The splice of life and mountains of misery

Tomorrow it will be two years since my husband, Barry died. The end of one life and the beginning of another chapter in mine. When a rope comes to an end, you can splice it onto another piece of rope or chain. No matter how well you connect the two pieces, that joint is visible and important. If you knot the ropes together, the joining will be fraught with danger. The knot could slip or give way. Splicing is the stronger option. You have to fray both ropes until they are in tassels and then weave them together, tightly and firmly. A spliced joint can hold 100% of what the original would have been able to handle. A bowline knot can only hold 45 % of the original and even a half hitch knot comes in a measly second place with 75 to 85% of strength. Looking at Barry's death, I had to be flayed to within an inch of despair until I was ready to be woven into my new reality. Not that easy. We had been happy for 46 years and suddenly the Shakespearean play of our lives was reaching its interval (for me) and finale for Barry. Am I going to be like the spliced rope and be as strong as I once was? Or am I like the bowline knot and break down when I need it most or under too much pressure? Perhaps I am a granny knot? When I was a child I saw fishermen struggling to untangle lines that had bunched up and knotted. The intensity of their focus as they battled each errant bundle was all-encompassing. Often they would cut the line and discard the mess or persevere and take each small knot at a time and work it free. That is what the past two years have felt like. Taking each knot of doubt, loneliness, or grief at a time. Focusing on what was right in front of me and not look too far into the future. Recently someone asked how old I would be in 2050 and my reply was that I would be dead. I cannot imagine living another thirty years untangling knots of emotions and trying to splice them into something strong. My mountain of misery is a pile of small pieces of rock that need to be moved out of the way. One pebble, one rock, one boulder at a time. I cannot see how I will move that mountain just yet, but I hope and pray that I will get there in the end. Strong and whole, with no frayed ends or slipped knots in my brain.

Various people have told me recently that I am self-deprecating and that I need to stop it. That it makes them uncomfortable and is not a healthy coping mechanism. The era I grew up in was one of cutting down tall poppies. If a poppy stands up taller than its mates you cut it down, pronto. You soon learn that you need to cut yourself down to size before someone else does a better or worse job of it than you would. Ego was considered 'Edging Good Out' ... ego, ergo not something you did. Pride or hubris is one of the seven deadly sins, so don't ever think that you are better than the person next to you or else you won't get to Heaven. So, what if you have won the Nobel Prize for Global whatever, be humble and cut yourself down to being normal before life bites you in the derriere? 'Pride comes before the fall.' Who wants to fall? Comedians do it all the time, being self-deprecating that is. But debasing yourself for the entertainment of others soon becomes observational humour. They encourage us to look at the weaknesses within ourselves and laugh about them. We are all told to search for humility as the end goal and it will lead to happiness. Victimisation, on the other hand, is blaming others for what has happened to you. As if you have no control over how you feel. When we think we are the victim we should ask 'Is it true? Am I really unlovable or unkind or lazy?' The answer is usually a resounding no. 'Is my boss really sabotaging my promotion?' if they are, ask them to explain their reasons. Sometimes it is that you are such a great employee that they don't want to lose your skill level or your knowledge. But if we throw our resignation letter on their desk and call them all the bees and butterflies in creation, well we are reinforcing our own victimisation. I once threw a stapler at my boss's head. At my own expense, I had trained myself in computers ... back in the dark ages. I had seen him talking to the computer salesman and thought I would get ahead of the curve and train up before he hired someone better. Three weeks later I returned to find someone else sitting at my desk. When I demanded the boss explain his reasons for replacing me, he said 'You are obviously going to look for another job if you are taking computer courses.' He ducked as the stapler flew across the room and yes, I did leave his employ before training his new staff member in her new responsibilities. Was I a victim? Was I self-deprecating? Nope, I was assertive and not going to take his nonsense lying down. Or standing up. I have a pretty good throwing arm when needed. A few years later we were all helping a friend fix his car. They had a number of children, as did we. At the end of the repairs, the car was to be pushed up a steep driveway and down a hill to give it a start. We all pushed (I later asked why we hadn't towed the car up with our car or at least put our battery into theirs for a few minutes.) Anyhow, ours not to wonder why, ours but to push and heave all together now ... one, two, three. The car got halfway up the hill and something went wrong. The car was hurtling at great speed down the hill towards my son. I put out my hand, gripped his t-shirt and flung him through the air and out of danger. I told you, I have a good throwing arm. But why do we do it? Be self-deprecating, not throw stuff. Sometimes it is because we want affirmation that we are doing the right thing. Sometimes we feel invisible and want to be seen and sometimes we want a compliment so that we can feel that life is worth struggling with.

I was listening to some ladies talk about lollies and candies and what the difference might be. One lady said that a marshmallow was not a lollie, or a candy or even a sweetie. It was basically a lump of egg whites and sugar and she was not sure where it fitted. Oh, and they had no idea what the word confectionery was all about. They had never heard the term. Candy actually means edible sugar and confectionery can be anything sweet including chocolates, candies, lollies and even cakes and puddings. Basically, add sugar and carbohydrates together and that is a confection. Maybe the lady was correct? Marshmallows have the sugar but not the carbs. Does that preclude it from that grouping of sweetie? I decided to include our London based son in our remembrance of Barry's death by sending him some South African foods. Enough for a small 'home cooked' meal. I had it all planned to be delivered on Friday 11th in good time for the actual day. But I had no sooner clicked 'Buy' than I got a reply saying that instead of the usual one week waiting list for meals, that they would deliver them almost straight away. What? I had wanted Sean to feel that it was something I might have made him myself if I lived closer. But never mind, the thought was there and that is what matters. In that meal were some koeksusters (South African plaited doughnuts). The actual meat-based, main meal will be eaten on the day, but who in their right mind would leave confectionery for a whole week? The truth of the matter is that something awful happens to dough and sugar and deep-fried treats, they start to talk to you. Every time you open the fridge they say 'One bite won't hurt.' and 'By next week we won't taste as good because we will be stale.' Our son did assure me that the treat was appreciated and consumed. Perhaps I should ask those ladies what they think about doughnuts? Where do they fit in the grand scheme of treatdom? Is there a hierarchy of what fits where? Chocolates are obviously king of the castle, then what? Desserts of incredible delicacy? I saw Heston Blumenthal making some concoction on Youtube once. A pork pie that was actually ice-cream and candles that were white chocolate. Devine and obviously delicious and it would definitely send my sugar levels shooting into the stratosphere. I suppose we can mess with our minds and worry about how a marshmallow fits into our meals, or we can enjoy the experience and forget about deciding on silly labels.

This coming week I am working as a reader/writer. We read the question for the child and then write down their answers ... all without trying to influence them to choose the correct answer if we know it. This is a service for dyslexic or kids with dyspraxia etc. I went for the interview and was chatting to the other applicants. One man told me he was a magician in Johannesburg. Yes, I had picked up the accent of course. He had moved to London and worked in Harrods etc doing magic and then he and his wife moved here to New Zealand. Not much call for magicians in our kiwi culture and hence his foray into reading and writing for a paycheck. Not that it is a steady income. Three sets of exams per year for a week or two at a time, multiply that by two exams a day and dollars per hour and it is pocket money more than riches. But it is an amazing service to give to the children. How I would have loved to see this in my school days. Not that I am dyslexic, but my husband was. I can read the questions with no problems, but my concern is will I be able to curb my yearning to help? I am doing two maths exams, one science, one social studies and two English. Wish me luck. The maths and science stuff will probably be way over my head and my pay grade, but the English. Mmmm it could be problematic keeping my mouth shut.