health professionals from the team will be visiting us at home during the week and given how shaky Mum's been feeling since her fall on Friday, it's good that they can come to us this time, rather than having to take Mum out to Greenwich.

Meanwhile, I still try to tempt Mum to eat, as her appetite continues to decrease, and at the moment she derives no joy at all from food or eating. We have started trialling some different nutritional supplements in addition to the vanilla Sustagen Mum's been having, and some of these have been quite well received, so that's good (especially since the Resource Plus and Fortisip varieties are even more nutritionally dense than the Sustagen).

In addition to the medical appointments that have now popped into our calendar for this week, tomorrow (or today, technically) is a day of excitement, as we are having Foxtel installed, so Mum can watch her favourite sports (ie ALL the cricket), which are ignored by free to air TV. I'm hoping that Mum will be able to get excited about this 'new toy' and that that might lift her mood a bit. 

Through everything I remain hopeful that Mum will be able to latch onto the good things to celebrate amidst the pain and difficulty that she finds so exhausting.

Twinkle toes

A little while ago, I wrote a post about the nightly foot massage ritual I have established with Mum.

I noticed a few weeks ago, that when I finish massaging the cream into Mum's feet, before I put her socks on, she tends to wiggle her toes, rubbing them together. When I asked her about this, she said it was a last attempt to make sure that her toes weren't too slippery from the cream before the socks went on. I teased her gently and called her 'Twinkle Toes', and she laughed.

Ever since then, every time I massage Mum's feet, when I finish each foot, before putting the sock on, I say, "come on, Twinkle Toes," and she wiggles and twitches her toes accordingly, and grins like a little girl.

Seeing that look on her face, and the shared joke that elicits that grin, makes my heart melt. I'm so thankful for these precious times we are able to share.

Blowing a trumpet... but not my own

I feel compelled to sing the praises of my mother's local pharmacy. The Naim Pharmacy, located in the same complex as Mum's GP, (2a/124A Epping Road North Ryde) is owned and run by Joe and Charbel Naim, two brothers who are both pharmacists.

Joe and Charbel took over the pharmacy a number of years ago, before the construction of the purpose-built medical centre complex where it's currently located. The previous pharmacist had been very well regarded by all her clientele, and when she was preparing to leave the business, predictions that no other pharmacist could possibly fill her shoes were common. But the reality is that Joe and Charbel have not only filled her shoes, but well and truly exceeded her in the way they run their business.

Many of their customers are regulars, who are also patients of the GP located in the same complex. Every time I've gone into the pharmacy (which has been quite often since I've been here in Sydney), they always greet me by name (as they do to most people who enter the shop). They are often busy, but are never rushed. Every time I've had a prescription filled there, whether it's Joe or Charbel who serves me, they are very particular about going through the medications that they have dispensed, so I know that what I'm getting is what was on the prescriptions. They have also been very good at pointing out side effects and possible interactions to look out for, especially when Mum was recently prescribed a new medication, and Charbel queried it with me, as he said there might be an interaction with one of the other drugs she was on.

But the thing I'm most excited about right now is the great PBS refund I just received from Medicare. Although most of my visits to Joe and Charbel are to fill prescriptions for Mum (who has well and truly reached the Medicare Safety Net, so gets most of her meds free now), I do have two medications I take on a regular basis, which cost me around $35 each. One day when I paid the $70 to get my two prescriptions filled, I happened to mention to Charbel that I had applied to Centrelink for Carer Payment and was looking forward to the receipt of my Pensioner Concession Card, which would entitle me to cheaper prescriptions ($5.80, as opposed to $35). He said that it would be likely that when I received the card, it would be back-dated, so I should come in and get tax invoices for any prescriptions I'd paid full price for after that date so I could claim the difference back from Medicare.

I had no idea that this would be possible, and wouldn't have thought anything of it if Charbel hadn't mentioned it to me. So after receiving my Pension Concession Card yesterday, I went in to see Charbel, who printed out receipts for all of the prescriptions I'd had filled since 23 July (which was the start date of the card). He also printed out the relevant Medicare claim form and gave me advice on how to fill it in.

So today I toddled off to the local Medicare office, and processed the claim, and for 6 different items, I received a refund of $105. I was very impressed, and grateful to Charbel for taking the initiative to tell me of the entitlement to claim for those prescriptions.

