Rain and resilience

First day back in Malta after six weeks in the UK. The heat feels such a shock. Even as I stepped out of the plane at 9 in the evening the temperature was incredible. You tend to forget when staying in the UK that in these southern climes it is the hot sweaty nights that surprise you.  Mind you, it is rich of me to complain so quickly, as in Northern Ireland we have had probably the worst summer ever. In fact, it is more truthful to say that summer was all but cancelled with constant windy rainy weather. 

Every morning in Northern Ireland when the TV weather forecast began my mother would snort in a mixture of both outrage and laughter at the bleak predictions. You could tell the weather forecaster was scraping the bottom of the barrel when he suggested there may be a chance of a tiny bit of sunshine for a brief period mid-morning. There wasn’t, but you know he had to think of something else to say other than, “it's going to be another piss poor day again today”. Coming from the intense heat in Malta in July, I was initially overjoyed with the cool crisp days in Northern Ireland. I waxed lyrical about the greenness of everything and the joy of needing a quilt at night. But after a month of dismal weather and no sign of a blue sky I was beginning to tire of indoor living. 

You can dress for Irish weathers. My aunt dons an all-weather outfit and walks come hail or snow every day. But not all of us have her determination.  When I open the door and it's lashing down, grey clouds being whisked with a vicious wind - my willpower wilts. Not all are as chicken as me! I regularly spotted women wearing their summer gear, tank tops, short skirts and sandals walking along streets sodden with rain.  It was as if they’d decided, 

“I bought my summer outfits, it is August and I'm wearing them - dam it! After all, it will be 12 months until there is a possibility of another summer. Goodness knows what size I’ll be then! What fashion changes might take place?” 

There was a sort of brave resilience about them.  Rather like the family on the beach in Portrush. They all wore anoraks over their swimsuits as they dug in the sand on the beach in driving relentless rain. You have to admire their tenacity. 

I've walked to my favourite cafe here in Malta. It was blissful to step into the air conditioning from the blistering heat. I only arrived yesterday, so I am still examining the clear blue sky with an air of UK expectancy. Surely it will rain soon? Do I have my umbrella? 

I've just read the Malta Times, filled with angst against politicians and their corruption. I suspect if you open the newspaper in many countries the language and climate will be different, but some problems seem universal. Time to head off home back along the coast hugging any shade I can find.

Falling and false fancies

On the 31st of July I was visiting my son and family in Folkstone with my mum.  We had flown over to look after my grandson while his childminder was off on holiday.  He is a delightful child and full of energy as only a 2 year old can be.  My mum and I worked together and found it delightful getting to know this little chap.  

There is something about being the major caretakers that creates a bond between you and a small child.  There is also much laughter and smiles when small children are involved.   Every night when my mum took her medication Charlie would haul himself up on the  sofa to get a better view of her taking her inhaler, sprays, pills, lotions etc and roar with laughter at the sight.  It was as if she was putting on a nightly show for his entertainment.  He never tired of this routine and his reaction made us laugh each night.  

Seeing a small child examine the sea, the stones, the insects reminds you of the amazing world we live in.  It is all so completely new to him you are reminded of the miracle of even the simplest thing around you.  Then on the third day while walking Charlie along the sea front my mum fell.  It was a bad fall and somehow both she and Charlie ended up on the ground.  My mum’s injuries were considerable and included a fractured elbow, bruised ribs, a colourful blow to the side of the head and a large bleeding wound to the arm.  Picture the scene, a two year old crying on the ground with a small cut to his palm and my eighty two year old mother lying not far away in agony.  We were on an isolated promenade by the sea and quite some distance from a road or town.  

As we pondered what to do a couple of joggers appeared, aged 20- 30 both male.  I supported my mother’s shoulders on the ground waiting for the shock to pass and the two joggers passed us by without a word.  A distraught two year old and a bleeding eighty year-old were obviously not on their exercise programme that day.  I asked Charlie to bring his great granny some water from the buggy and with tears running down his cheeks he raced to the buggy and brought the water bottle. 

