My name is Julie and I am a ‘minimally published’ writer. I have had a few short stories published in magazines, an article, a handful of letters with and without silly photos and my most recent achievement was an ‘out of my comfort zone’ alien story. My alien story was part of an assignment for a Creative Writing course I have just completed and, having been advised by my tutor, who is an established crime novelist, to submit it, I was overjoyed to have it included in a Fantasy Short Story Anthology. It might be small but it’s MY small. While I appear in several anthologies, my desire is to write and publish a novel.
I planned this blog to start pushing my name ‘out there’ while I work on what I hope will be a published novel one day. I figured it would be a good way to share some of my short stories and poems as well as writing reports and articles about dancing with Ceroc.
Clive, my wonderful husband and friend, and I love to dance. Aside from family, dancing is our greatest pleasure. We started learning not long after we moved in together and have never looked back. Clive also loves to fly kites and, while I am happy to watch and occasionally fetch and carry those that don’t launch successfully, I like to spend my spare time writing or reading, when we are not dancing of course. Fitting those interests in around our expanding family means life is never dull and almost always busy.
With a few subjects to write about, I felt I should put a little order into my blog as it was beginning to stray into the realms of posting about anything and everything when I felt like it, with no real logical flow. So, I have decided upon a loose plan in which I can cover numerous niches without straying too far.
I have a page for posting my fiction in the form of short stories and poems. There is also a page dedicated to my love of Ceroc and all things dancing, while my blog will be reserved for my life and thoughts, family and friends and largely for you, the reader (and I sincerely hope, follower) to get to know the person beyond the page.
I plan to post at least one poem per week, one short story per month and I always do a write-up of Ceroc (dancing) events that we attend. I will post one or two of those each month and, who knows, I may one day inspire a reader to take up dancing. I will also post one or two general blog posts per month and I will post a monthly summary with links to the past month’s pages. Woohoo! I have a very loose version of a plan!
Thank you for visiting and I look forward to hearing from you.
I smile and offer some semblance of a “Fine! Thanks for asking” each time somebody enquires after my well-being. It’s what I have always done, and likely what I will always do. What else should I say? If I tell the truth, the enquirer’s eyes will glaze over; they will nod in certain knowledge that they know exactly how I am feeling right now; they will likely offer condolence or even a general guide to how long this will last.
Our emotions don’t come from the heart even though there is most definitely a link between our state of mind and this powerful organ. Its not called a broken heart for nothing. While women of a ‘certain age’ can apparently suffer most often from the aptly named ‘Broken Heart Syndrome’ almost anybody can be affected and it is often caused by a massive elevation of stress hormone.
Grief has been labelled as ‘post-traumatic stress’ and while this might seem extreme, when you are experiencing it for yourself, it is a very real and very powerful feeling. The strongest of emotions can leave their mark on a healthy heart and the vacuous, constricting, powerfully desolate feeling of loss is among the deepest of traumatic stresses one can imagine, while far removed from war and terror.
Seven years is a long time. You would imagine it to be long enough to come to terms with the fact that a close loved one is going to leave you. You would imagine it would be easier; having experienced the absolute pain that comes from consultant after consultant sitting you down to tell you that your loved one is unlikely to make it through the night or beyond. You could imagine that after being told this on several occasions, the likelihood of being prepared for the end would be high. You could imagine this; but you would be wrong. Each time that loved one is brought back to us, lives to experience another morning’s air, is able to return back to their home until the next ‘episode’; each time is another time that we are filled with the false hope that they will be here forever. The hope that the consultants are wrong, because they were ‘wrong’ every time before.
So, when the call finally arrives, the call you have dreaded but also the call you thought would never come; when that call comes and a stricken voice at the end of the phone tells you, “I think she is dead.” When that call arrives, you go through the motions of arranging what has to come next. Auto-pilot kicks in but you still don’t accept that the unexpected has happened as it turned out so differently every time before.
There is so much to arrange. As next-of-kin and executor to the deceased’s Will there is everything to do and nothing but sadness to be gained. Our loved one will not return, the death certificate will be delivered, copies obtained, the Will executed, the house and contents to be dealt with and finally sold, personal effects to be distributed. Auto-pilot continues on – day after day – doing what is necessary, making sure everyone else is ok, keeping everyone sane and comforted.
But she is surely still not gone. The unsettling feeling that she has not passed away, she is still there waiting for that catch up phone call; waiting for that visit with food carefully prepared and frozen for her, waiting for those visits where we could only speak through a closed kitchen/conservatory window, those visits where we could not hug our loved one who was desperate for just a little touch, some human contact after those lonely pandemic-ridden months.
My heart. That swollen, constricted but empty feeling in my chest. It, too, is still there. My chest rises and falls, unaided; my lungs feel unable to empty and involuntary huffs escape my mouth at times unexpected. I speak to a professional. No apparent reason for those huffs can be explained.
I stop asking the professionals – they think I am clamoring for attention. They should read my file. I rarely contact them. Don’t they know that I am screaming out for help, for advice, to know that I now feel so much more mortal than I have ever felt in my life? My blood pressure is raised, my ears regaling me with a monotonous, non-stop, high-pitched ringing that is with me day and night, offering me the assurance that I am still living and breathing. My head relives every moment of our last encounter, my head relives every time I spoke an angry word, my head relives every negative moment we shared. My head is driving me mad. I want to make things right; to apologise for being a brat as a teenager, to apologise for not understanding the dreadful loneliness of those final years, to apologise for not being ‘there’ more.