Now at one level, the kind of service that Joe and Charbel provide is nothing extraordinary, and merely what one would expect from a local pharmacist, but I don't think any other pharmacy I've been to has been that good. The way Joe and Charbel have cared for Mum (and for me since I've been here) has been exemplary, and we really appreciate the 'extra mile' that they often seem willing to go. So I wanted to acknowledge how amazing they are, and encourage anyone in this neck of the woods to support their business.

I've commented before how blessed we have been by the wonderful professional people God has sent to care for Mum- the various doctors who have treated her, the community nurses who visit us at home, the palliative care team from Greenwich Hospital, and the staff from Catholic Community Services, who provide domestic and counselling services. Joe and Charbel are certainly right up there with all of these people, as one (or two) of the greatest blessings we have in professional care for Mum.

... and where are we zapping you today?

This is the question Mum was asked by the radiotherapy technicians this afternoon when she went in for her latest treatment (not because they didn't know what she was there for; the question was one of their cross-checks to ensure against any mistaken patient identity issues).

This time, she had a one-off treatment at a higher dose rate, rather than the lower-dose, daily treatments for a fortnight that she had last time. 

This time, the second spinal tumour (at T8) was the main target, as well as a spot on Mum's right hip that was shown up as a 'hot spot' on her recent bone scan, and which may be connected in some way with the pain Mum experiences in her hip when walking.

When Mum was receiving her treatment today, the technicians warned her that she might feel 'pretty sick' in the next few days, as the radiation dose was 'pretty high'. In preparation for this, I had already increased her dose of dexamethasone (an anti-inflammatory steriod given to reduce inflammation at the site of treatment, that also helps to decrease nausea and increase appetite); and given her one of the super-duper anti-nausea tablets (that are only allowed to be prescribed for patients undergoing chemo or radiotherapy), so we were as prepared as we could be.

Tonight, after what could euphemistically be called 'dinner' (all Mum could stomach was one-and-a half party pies and a few sips of orange juice- not because of the treatment; this is a pretty normal representation of her appetite in recent days), Mum started to feel some tight pain in her upper back and stomach. The pain was similar to what she experiences with reflux, but the usual things that relieve her reflux didn't make any impact on the pain this time. It seems that the pain was probably an after-effect of today's radiation, so I suggested she take an Endone and lie down on the lounge to try to get comfortable. Fortunately, once the Endone kicked in, the pain abated a bit, and she was able to have her evening cuppa and go to bed. 

I have I feeling that tonight's episode was a foretaste of things to come in the next few days, so I'm girding my loins, making sure we have plenty of stock of all the meds Mum will need to keep her comfortable over the weekend, and praying hard.

Family likeness

I never really thought that I looked much like Mum. All of my relatives on Mum's side of the family claim that I'm the spitting image of my maternal grandmother (whom I never met, as she died when I was a baby). When I was in my early 20s, Mum showed me a photo of Grandma in her late teens, claiming that my resemblance to her was striking. I couldn't see it at all.

Some years later, after I moved to Hobart, I was looking through some family photos at my uncle and aunt's house, and saw a photo of Grandma, and suddenly it hit me. The likeness was indeed quite striking. I think it has a lot to do with the dark, puffy bags I have under my eyes, and the fact that my eyes always look saggy and tired, just like Grandma's. After this significant epiphany, I got a copy of that photo of Grandma and have it in a frame at home now.

In more recent years, friends who meet Mum for the first time often comment that there is a strong resemblance there between her and me, but I still can't see it. Or at least I couldn't... until today.

I was swanning around on Facebook (as you do) and as my mouse cursor hovered over my own name on a post I'd made, it brought up a picture of my FB 'profile picture' (of me wearing my glasses, which I rarely do) inset into my FB 'cover picture' (one of Mum, at a similar angle). It suddenly hit me that yes, there is a resemblance there (even though Mum is now much thinner than I am).

Funny how it takes a particular picture, angle or juxtaposition of photos to be able to see this. (I think the resemblance is in the cheekbones and glasses ;-)

My Facebook banner, with the picture of Mum inset with my profile picture

Crossing Borders

Sermon for North Ryde Community Church 16 Sept 2012

Mark 7:24-37; Proverbs22:1-2, 8-9, 22-23; James 2:1-10, 14-17
(and yes, I know these readings are really set for the previous Sunday)

When the Gospel of Mark was written, one of the biggest questions for the early church was: “Who is IN, and who is OUT?”