Three weeks have passed and recovery has been slow, painful and steady.  The medical staff in Folkstone were fantastic, my son and his wife looked after us with much love but what sticks in my head for some reason is the sight of those two joggers ignoring us.  They had to run around all three of us.  I keep wondering what on earth were they thinking?  Was there some other priority that took precedence?  There are times when you just have to scratch your head and wonder, just what is going on in this world.  Has present day isolation taught us to be immune to human suffering?  Does the plight of others leave us cold and indifferent?    Are we all too busy with our own concerns to react?  I have no answers but only questions.  Can we even see those less fortunate than ourselves?  Do we see the world we live in and those we share it with?  

Through the eyes of a two year old this world is beautiful full of beauty.  Charlie is still at that stage that he greets everyone in a cafe as though they were his best friends.  He is as fascinated with an ant as an eagle.  All of this world is there waiting to be discovered and enjoyed.  At what stage on life’s journey do we turn away from each other and cease to care?  Does our inability to register the needs of others coincide with our inability to be truly happy?  

Three things that bring happiness!

I read recently that the three things that make most people happy are

Going to sleep in a freshly changed bed

Feeling the sun on your face

 and the third was experiencing acts of unexpected kindness from strangers

I found this quite cheering. I honestly didn’t think that these things would be high on most people’s list.  Mind you, what makes you happy really depends on what you have experienced previously.  For example, if you have been in hospital visiting a loved one the one thing that will tick all your boxes is their speedy recovery and return home.  Alternatively, if you yourself have had a severe accident or illness and are at present stuck in hospital you probably have a much more basic and immediate wish list.

to be able to pass urine or stools - it is a little known fact that under severe trauma the body shuts off what it sees as unnecessary options and all things toilet fall under that

being flat on your back unable to turn means your desire to be able to turn onto your side becomes an exquisite luxury and sitting up unaided a distant goal

the dependence on others is such a reminder of one’s intolerable situation that any degree of regaining your own ability to wash, eat and move is seen as a tremendous step forward

It always amazes me that hospital life when you are in one, constricts to become your whole world.  When you manage to leave it is as if you find yourself in a different part of the universe.  These two places exist together but there is some mental moat that cuts us off from hospitals perhaps to protect us.  To remember those lying in hospital beds struggling with pain and fear is too much to assimilate on a daily basis so we edit it out.  That seems to make things much better.  But such choices often mean we are not seeing the world we actually live in.  Children and young people are  no longer taken to visit the dying or elderly in hospital.  It is considered too traumatic for them to contemplate such things.  Yet pretending such things do not exist or happen does not prepare them for their own life’s journey.  We can botox and facelift all we like, eventually things do not go well.  Hanging onto youth is a waste of time.  Ageing is remorseless.  As a witty old uncle whispered to me at a family gathering, “This ageing is not for ginnies!”  (ginnies - those with a nervous disposition/cowards)  It was the same uncle who over heard me criticising Northern Ireland politics and announced, “It’s a poor bird that shits in its own nest!”  

There are those who do not forget the reality of hospital life, who choose a different path.  My mother’s neighbour here used to be a Dr Blair.  He was a minister and his wife was suffering from dementia.  Regularly she would come to my parent's door and demand to be let in.  Dr Blair would come round and kindly lead her home apologising graciously.  Dr Blair was ill himself and a great age.  He walked with difficulty and much pain.  You felt he was not long for this world.  But each day he visited the wards of the local hospital going from bed to bed having sweet conversations.  I once sat and listened as he spoke to a dying man in the next bed.  This was no lecture full of brimstone and fire threats.  He talked honestly and listened.  He let them discuss death and what they feared and felt.  He did not rush to reassure with words.  He held hands and stroked shoulders.  He asked about their loved ones, about their life, asked if they wanted water or a fan.  When he spoke about dying, it was as if he too would soon be taking that final journey and the two of them were just fellow travellers on a well worn path.  He mentioned his own feelings and failings.  There was laughter too, unexpected and raw.  Usually, because Dr Blair was not good on his feet and fell quite often.  He would apologise for his bleeding head, knee or hand with the same expression, “I’m sorry, I know I’m a terrible sight but there you go!” I couldn’t understand why this was greeted with howls of laughter by the patients around him.  But after a week, I too found his bloodied presence therapy for mind and soul.  I think it was his total humility and refreshing honesty - it brought a fresh breeze into the ward.  He made us all want to be better human beings in whatever time we had left to us.  So perhaps I agree with that first list of things that make us happy and Dr Blair was a perfect example of a stranger showing unexpected acts of kindness.  May your life be touched by just such a stranger.