My heart responds with the happier memories; the memories of a happy childhood, memories of hospital visiting where we put the world to rights as she lay there for days on end, bled dry by her debilitating illness, memories of far more happy times than sad times, of a mother who cared so deeply yet reigned back her emotions to allow us to find our own path. A mother who is no longer here. Yes, I said it, but my head is overcome by my heart and I still reach out to pick up the phone every lunchtime to have a quick catch-up call, to arrange when we will bring the next batch of home-cooked food, to try to persuade her to come out with us for a drive and get some fresh air, to simply make sure she is still as ok as she ever will be.
Every time I reach for the phone or allow my thoughts to take centre-stage is another time to swallow back the rivers of tears I still have left to cry. I have to block out thoughts of my own mum for fear of losing control. I need and want to cry but fear the tears will never stop. But when you ask me if I am ok, I will continue to answer, “Fine!” because its what we do.
The house, her house, the house where I was born, the house where my brother and I enjoyed a normal, happy childhood. ‘The house’ as it has become, will be sold soon. The house where our whole lives were shaped and where both of our parents lived until the end will no longer be ours to frequent. We will no longer tend the garden because the young couple who are just starting out on their journey together will move in. They will change it; modernise it; make it their own and no trace of our former lives will remain.
I wish I had been given the chance for a final chat, a final hug, a final anything, before she passed away so suddenly and, in my mind, so unexpectedly. Yes, I knew she was ill, very ill, and yes, I knew the time would come one day, but I still didn’t expect it to happen the way it did; alone save for her poor little dog and, I am certain, frightened. I would have been there had I known, but we don’t know. We don’t know when the unexpected is going to happen, we can’t plan for those final moments. We never know when a broken heart will strike and how long it will remain broken.
Hug your loved ones often. Call your loved ones often. Tell your loved ones that they are loved and cherished – often. Pay attention to what they are saying – listening is different to hearing. Those unanswered questions will remain unanswered when they are gone and their chair will be forever empty. Be there for your loved ones because, believe me, a broken heart takes forever to mend.
Close your eyes, yes, shut them tight, Let good thoughts wander in, For when you think of times with me, The good times are where you should begin. *** Don’t dwell on loss or sadness, Push sorry thoughts away, Ponder, still, the happy times, When we had fun, could laugh and play. *** The time to grieve will come to pass, The time for feeling blue, Don’t let it overtake your world, Remember, I am still with you. *** Feel me in your heart and soul, Feel me by your side, Wherever you may wander, My love for you will be your guide. ***
I haven’t posted for some time but I am back! You know how sometimes life takes over and then you get all out of rhythm, with seemingly no way back in? Well, yes or no, that’s kind of been me for the past few months.
My new line manager at work thought it would be a good idea if I took a course. I think she was trying to steer me towards a better future rather than telling me my management skills were severely lacking, but she suggested I did a Level 5 Diploma in Leadership and Management. Granted, she started her adult education route on the same course but there is still a nagging doubt that she questions my abilities. Enough of the self-doubt, I have sometimes motored and sometimes meandered through the various assignments and all have now been submitted. I have had a couple if referrals back and a couple of passes so there is still a way to go, but I am on the home straight. One thing is certain, I feel too old for it!
Now, how have you all been coping with the crisis? The buzzwords ‘Coronavirus’, and ‘Covid-19’, along with ‘social distancing’ and ‘furlough’ are at the forefront of the majority. All words and phrases which we had either never heard of, or put into context in quite the way they have been used in recent months.
If nothing else, we all now have a shared conversational subject. A shared understanding, on some level, of the pain and suffering of our fellow man.
Which leads me onto today’s question. How do you all feel about crowded places, right now? Do you sidestep into busy traffic to avoid oncoming pedestrians who are seemingly intent on breaking through the suggested 1- or 2- metre barrier you have invisibly formed around yourself?
I, for one, get nervous when I see groups of more than a handful of people together. I quietly tut and shake my head in the assumption that they are breaking all the social distancing rules. I roll my eyes at their close proximity to one another, certain they are not a part of a wider social bubble, knowing that, even if they are, they should still be practising safe distancing. I have become judge and jury over what constitutes one hundred or two hundred centimetres.
I am wide-eyed with disbelief when I hear tales of families getting together, knowing their kids are all a hair’s breadth away from the next child’s head – and don’t get me started on headlice! That’s a whole other story!
Working in a school, I can’t quite believe that we will soon be subjected to the masses returning. I fully understand that they need to return. The children need each other and they need to learn. I fear their complacence. While much emphasis is being put on pupil and teacher safety, I wonder if anyone considers those of us who support them all? Those who may not be considered at risk but who have worked throughout lockdown, keeping systems running smoothly, feeling safe and secure in our little bubbles of office spaces, safe in the knowledge that those spaces will not be encroached upon, thus widening the risks. I hope they have thought of us.
Let me know how you are feeling? Do you feel safe? Scared? Complacent? Unconcerned?
As I said, I have been otherwise engaged for a while but I am back.
Please, if you can, share my blog as I will be updating it with my musings…but you might be surprised to learn there will be no dancing tales for a while yet.