The followers of Jesus were initially Jews, as Christianity developed as a cult out of Judaism, but before long, the Good News spread and many non-Jewish, formerly ‘unclean Gentiles’ joined the believing community. The community was then faced with dilemmas- should Gentile believers be required to follow the Jewish laws? Should the males be circumcised? Should they adhere to the holiness code, of what was clean and unclean to eat, and other practices that are outlined in Jewish law? The Apostle Paul had a lot to say about this in his epistles to the early church.

The question about who is in or out is important to us as we read today’s Gospel reading (and I’ll be focussing on the first section of the reading today), because:

* Mark’s Gospel was written to, and in the context of, a community of Gentile Christians,

* A lot of the ‘action’ in this Gospel happens in Gentile regions

* the action often involves Gentiles, or ‘outsiders’ to the faith community of Jesus’ time, and

* more often than not, it’s those ‘outsiders’ who actually ‘get’ what Jesus is on about. (Indeed, New Testament scholar Bill Loader comments that, “It’s a common feature in Mark that he portrays the disciples as particularly dense”. With the benefits of hindsight, it’s easy for us to laugh at how dense the disciples are, but in the same position, we probably wouldn’t have fared much better.)

So, with all this in mind, we can see that a major theme of Mark’s Gospel is one of inclusion; demonstrating the breadth of God’s love and welcome. I would encourage you to read the whole of Mark’s Gospel through. It’s the shortest of the four Gospels, and is a rollicking read, full of action; a bit like the ‘Boys’ Own Adventure’ of the Bible.

We see this theme of inclusion in the story of Jesus’ encounter with the Syro-Phonoecian woman. When it comes to being an outsider or second-class citizen, this woman has the double-whammy. Not only is she a woman (seen as a second class citizen in most cultures of the day), but she is also a Gentile. Therefore it would be pretty outrageous and unlikely that she would dare approach Jesus… but she does.

Jesus’ initial response is to refuse her request; and not only does he refuse her, but he does it in a very insulting way, mouthing a common prejudice of the time.

He says, “Let the children first be fed; for it is not good to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” (Mark 7:27).

I don’t know about you, but this doesn’t sit well with my picture of a loving, kind, ‘sweetness and light’ Jesus. In saying these words, Jesus is reinforcing that his primary mission is to the ‘children’ of Israel, and that the Gentiles (ie everyone else) are dogs. The image of dogs here is not one of cute pets, as we might thing of dogs in our society today. No, dogs back in Jesus’ day were wild, dirty, smelly animals (hmm... not much difference really :-) that were not pets, but nasty, scavenging animals, that were not at all nice. So calling Gentiles dogs is both insulting and demeaning.

We can never know if what we have here is ‘accurate history’ (as we must remember that the Gospels were written as theological documents, not detailed, historical accounts), or a story where the story-teller was a little careless. He certainly had no compunction about portraying Jesus as saying what many would have said- ie that Israel are God’s children, and the Gentiles are like dogs.

But the good news is that whether in story or reality, Jesus refuses to remain bound by such distinctions.

He crosses the boundary when challenged and convinced by the Syro-Phonoecian woman, and demonstrates the inclusiveness of God’s kingdom by healing her daughter.

Crossing such boundaries and borders is something Jesus did a lot of.

As humans we take great delight in creating and protecting borders. We’ve all heard in recent news about our own country’s border issues, as this week the first shipment of asylum seekers (including unaccompanied minors) was sent to Nauru.

This week’s Old Testament reading from Proverbs also speaks to this contemporary scenario:

“Do not rob the poor because they are poor

or crush the afflicted at the gate;

for the Lord pleads their cause

and despoils of life those who despoil them.” (Prov 22:22-23)

What do we do for the poor and afflicted (like asylum seekers) who come to our gate?

According to the news, we pack them off to some off-shore tent city processing centre where they will languish, possibly for years, before their cases for asylum and refugee status will be properly heard.

All because in our country, there is so much fear of the different, of the outsider, that all our politicians see our borders and the boundaries between ‘us’ and ‘them’, between in and out, as sacred (and it’s doubly tragic that both sides of politics: the government and opposition, are equally evil on this matter).

They say: 

“Let the fair dinkum Australians first be fed
(and housed and given jobs, healthcare and services);
for it is not good to take the fair dinkum Australians’ bread
and throw it to the foreign dogs
(no matter how desperate and starving they are).”

Sound familiar?

Just as Jesus crossed a well-established boundary when he acknowledged the Syro-Phonoecian woman, and opened his ministry of healing and God’s love and grace to her and others who were ‘outsiders’; so we as followers of Jesus are called to follow his example of love, acceptance and inclusion- reaching across the boundaries that exist in our own society.

Let us pray:
God of outsiders, and of those whose ears are slow to hear
and whose tongues are hesitant to sing,
please make us the agents of your joy.
Help us to hear your word more clearly, to serve you more gladly, and to sing your praises more eagerly.
Then will our daily lives be in tune with your love,
our deeds become channels of Christ’s grace,
and our souls revel in the fellowship of your Spirit.
For your love’s sake.   Amen.
(prayer © Bruce Prewer. Used with permission)

A Tale of Two (or Three) Cities

In my 29 years (and some months) I have lived at various times in three different capital cities and two country towns.

I grew up in Sydney, but haven't lived there permanently since I was in my mid-twenties, back in 1989, when I moved to Hobart. Despite what some people say about the excitement factor of Sydney, it's not a place that I would ever choose to live again. Of course, since moving away, I have returned many times, mainly for the purpose of catching up with special people - family and friends - and not for the sake of visiting the city itself.

Hobart is a completely different kettle of fish. In the 17 years I lived there, I fell totally and utterly in love with the place. Actually it took me far less than 17 years to fall in love with Tasmania. I think it was only a year or so after moving to Hobart that I found myself driving into Bright, Vic, to attend a national meeting of Fusion leaders. As we entered the town, I remember looking around at the breathtakingly beautiful scenery, and thinking, "Wow, this is beautiful! Almost as nice as... ooohhh!!!" (because that sentence was heading towards the ending: "... Almost as nice as the Midlands of Tasmania".) It was at this moment that I realised that I had become a Tasmanian- in spirit at least.

Hobart to me is the perfect city. It has all the facilities and advantages of a capital city, without any of the disadvantages. No huge skyscrapers, no pollution or traffic, and people actually look at you on the street, and you often see people you know around town (which can be an advantage or disadvantage, at times). Wherever you go in the Hobart city and suburbs, there is always a view of either the river, the mountain, or both. (The flat I bought in the northern suburbs has a great view from the balcony- the river to the left, the mountain to the right, and straight ahead, a wonderful vista of the Glenorchy industrial estate- what more could a girl want?!) Hobart is the place that I think of when I think of my true 'home', and since moving to Victoria, I have been dreadfully homesick for Tassie.

And then there's Melbourne.

There are good reasons why Melbourne was recently feted as the world's most liveable city. I lived in Melbourne for just over three years, whilst I was doing my theological training. For the first six months, I lived in Kew, a painfully silvertail suburb, where I felt nervous every time I drove up the street where I lived, as there were so many Porsches and other very expensive cars with which I definitely did not want to have a close encounter with my humble little Ford Festiva. For the remaining 2.5 years, I lived in Brunswick, and loved it.

During my time in Melbourne, I always felt safe when walking around the city or catching public transport at night, and actually enjoy coming back to the city whenever I can get down from the north east of the state (or Sydney, where I am based at the moment).

There's just something about Melbourne. I love the feel of Sydney Road in Brunswick, the buzz of the inner city, the trams zipping around, and it's quite easy to drive around and find your way around the city in Melbourne.

I learned to drive in Sydney, and for the two years I studied at UNSW, I drove every day to Kensington from North Ryde, so I was quite experienced at driving in traffic. However, I would never choose to drive around the inner city in Sydney, much preferring to use public transport or taxis. There has always been something scary to me about the prospect of driving around the city or inner suburbs of Sydney.

Melbourne, on the other hand is much easier to get around in a car. In the time I lived there, and  in the almost four years since (of living in a country town that doesn't even have traffic lights), the prospect of driving in Melbourne's CBD has never fazed me. Whenever I go to Melbourne I often choose to stay in hotels in the inner city, and have no problems navigating my way around the city to get to my hotel, and wherever else I need to go. I just look up my route on Google Maps, or consult my trusty Melway, and off I go. I have even become quite proficient in the execution of the infamous 'hook turns' of Melbourne's CBD, where you have to turn right from the left hand lane. This may sound a bit counter-intuitive, and many people criticise hook turns, but I think the hook turn is eminently sensible, as it facilitates traffic flow, which is not held up by cars waiting to turn right in the middle of the street.

It's interesting how two big cities can be so different (at least different in how I experience them).

Fading slowly away

In the last little while Mum has had found it difficult to eat anything much. Her appetite is quite measly, and sometimes we resort to a mug of Sustagen instead of a meal, because she just doesn't feel like eating anything (and thankfully, she quite enjoys vanilla Sustagen).

She is also still losing weight. The Mum I see before me now is 'the real Mum' to me, although people who have only really known her in the past ten years or so (since she gave up smoking and put on a lot of weight) are quite shocked at how thin she is now. However, even this image of Mum is starting to fade away a bit as she continues to shrink before my eyes, and become weaker and more tired. (A few weeks ago we bought her some new slacks, and one pair, size 12, were a little bit tight the first time she wore them. On Friday, Mum wore those same slacks, and had to wear a belt with them- and make a new hole in the belt as it wasn't tight enough.)

In addition to the weight loss, Mum is also starting to decrease in strength. The other day, she had trouble lifting the garage roll-a-door, and is starting to find it hard to lift dinner plates and bowls, to put them away in the cupboard over the bench.

As I watch Mum gradually shrinking and growing physically weaker before my eyes, it has occurred to me that maybe it won't be the cancer that kills her, but rather she will just waste away.

It takes a village (or a lot of Reverends) to raise a child

I've been thinking a lot lately about the needs of children. As I read about both sides of the 'marriage equality debate' using the needs and welfare of children to score political points in their arguments, I can't help but feel angry at some of the outrageous claims that are being made. (Same-sex marriage will result in a new 'Stolen Generation'? Really? Give me strength!)

In the midst of all this, I have experienced lots of warm and fuzzy feelings as I contemplate the life of my favourite little person, and I want to share some of this. I don't usually name names in my blog, but on this occasion I will make an exception, and hope the people concerned don't mind.

Miss Sophia was born about 14mths ago, and her parents, Sandy and Brendan are good friends of mine, both are ordained ministers in the Uniting Church with whom I studied at theological college.

Miss Sophia with her parents, Brendan and Sandy, soon after she was born

Sophia is a gorgeous child, who never fails to charm everyone with whom she comes into contact. I fell in love with her at first sight, and every time I'm in Melbourne I try to take advantage of the opportunity for some cuddle time with her (and grown-up catch-up time with her parents). Being the clucky type that I sometimes can be, I posted some photos of me with Sophia when she was young, and always mention on Facebook when I get the chance to spend some time with her. This prompted another friend, Avril, (who like me is also a minister and single female) to mount a gentle challenge for the title of Sophia's 'Favourite Reverend Aunty'. So we compare notes, being sure to let each other know whenever one of us has spent some time with the lovely Miss Sophia. But I think the reality is that we are both her Favourite Reverend Aunties (and she probably has other favourites too, because she's that kind of popular girl :-)

Miss Sophia recently celebrated her first birthday, and soon after that, I was in Melbourne, and so arrangements were made for a celebratory get together including Sophia, her parents and her two Favourite Reverend Aunties. So picture the scene of four ministers and a painfully cute child, 'doing' Lygon St. It was great fun, and we all had a lovely time. (But next time, I really think the grown ups need to wear dog-collars, just to make it look a bit surreal).

Food is indeed a serious business, as Aunty Caro and Aunty Avril feed Miss Sophia

In addition to her Ratbag Reverend Aunties, Sophia also has a pair of equally mad Reverend Uncles (Tupe and Ikani), who also studied with Brendan and Sandy at theological college. 

For as long as I can remember, there have been jokes around the church about the perils of being a 'PK' (Preacher's Kid... or in Sophia's case, Preachers' Kid). So poor Sophia has no escape, being totally surrounded by clergy (and she has even picked up a one-day-per-week Reverend Nanny... as in child-carer). So she's really doomed... or is she?

Sandy once commented to me how thrilled she is that I have taken such an interest in Sophia and am so keen to be part of her life, and I know that Sandy and Brendan are equally thrilled that so many others are also keen to be part of Sophia's life. And I have to say that I just love hanging out with Sophia. She has recently started to walk, she loves to have stories read, and loves playing with the longsuffering Lucy the dog.

Every child should be so blessed, to have so many people in their lives to surround them with a mantle of love and care and fun.

A little while ago, Avril announced that when Sophia turns 14, her Reverend Aunties are going to take her away for a weekend of Cool Girlstuff Business (or something like that). As much as I can't wait for this to happen, it did occur to me that when Miss Sophia turns 14, I will be 60. But I will be a very cool and hip and groovy 60-year old, so that will be ok.

The cool chicks ;-)

The fast lane reaches its destination

In an earlier post, I talked about a friend whose father was close to death, and travelling 'in the fast lane' to his final earthly destination.

Today my friend sent me an email to tell me that her father reached that destination in the early hours of this morning.

Rest in peace Norm, and love and prayers to your family and friends.
 

Sometimes I forget...

Now that the immediacy of my emotional response to Mum's diagnosis and the knowledge that she doesn't have many months left to live, has died down a bit, life for me has started to feel kind of normal again, but in a different way to before. It now feels normal for me to greet Mum every morning with a barrage of questions:

"How are you this morning?" 
"Have you been to the toilet?" 
"Are you in any pain? (and if so, have you taken an Endone?)"
"How was your blood sugar this morning?"
"What did you have for breakfast?"

And it's normal for Mum to demurely answer these questions as I fire them at her (and to reassure me that she doesn't mind me asking them, when I ask if I'm being too bossy).

It's also starting to feel normal to think and talk about what will happen after Mum dies. She's already given me instructions about which real estate agent I have to use to sell the house; she's told me about some donations she wants me to make; we've already done a partial wardrobe cull, and taken her excess clothes to the Fusion Wombat Wardrobe op shop, and we've talked about where her funeral will be held, and who will conduct it. So Mum's death is something that has become quite normal for me to be thinking or talking about.

We recently became clients of Catholic Community Services, who provide us with some domestic assistance every fortnight as well as visits from their Counselling and Advisory Service worker (and the fact that we managed to get into this service without having to wait at all is quite miraculous, as their books are officially closed to new clients, but that's another story).

This morning our regular cleaner came for the first time. She was lovely, and I think it will be good to have her around. As I was showing her where all the different cleaning equipment resides, and what we needed her to do around the house, we struck up a conversation. She asked me if I worked, and I told her I live in Victoria, and needed to take leave from work to be with Mum. Then she asked the fateful question:

"How long will you be here?"
Without thinking, I replied, "Until Mum dies."

When I saw the look on her face, I thought, "Oops." 

Although Mum had mentioned to her that she has pancreatic cancer from which she's not going to recover, I don't think our cleaner had made the connection that this meant Mum is going to die in the not-too-distant future.

This brought home to me the fact that the things in my world that are now 'normal' for me, are not necessarily normal for others. Sometimes I forget that this is so.

I'm still not quite sure what this will mean for me, but it is certainly something to think about.

But I don't wear gold jewellery...

This morning I lost the butterfly back off my earring stud. As I dried my hair after my shower, I felt it come off, and heard it go, "plink" as it fell to the bathroom floor. But after much searching, I couldn't find it, and have resigned myself to the likelihood that it fell down the drain in the middle of the bathroom floor.

This particular stud is not really anything special, it's the single surgical steel stud that was used to pierce my right ear for the third time, and is one that I always leave in, even when I don't wear any other earrings.

When I was in my early twenties, I went through a 'rebellious phase' and got my ears pierced a second time.  
(cue for you to laugh uproariously at the concept of me being a 'rebel without a cause')

Back then, my mother had a real bee in her bonnet about ear piercing. According to her, it was ok to have your ears pierced once... as long as you were a girl. I'm not quite sure what figured worse in her books: a girl with multiple piercings (and in those days remember, we were only talking about earlobes; the more 'creative' piercing sites hadn't been conceived at that stage), or a guy with either of his ears pierced (and God help him if he had both ears pierced!).

I had been in Canberra for a couple of weeks, at a Fusion gathering, and got my ears pierced for the second time whilst there. Mum's first comment when she saw me after my return to Sydney was, "You've had your ears pierced again!" For some years, I regularly wore two earrings in each ear (back then it was kind of trendy to wear a stud in the top hole and a round sleeper or some kind of drop earring in the lower one). But after a while, I tired of it, and became a bit absent-minded about wearing earrings, and so the upper holes kind of closed up, although the lower (original) holes have always remained patent.

At some stage I decided to be even more radical, and get one further piercing in my right ear, and have always worn just a plain stud in it, never removing it. As I am still pretty absent-minded about wearing other earrings, I usually have just the single stud in, and people often tell me I've lost an earring (and I have to explain that this isn't the case, and there was only ever one earring to start with).

Anyway, it was this stud whose backing butterfly I lost this morning. Now, it wouldn't have been such a big deal to find a replacement backing for it, except for the fact that it's one of those studs with extra-thick posts used for piercing, and so the holes in the butterflies from normal studs wouldn't be big enough to accommodate the thickness of the stud (so it seems that size really does matter... in many things).

Mum plonked a little jewellery box containing many stud earrings in front of me, and told me to take my pick to replace my stud. I explained that I needed a stud that I could leave in all the time: in the shower, in bed, when I go swimming etc etc, and that had a butterfly on the back that wouldn't fall off. She said that she had a single gold stud that would fit the bill... but I explained that I don't wear gold jewellery, so that wouldn't work.

I sifted through the jewelbox, looking at the various studs; most of which were dressy, or had stones in them, and just wouldn't be robust enough for my purposes... and then I saw the gold stud. It really did fit the bill for the robustness factors that I needed, but it was gold, and I don't wear gold jewellery... or at least not much of it.

Mum's gold stud in my right ear

When my father died, nearly five years ago now, Mum gave me Dad's signet ring; an ornate rose gold shield, with a tiny ruby set in it, and Dad's initials engraved on it. Mum had given it to Dad for his 21st birthday, in April 1956, the year before they were married. I've worn Dad's ring ever since. Recently Mum told me of a conversation she had a while ago with one of my cousins. Mum had commented that unlike her, I was not at all sentimental. My cousin replied, "But she wears her father's ring, doesn't she? I'd call that sentimental." And I guess in a way, it is a sentimental choice to wear it, as it's kind of like a part of Dad that I can keep close and visible; something physically tangible to remember him by. And it's also the only piece of gold jewellery that I've worn in a very long time.

Dad's ring (the close up makes my finger look swollen :-/ )

So when I was considering whether or not to wear this gold stud of Mum's, it occurred to me that this could complement the gold ring of Dad's, so that I am carrying with me a piece of Dad and of Mum, and the specialness of these items is evident (at least to me) due to their incongruity: because I don't wear gold jewellery.. well, not usually, anyway

(and I'm not at all sentimental, ok? ;-P)

Celebrating others' successes

When I went with Mum to see the production of South Pacific at the Opera House last week I was extra-excited because I knew one of the cast members. John Xintavelonis (known as 'X' to his friends, and just about everyone who lives in Hobart) is a bit of a 'local boy made good'. When I was living in Hobart, there was rarely a theatrical production, Uni Revue or anything that didn't involve X in some way. A good actor, who at some stage discovered he could also sing; his face and voice are well known around the traps in Tassie, and have been for a long time. He's also in demand as a 'personality/MC' for various events.

In recent years his career has 'taken off' a bit, with a number of roles in big musicals that have toured mainland Australia and also overseas, and according to the Hobart Mercury, X's star is on the rise.

Now, I have never exactly been best mates with X, but we know each other well enough to say hello if we meet on the street, and we are Facebook friends, and interact there a bit. So when he got the gig as Stewpot (one of the named sailors who has his own lines) in South Pacific, I got a bit excited to see that X had scored a role in another high profile musical (and it was great to have a coffee with him after the show Mum and I attended).

I had a similar feeling of excitement when I heard that Kerry Greenwood's Phryne Fisher novels were to be made into a TV series. Again, I'm not exactly best buddies with Kerry, but I am reasonably good mates with her partner, David, whom I've known through uni choral circles for many years. So once again, there was this sense of excitement and pride that someone who was known to me was having some success, and recognition for the great work they do.

In thinking about these little 'excitements', I was wondering, is it just so that I can namedrop?  ("Oh yes, I know the author," or "I know one of the cast"). But then my mind went back to my experience as a contestant on Millionaire Hotseat a few years ago. 

On the day of shooting, a gaggle of us contestants, from a week's worth of shows (so that's around 30 people) spent the most part of the day together. We were given instructions in the morning as to what we needed to do, then had a bit of a rehearsal, where we were split into our episode groups for a while, then came back together as a large group to have some lunch before we got to taping each show.

I was allocated to the second-last episode to be taped, so my group and I got to watch all of the preceding shows (from our room out the back), and there was a palpable sense of excitement in the room, encouragement, and much cheering if someone actually won the big money in the last round.

Even in my own episode, after I had been eliminated for incorrectly answering a question (damn you, Clint Eastwood!), there was the sense of hope that the guy who ended up in the hotseat for the last question would get it right, and win the big money (which he did... and there was much hugging and congratulatory back-slapping from all of the contestants as he came off the set).

So this got me thinking that in my excitement about being able to 'name-drop', there is also a genuine sense of joy that someone I know (even if only a little bit) is doing well and making a name for themselves in their chosen field of endeavour.

So, to Kerry, and X (and other friends who are  having 'wins' in their life and career)- congratulations for having success in something that you love doing. Celebrate your achievements, continue to enjoy what you do, and share that joy with your family and friends (and cats, in Kerry's case :-)

Supremely blessed

Today was a full day. As much as I like to have a leisurely sleep-in when I stay at nice hotels, I was up at 8am today (which is early for me), when my breakfast was delivered, and I was fed, watered, showered and out the door by 9am.

Worship at Brunswick Uniting Church was a great experience (although I'm still getting used to the different feel of the lovely light worship space since the renovations to the church building). I also enjoyed catching up with lots of lovely people whom I haven't seen for a while. I worshipped at Brunswick during the three years of my theological studies and loved being part of that large and diversely-gifted congregation.

After worship, it was off to Doncaster for lunch with some friends whom I also haven't seen for a while- we worked out that the last time was when they travelled to Hobart for my ordination, about 2.5 years ago. The kids have grown so much,and it was great that they could have fun in the special children's play area in the Doncaster Hotel, whilst the rest of us had some good grown up time together.

Back to my hotel room to put the feet up and relax for an hour or so before going out for dinner. I had dinner tonight with a couple who are actually the parents of a friend of mine, who I met through the church in Hobart. This couple were my first out of town visitors when I moved to Myrtleford, as they are avid bike riders and were in the area for a special bike ride on the March long weekend. We've kept in touch, and it's always delightful to spend time with them (and needless to say it was reasonably late when I left their place to head back to my hotel).

We talked about all kinds of things; about Mum and her progress, about news from their family, and lots of talk about relationships of various kinds; good and bad; healthy and broken; new and longstanding. We talked about the various fallouts from relationships that go wrong, and how it can sometimes get complicated when there are mutual friends, but that sometimes these difficult relationships can have beneficial side-effects when the friendships we form with others because of these relationships turn out to be something of value and support. (and they said to me, "we're glad, at one level, that our daughter married the man that she did- even though the marriage ended painfully- because it was through that relationship that we got to know you".)

So, after such a day, and so many loving and affirming conversations, I am feeling supremely blessed.

Tomorrow I will have a relaxing massage before heading back to Sydney. It's been a great few days: busy, and full of interactions with lots of people; and I'm grateful to have had the opportunity for this break, but now I'm looking forward to getting back to Mum, and seeing what the doctor has to say on Tuesday.

Death sneaks up...

As I travel with Mum on her journey through cancer towards the end of her life, it has started to feel like this path resembles a multi-lane highway, in which some lanes are for slower vehicles, and others are deemed 'the fast lane'.

Today I had lunch with a close friend who discovered quite recently that her father is dying from cancer, and has only a few weeks left to live. When she left his hospital bedside today, she said he's stopped eating, and at least one of his bodily systems seems to have shut down. The family is still in shock, and trying to process what's happening, and prepare to support each other through the days and weeks to come.

We had a good conversation over lunch, we both shed a few tears, and talked about how things are going for each of us. I'd like to think that because I'm past the initial shock of Mum's diagnosis and prognosis, I have something to offer my friend, as someone who has experienced something similar to what she's now going through, so has an idea of how things are for her. But because things are a little further down the track for me, I'm together enough (well, kind of) to offer some quiet support to her.

In talking to this particular friend about her father's illness, it's apparent that her father will most probably die before Mum does, and so it felt a little bit like Mum and I are in the 'slower lane', whilst my friend and her father and family are in the 'fast lane' in coming to terms with the approaching death in the family.

Then tonight, another friend and colleague, who was in some classes with me at theological college, announced on Facebook that his wife passed away quietly in her sleep today, leaving him and his young daughter alone. So much for the 'fast lane'- for him it's more like the 'super-fast autobahn lane'.

There has been, and I'm sure will continue to be, an outpouring of love and support, and shock at the news as his friends respond to his announcement on Facebook. And I'm sure that there will be lots of practical support for him from friends and colleagues who are closer geographically to him than I am.

I was talking to someone this afternoon about how we never can really know what's around the corner; what God might have in store for us, or what life will dish out. That's certainly true for these dear friends and their families (and for me too).

I wish I could do more to support them at this very difficult time, but have to be satisfied with surrounding them with prayers and love from a distance.

Travel gently my dear ones, knowing that God goes with you through all the pain and darkness.